"Want and need are different things," she tells me while I'm planting kisses on her stomach. Her nipples are hard and wet from my suckling. Gently, she strokes my hair. "You understand that, don't you?"

I know I'm supposed to answer, so I murmur, "Mm-hmm." I wonder if she's worried I'm falling in love with her. She never lets me forget our age difference, even when she's in a playful mood. I can make her erupt into giggles by tickling the backs of her knees, but once her laughter ebbs, she mutters something like, "Jesus, I'm old enough to be your mother."

I sense she's ashamed of inviting a twenty-year-old into her bed. She's also filled with guilt about lying to her husband. Whenever I'm with her, she takes off her wedding ring, as if that will grant some kind of absolution.

Perhaps she fears hurting me. Or could it be she's afraid I'll hurt her? Trust stretches like a delicate gold chain between us; one careless pull will cause it to break.

Now lying between her thighs, I nuzzle her puffy outer labia. They're always so smooth for me. As I draw them into my mouth, I tell myself I do know the difference between want and need. While she wants my tongue, I need her pussy. Some nights, I wake from a half-remembered dream, and I swear I can taste and smell this woman. I lick my lips, desperate for more, until I realize my senses have deceived me.

My need is so powerful that I feel it as an unwavering presence. I don't think it's love as much as hunger. Of course, I confess none of this to her. Instead, I answer her guilt-laden questions as casually as possible, and I wait patiently for her to tell me when we might meet again. Always, she's the one to decide.

This afternoon, sunlight spills into the room. She turns her face as if to hide from it. I release a moan of satisfaction while sucking her inner folds. The way she begins to writhe betrays her excitement. With my tongue, I tease until she begs. Even as I lick her clit, I remain tentative. Sometimes, I like pretending that I need to be coaxed into this.

And she likes it, too, for her fingers roughly grab my hair. "More," she demands, pressing me harder between her thighs. "Be a good girl and eat my pussy like you've been dying to!"

She works her slick cunt against my face until I'm coated with her juices. Later, she'll tell me to wash up in the bathroom, and I'll refuse. She always blushes when I say I love having her smell all over me as I return home. I've never admitted that I rub my face on my pillow in an attempt to transfer her scent to it.

By now, I'm an expert at stimulating her clit; in just minutes, she comes against my tongue. The window is open to let in a mild breeze, so she's careful not to cry out. Her moans sound pained as her thighs tremble around me.

I give her a little time to recover before sliding two fingers into her pussy. She begs until I add two more. I'm gentle while stretching her flesh. When I begin thrusting my fingers in and out of her cunt, the motion is accompanied by a squelching sound. Soon, I have her hips rolling, and she looks down at me with pleading eyes.

I fuck her more forcefully, delighting in the way she yields to me. As her second climax nears, I suck her swollen clit. My determined effort makes her come so hard that her muscles contract fiercely around my fingers. She struggles to suppress a scream; the muffled noise is ragged in her throat.

My own cunt is throbbing as if in sympathy with hers. I act like I'm finished, withdrawing my fingers before kissing her thighs. Then I grab her hips, holding her fast while I devour her pussy yet again. She recently revealed that her husband has never made her come from oral. "It's like a chore he checks off a list before moving on to fucking," she said.

I want to make up for all the orgasms she's missed out on during her marriage. When she arches her back and twists her limbs so that I have to fight to keep hold of her, I know she's close to squirting.

Just before she finally does, a wail escapes her lips. "Please!" She sounds like a woman who no longer cares about being overheard, or about being caught. In that single word, I discern her want, along with something far more powerful: need.

While I lick her clean, she continues shuddering. I'm eager for every drop of her juice, but some has dampened the sheet. I fight the urge to lick it, too. Her flesh quivers beneath my tongue, and her moans become faint whimpers. I move to lie beside her. As she slips a hand between my thighs, I hold her close, my face buried in her hair. I respond so easily to her touch.

I allow her to position me so that she can easily slide her pussy against mine. The room is filled not with words of love but with guttural sounds as we pleasure each other. I throw my head back, making no attempt to be quiet. She brings me to orgasm with a triumphant shout, then succumbs to yet another climax. Still, her hips don't slow. I tremble and whine at the frenzied stimulation from her cunt. She shows me mercy only after I've come a second time.

A little later, I lie in her arms, my eyelids growing heavy. In the comfortable silence, our need for each other deepens, as does our trust. That chain linking us is stronger now, able to withstand more pressure.

Soon, I tell myself, not even the threat of discovery will break it.