As the weeks passed, Emma and I grew even closer. We spoke almost every night-sometimes light and teasing, sometimes long and late. Most weekends, I made the trip to Pietermaritzburg. We found places to explore, and always, we found time for each other-stealing kisses in public, touches in shadows (PMB is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and gossip spreads hotter and faster than napalm), and hours wrapped around one another in borrowed rooms.

Most evenings she had to return home-to her kid, her grandparents, her world. I'd stay in a little bed and breakfast I'd found, far outside the city. Rural, quiet, framed by rolling hills and old trees. It felt like the kind of place secrets could safely unfold. One night, after a school event for her child, I brought her back there. It felt right. Like we needed the silence between us to be private.

She teasingly peeled her clothes off slowly, mischievously, every inch of skin revealed like an invitation. I too matched her pace, letting the moment stretch. Our clothes formed a lazy little heap on the floor, a tangle of cotton and heat. And then there she was-bare, in the dim light.

Her body always stopped me.

If you want a picture in your mind, google search Francy Torino. Emma had that same lean grace-small breasts, a taut, toned stomach with just the hint of a six-pack, long, slim legs that knew how to wrap tight around a waist. But the pièce de résistance-the crown jewel-was that ass. It was outrageous on her small frame. Round, firm, impossibly plump, yet perfectly proportioned. The kind of butt that defied logic and made you reconsider everything you thought you liked. I was obsessed. And the best part? She loved my obsession. She fed on it. She leaned into every groan, every stare, every time my hands lingered too long. She didn't just tolerate my attention-she thrived on it.

But that night, I wanted to explore.

I laid her back on the bed, kissed her deeply, then let my mouth wander-slowly, deliberately. Down her neck, over her collarbone, across her breasts. I took my time with each one, licking, sucking, gently biting until her nipples hardened against my tongue. Her moans were soft, needy. I continued downward, kissing the slope of her belly, letting my tongue swirl just above her navel.

And then I dipped into her bellybutton.

Her breath hitched. Her body shivered.

I paused, then teased it again, this time slower-lips and tongue circling, flicking. She gasped and gripped the sheets. I had stumbled on something. Her stomach tensed, her thighs parted slightly. I kissed around the area, then back into her navel again. Tongue. Lips. Teeth.

Emma liked a little pain with her pleasure, so I began to bite-gently, then firmer. Her skin flushed hot and pink under my mouth. I licked it, then blew across it, watching goosebumps bloom across her belly. She whimpered, hips pressing into the mattress in slow, hypnotic waves.

I lost track of time. For twenty, maybe thirty minutes, I worshipped her stomach. Never touching her pussy. Never needing to. Her pelvis rocked, rising and falling like a tide. I could feel her building. And then-

She froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Her back arched. Her entire body tightened up-and she came.

An orgasm. From her bellybutton.

She collapsed, panting, blinking up at the ceiling totally bewildered.

I lay beside her, stunned, my hand gently resting over the trembling skin of her stomach. As an engineer, I couldn't help myself. I needed to know if this was a one-off or if her body was simply wired differently. Over the following days and nights, I tested. Her lower back. Her underboobs. The nape of her neck. Her nipples, of course. Even the crease of one armpit.

Every single one gave her an orgasm.

And not once did I touch her sex.

It was intoxicating-watching her come from the most unexpected places. Like discovering secret doors in a house I thought I knew.

Later that night, I made love to her slowly. Reverently. I kissed every inch of her body like it was holy. The scratches and bite marks she wore when we were done weren't just signs of passion-they were signs of surrender. She gave me her body with total trust, total openness. And I adored her for it.

We fell asleep wrapped around each other, the room still echoing with heat. And somewhere in the quiet between us, I felt it.

This wasn't just sex anymore. This was something deeper. Something slipping beneath the skin.

And neither of us was fighting it.

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