Zara sipped her wine, eyeing Ken across the table. "Mark's invitation is absurd. Three years of letters and now he wants me in Portugal? I'm his mother figure, not some holiday fling."
Ken chuckled, leaning back with a sly grin. "Mother figure? Darling, you're 63 and still turning heads. He’s 42, fresh out of prison, and adores older women. It excites me thinking of him alone with you—those letters were charged. Go. Live a little."
"You're incorrigible," Zara shot back, but a spark lit in her eyes. "Fine. One week."
The villa in Portugal gleamed under moonlight when they arrived. Mark, broad-shouldered and intense, greeted her at the door. "Zara, those letters didn't do justice to you. That wit, that fire... and those breasts? Irresistible."
"Flattery won't work, young man," she replied sharply, stepping inside. "This is platonic. Where's my room?"
Mark smirked. "Only one bedroom. Big four-poster. The rental's a bit... intimate."
Tension crackled as they unpacked. Zara's reluctance melted under his gaze. "You're staring like a starving man."
"Can't help it. You're stunning." He stepped closer. "Tell me to stop."
Instead, she pulled him in, her strong hands commanding. "Don't you dare." Clothes shed fast. Mark's cock sprang hard, throbbing. Zara dropped to her knees, delivering a teasing blowjob, her tongue swirling as he groaned. "God, Zara, your mouth..."
She rose, pushing him onto the bed. "My turn." Her pussy was already wet, dripping with anticipation. Straddling him, she guided his hard length inside, riding with fierce rhythm, her ass bouncing. They grew sweaty and panting, both horny beyond reason. "Harder," she demanded, not submissive. Mark thrust up, gripping her curves.
She came first, crying out, then milked him until he came, cum spilling hot. They collapsed, bodies slick, the night just beginning.
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