She was the first to wake up. She propped herself on her elbow, and stared at the god that was sleeping so beautifully beside her. As she looked at him, she marveled at the series of events that had brought them to the point they were in their lives. Her mind went back to the literary festival of the previous evening; they had barely followed the proceedings, and when their hunger for their bodies threatened to consume them, they had quietly crept out of the hall and within five minutes, they were in his hotel room, with the furniture witnessing a firework of clothes and a festival of lovemaking.

Without meaning to, she trailed her index finger on his hard torso, starting from his neck, down to his six-pack stomach. She then touched his muscled arm and gulped down the sudden surge of desire that rose from her belly. He is beautiful, she thought, and I love—

Immediately she was hit by a tornado of guilt that came on and on these days. She knew that she was betraying her husband, but she could not help it. She still loved Ikemefuna, her husband of thirty years, but what she felt for the man in front of her was exciting as it was real; she could almost feel her love for him hanging in the air, the guardian angel of their union.

Her lover stirred, then opened his eyes, a sexy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She remembered what that mouth had done to her, the way he had kissed, tasted and taken her to heights of pleasure she never thought she would experience again. At fifty-three she'd thought that the fire of her sexual passion had been long extinguished. But Andrew was a sex god as she had found out, he was capable of unlocking vaults that she thought closed forever.

He sat up, cupped her face in both his hands, and planted a kiss on her forehead. Then he went into the bathroom. As she stared at his sexy, hard ass, her thoughts went back to her husband. It had been twelve years since he died in that ghastly fire, yet she still loved him like he was still part of her. He's still part of my life, she chided herself. She knew that she would always love him till her last breath; he had been everything she had wanted and more, and when he had died, she had been plunged into an abyss of pain and sorrow.

Till Andrew came along. First, he had become her friend—her best friend—and had pulled her out of her misery. He had been preparing to write his fourth novel then, but he had had time for her. He was also the one who encouraged her to start writing; according to him, writing was both an occupation and a drug that was capable of healing a great many things, most especially heartbreaks. She had been unsure of her ability to weave stories out of her mind, so she had decided to write about herself and her life.

Andrew had been there throughout the time she wrote her first book, and with his contacts in the literary world, she had published her first memoir. It had been an instant success, garnering acclaims from all corners of the world. That was how she had turned her pain into her passion. But she knew that despite her writing about the excruciating pain of her husband's death, it had not really stopped her from the moments when she was most vulnerable, when she would be awake at night, her tear glands wanting to empty themselves.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/07/a-time-for-love/