Mourning to Moaning

Her eyes well up, but not with tears. The sight of him, his body still warm, sends a jolt between her legs. She's a widow, yes, but her hunger for him hasn't faded. She straddles him, her dress riding up, exposing her thighs. She guides him inside, feeling him stretch her, fill her. She rides him, her hips moving in a rhythm that's both mourning and making love. She can't stop, won't stop, until she's spent, her juices mingling with his, their bodies slick and sticky with their shared passion.

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