Chapter 3 — The Delicate Tremor Was Never Because of the Wind. 1 (3)

When I spread her legs apart, her glistening clitoris shimmered like a pearl.

I gently pulled back the hood with both hands and softly extended my tongue.

"Ah. Ah. What are you doing, Daniel? It's so embarrassing. Daniel… no. Stop. I don't want this."

Despite her resistance, I continued pressing my lips to her clitoris, caressing it with my tongue.

Her body, violently writhing in refusal at first, gradually began to synchronize with the rhythm of my tongue—her hips instinctively rising and falling, swaying in time with my movements as if guided by some hidden pulse.

"A… A…"

She could utter nothing more than breathless moans, gasping as if on the verge of suffocation.

How much time had passed? Her cries grew softer, muffled into whimpering sobs—until suddenly, a sharp cry rang out.

"Hng… hng… ah… hng… Daniel… aah! Heung… I don't know… I don't know…"

"Feels good, doesn't it? You can feel it now, enjoy it too. When you think about it, it's really simple."

Lowering my hands, I looked up at her flushed face—her expression wild yet glowing with a strange, radiant pleasure. She grabbed the cushion beside her head and threw it at me.

"I don't know anything! I hate you, Daniel!"

"Hahaha."

After that day, our passion ignited fully, and there was nothing left between us to hide.

A few days later.

Around lunchtime, I gently turned the doorknob of her front door.

As expected, it wasn't locked—her silent permission for me to enter anytime, so long as her husband was away.

A mischievous impulse stirred within me. I tiptoed inside, muffling my footsteps.

The rich, mouthwatering scent of food filled the air. She was completely absorbed in cooking, unaware of my approach.

I crept up behind her as she vigorously stir-fried something in a pan, then leaned close to her ear and whispered lowly:

"What are you doing right now…?"

Startled by the sudden voice, she shrieked and tried to turn around—but I lightly gripped her face, keeping her gaze fixed forward on the sizzling pan.

She wore a nightgown under an apron. From behind, her silhouette looked so lovely that I wrapped my arms tightly around her waist and pulled her against me.

Slowly, inch by inch, I lifted her nightgown.

Then, without hesitation, I began sliding down her soft cotton panties.

"Ah, no. Not now—I have to finish cooking. If I don't keep stirring, it'll burn…"

"I know."

I answered as if agreeing—but still, I pulled her panties all the way down, stripping them off completely.

I reached for the bottle of cooking oil on the kitchen counter, took off my pants, and began coating my hard, throbbing length with the slick oil.