Chapter 2 — The Delicate Tremor Was Never Because of the Wind. 1 (2)

"How are things with your husband?"

I opened the conversation one afternoon, sipping tea at her living room table.

"Oh, same as anyone else, I guess... Hehe."

"How's sex with him?"

At that question, she feigned surprise, but after taking a slow sip of tea, she answered quietly.

"Honestly... I've seen a lot of women going in and out of your brother's place. Last time, I even heard everything from right outside the front door.

When I heard those sounds, I couldn't help but wonder—how does it feel to make such noises?

With me, my husband is... mechanical. It's like he's doing it without feeling anything at all.

And I keep asking myself—why? Is it because I'm inadequate? Because I'm not doing it right? Or maybe... I'm just not feeling it the way I should?

He seems indifferent to me now."

"It's not that. It's not because you're inadequate, or anything about you."

Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't quite the right thing to say.

A brief silence passed. Then, without another word, I reached for her hand, gently pulled her up, and led her toward the bedroom.

"Claire. Do you remember the nightgown you were wearing the first time I saw you?"

"Uh?...Yes."

I picked up the nightgown that lay on the bed.

"This one. Put it on again. Please."

Her eyes wavered. She hesitated, as if weighing what to do, then finally spoke.

"Then... turn around."

Behind me, the soft rustle of fabric shifting filled the quiet room.

"There. I'm done."

Her voice was clearly trembling, though she tried hard to hide it.

When I turned, she was exactly as I remembered—radiant, breathtakingly beautiful, wrapped in that same quiet sensuality.

"Look at you. See how sexy you are? You're so incredibly beautiful."

"......"

Without another word, I gently laid her down on the bed, never breaking eye contact. Her eyes trembled uncontrollably.

"D-Daniel... we shouldn't. This isn't right."

"No, it's okay. Just for a moment—just feel. Claire."

Slowly, I ran my fingers through her hair, then trailed them lightly along the curve of her cheek, down the soft line of her neck.

My touch drifted lower—along her side, the gentle swell of her breasts, over the curve of her hips, down her thigh, until I reached her knee. With each movement, her trembling deepened.

When my fingertips began tracing back up her thigh, inching closer, she let out a sharp, breathless gasp.

"Ah..."

I slowly lifted the hem of her nightgown from below, sliding it upward. When the fabric caught on her arms, she lifted them instinctively, helping me pull it off.

Her arms raised above her head, her legs slightly pressed together—she looked like a figure from an ancient myth, a painting of divine beauty.

I let my fingertips glide slowly, deliberately, over her body in just her underwear.

Each time I brushed the edge of her bra or the lace of her panties, her lower lip quivered faintly. And when I gently tugged at the waistband of her panties, the skin beneath fluttered with each touch.