The autumn air had a crisp edge as Daniel arrived at Imani’s apartment, the scent of cinnamon and burning beeswax candles greeting him like an old friend. Their relationship had always been a dance of fire and patience—two souls who’d weathered decades of life, loss, and laughter together. Tonight, though, the rhythm felt different. Imani stood in the doorway, her smile slow and deliberate, her eyes glinting with secrets.

She wore a deep emerald dress, its fabric hugging her curves like a second skin, but it was her legs that stole his breath. Sheathed in stockings so black they drank the light, they stretched taut over the arches of her feet, the garters hooked just above her knees. The contrast of her rich, ebony skin against the silk was mesmerizing—a sculpture brought to life.

“You’re late,” she murmured, stepping closer, the scent of her jasmine perfume mingling with something warmer, something electric.

“Traffic,” he rasped, his gaze locked on the way the top of the stockings tapering to sheer lace at her toes. She knew. Of course she knew.

Imani guided him inside, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood as she moved. She didn’t speak, didn’t have to. The tension between them had been building all week—a quiet hum beneath their conversations, a lingering touch when they passed in the kitchen. Now, it thrummed like a live wire.

She turned to face him, her hands drifting to the zipper of her dress. “I wanted tonight to be… perfect,” she said, her voice a silken caress. The dress slipped down her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving the stockings as the only barrier between him and the rest of her.

Daniel’s pulse hammered. It wasn’t just the stockings—it was her. The way she owned every inch of her body, the way her confidence made him feel like a man again. He reached for her, but she placed a finger to his lips.

“Shh,” she whispered.

She knelt before him, slow and deliberate, until her gaze met his from beneath her lashes. The stockings framed her face like a portrait, her feet inches from his chest. When she traced the arch of her left foot with her fingers, he swallowed a groan. The silk was barely there, the curve of her toe subtle yet deliberate, a brushstroke in a painting only they could see.

“Imani…”

“You like them,” she said, not a question. Her other foot joined the first, rocking gently against his thighs. He could feel the heat of her through the fabric, the promise of something tender and wild all at once.

He nodded, helpless.

A laugh, low and sultry, escaped her. She stood, then, hovering just out of reach, and began to undress him. Her nails brushed his chest as she unbuttoned his shirt, her stockings grazing his hips when she knelt again. This time, she let her hands wander his shoulders, her feet resting lightly on his knees, ankles tilting, arches pressing, a silent invitation.

Daniel surrendered.

The world narrowed to the warmth of her touch, the way her breath hitched when he finally, reverently, cupped her calves and pulled her closer. No words, no demands—only the language of desire they’d spent a lifetime learning.

Later, curled together in the aftermath, Imani’s stockings lay abandoned on the floor like a shadow of something fleeting yet eternal. She traced circles on his chest, her voice soft. “You make me feel like I’m 20 again,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “You always have.”