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The doorbell's chime echoed through marble halls like a dropped coin. Jake shifted his worn sneakers on the Persian rug, clutching his toolbox. Mrs. Kensington had texted about a "leaky faucet"—but the woman who answered wore silk that clung to curves Jake's 21 years had only dreamed of. Her perfume hit him first: bergamot and something expensive, dark. "Jake," she purred, fingers brushing his calloused hand as she led him past dripping gold faucets. "Your mother mentioned you're... talented with your hands." Moonlight bled through floor-to-ceiling windows when she cornered him in the library. Her thumb traced his lower lip. "Fix something else for me." The Seduction: Her dress pooled at her ankles, revealing skin untouched by time. Fifty years had carved her into a masterpiece—hips flaring from a tapered waist, breasts swaying with every step toward him. Jake's throat went dry as her manicured nails popped his jeans button. "Everything I own," she breathed against his neck, guiding his hand between her thighs. Slick heat greeted his fingers. "For one night of you." The Revelation: Her bed was an ocean of Egyptian cotton. When she mounted him, Jake gasped—her cunt was velvet vice grip, swallowing him whole. "Harder," she commanded, riding him with decades of pent-up hunger. Nails scored his chest as he pistoned upward, sweat-slicked bodies slapping in rhythm with grandfather clock chimes. By midnight, her cries shredded the silence—guttural, unfamiliar sounds as Jake pinned her against the wet bar, fucking her from behind while crystal glasses trembled. "Never... been filled like this..." she sobbed, back arching as he hammered her G-spot. The Climax: Dawn streaked the sky when she collapsed, trembling. Jake's cum dripped from her swollen folds onto 800-thread-count sheets—their fifth round. She traced his jaw with reverence. "Stay." Jake collapsed onto Sylvia, chest heaving against her sweat-slicked skin. "Oh... Mrs. Kensington..." he gasped, trembling fingers tracing her collarbone. "Sylvia," she purred, biting his earlobe as her thighs tightened around his hips. "And I'm a Ms., not a Mrs., sweetheart." He laughed breathlessly, still buried inside her. "Oh god, Sylvia... I'd have done that for free..." Her manicured hand gripped his chin, forcing his gaze to hers. Moonlight caught the diamond-hard certainty in her eyes. "You'll inherit everything I own," she whispered, thumb brushing his swollen lip, "because you're marrying me." Jake thumbed the text to his mother—Mrs. Kensington is taking me out to dinner. My reward for helping her. Love you!—before tossing his phone onto Sylvia’s silk chaise. It landed beside her discarded pearls. She lay sprawled across rumpled sheets, moonlight catching the sweat still glistening on her thighs. Her laughter was low velvet. "Still calling me Mrs.?" He crawled back onto the bed, hands trembling as they traced her hip. "You want me to be your husband... Sylvia?" Her fingers carded through his damp hair. "Yes, you sweet boy. Ever since you sat front row in my Intro to Art History class—blushing when I discussed Renaissance nudes." Her thumb brushed his cheek. "Decades of men, and never one as gentle. As good." Jake’s breath hitched. Tears welled as he buried his face against her neck. "I’ve dreamt of this," he whispered, lips grazing her pulse point. "Since I was eighteen. You don’t need to give me mansions or—" Sylvia captured his mouth, swallowing his words in a kiss that tasted of expensive champagne and shared sweat. When she pulled back, her eyes held galaxies. "Darling," she murmured, guiding his hand between her legs where heat still throbbed, "Now you have both."
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