"I remember," he said.
She sobbed once, an explosive sound, a volcanic hiccup, and then she slipped her arms about him and pressed her slim, willowy body tightly to his.
"Now, Thorne," she whispered.
She didn't have to tell him again. He was terribly gentle. He laid her back on her bed. He kissed her softly. His touch was light and delicate, the touch of a craftsman on his masterpiece.
She melted inside. She grew warm and fluid. She felt her legs part, her pussy lift. And then he was sliding into her body, covering her with just the right degree of firmness.
"Oh, God!" she cried, flinging her arms around his neck and hugging him to her. "It's right! At last it's right!"
"Yes – yes!" he whispered heatedly.
"Fuck me, Thorne! Ohhhhh, fuck me and make me live again!"
His prick slid through her oiled pussy tissues. Thrill after thrill lifted inside her until the pitch was nearly unbearable. She felt his cock throb and heard him gasp and knew it was the same for him.
She let go a small, high sound and felt her yearning cunt vibrate with life, shudder with passion, flow with the sweet juice of things good and clean.
And she felt the rush of his warm, throbbing jism into her body as he came in her, opening to her, giving himself to a woman again.
She was not alone any more.