Monique and John - a May/November Romance - Cover

Monique and John - a May/November Romance

Copyright© 2025 by acguy

Chapter 44

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 44 - An aspiring young architectural student sets her sights on her older widowed neighbour.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Reluctant   Romantic   Fiction   Exhibitionism   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Safe Sex   Voyeurism  

We finished our meal, enjoying the lingering peace of the moment. But just as I was about to suggest we take our coffee inside, Monique sat back and stretched, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“I feel like dancing,” she announced, stretching her arms over her head, making the soft fabric of her top rise just enough to tease me with a glimpse of her toned stomach.

I leaned back in my chair, smirking. “Let me guess—Bachata?”

Her lips curled into that wicked little smile I knew all too well. She stepped behind me, her fingers gliding over my shoulders as she leaned down, her breath warm against my ear.

“Of course,” she purred. “It’s sensual, it’s intimate ... and you know how much I love teasing you.”

I exhaled, shaking my head with a chuckle. “I should’ve known.”

Taking my hand, she tugged me to my feet, leading me from the kitchen into the living room. With a playful push, she sat me down on the couch, giving me one last smirk before twirling away toward the bedroom.

“Wait here,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched her disappear, already bracing myself for whatever she had planned.

A few minutes later, she emerged, and I immediately knew I was doomed.

She had changed into a deep red, flowing skirt that clung to her hips before flaring out with every step, the high slit on one side revealing glimpses of her long, toned leg. Her top was black, tight, and off-the-shoulder, leaving her collarbones and shoulders bare, the neckline dipping just low enough to tempt me further.

Without a word, she pressed play on her phone, and the slow, sultry rhythm of Bachata filled the room—the deep, pulsing beat of the drums, the hypnotic strum of the guitar.

Then, she started to move.

Her hips swayed in time with the music, her hands gliding slowly down her own body, caressing the breasts that I so badly wanted to touch. She kept her eyes locked onto mine, full of playful challenge, daring me to just sit there and watch.

 
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