Winter Fever: Post-Cold Passion

The rain hammered against the windows, mirroring the insistent pulse beneath my skin. It had been a wretched week, a relentless assault of coughs, sneezes, and the persistent ache of a nasty cold. My wife, Eleanor, had been hit first, a feverish delirium followed by days spent huddled beneath blankets, wrapped in layers of flannel. Then, inevitably, I succumbed, the virus a silent infiltrator, stealing my breath and leaving me weak and restless. Now, finally, the fog was lifting, replaced by an insistent, undeniable heat. The forced abstinence had been a brutal reminder of our connection, a desperate craving that gnawed at me even as my body fought off the lingering effects of the illness. We’d spent the last few days on the phone, a torrent of whispered confessions and longing glances, building the anticipation for this moment, this shared release.

As I walked through the front door, the scent of lavender and vanilla, her signature, hit me, instantly igniting a fresh wave of desire. The house was quiet, the only sound the rhythmic drumming of the rain. I shed my soaked raincoat and jeans, discarding them carelessly on the hallway floor, and made my way directly to the bedroom. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat accompanying the rising tide of anticipation. I’d spent the last hour transforming our sanctuary into a haven of pleasure, fluffing the pillows, dimming the lights, and burning a candle scented with sandalwood. The air hung thick with the promise of indulgence, a silent invitation to abandon ourselves to the sensations we’d been denying.

I found her in the middle of the room, a silhouette against the muted glow of the hallway light. She was already halfway out of her dress, her movements languid and deliberate, a silent acknowledgment of my presence. Her hair, usually pulled back in a neat bun, was loose and cascading down her back, framing a face flushed with desire. The sight of her, vulnerable and exposed, sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated lust through me.

As she continued to undress, her movements slow and sensual, I couldn't help but reach out and stroke my cock, the rhythm mirroring the quickening pulse in my veins. The anticipation was almost unbearable, a delicious torture that left me breathless and desperate. Finally, she stood before me, clad only in a silk thong and a delicate lace bra, her high heel knee-high boots discarded carelessly on the bed. The curve of her breasts, the pale expanse of her skin, the subtle scent of her perfume – every detail was a testament to her beauty, a captivating invitation to lose myself in her embrace.

Without a word, I took her in my arms, pulling her close, her body pressing against mine. Our kisses were passionate and demanding, a desperate plea for release. I tasted the salty tang of her skin, the subtle sweetness of her breath, and my own body responded with a primal urgency. My hand instinctively found her nipple, gently teasing the sensitive flesh, while my tongue danced across her clitoris, sending shivers down her spine. The heat intensified, a burning sensation that demanded satisfaction.

"You're so hot," she whispered, her voice husky with desire. "I've been craving this all day."

Her fingers traced the length of my shaft, a slow, deliberate caress that built the tension to a fever pitch. The urge became overwhelming, a desperate need to lose control, to surrender to the pleasure. I shifted my weight, anticipating the moment when she would invite me to take her in my mouth.

As if sensing my intentions, she leaned forward, her head resting on my shoulder. With a final, lingering kiss, she unfastened the clasp of her bra, letting the fabric fall away, revealing her magnificent breasts. The sight of them, plump and perfectly formed, ignited a volcanic eruption within me. I moaned, pulling her closer, and she responded with a possessive grip on my cock.

Her fingers explored the sensitive flesh, drawing out moans from my throat. I followed suit, pushing her towards the edge of the bed, my erection throbbing with anticipation. With a gentle push, she settled onto the mattress, her body arched slightly, inviting my touch. I took her in my hands, my fingers tracing the contours of her body, teasing her with every caress. Her breath hitched, her heart pounding in time with my own.

Then, I lowered her to the bed, my body responding to her invitation. Her breasts pressed against my chest, her hips nestled against my thighs, and the world narrowed down to the feel of her skin against mine. I began to stroke her, slow and deliberate, building the heat, intensifying the pleasure. Her moan grew louder, more insistent, as I continued my ministrations.

As she moved closer, her wetness spilled over my hand, a viscous stream of pure delight. I brought her closer still, her body trembling with anticipation. With a final, desperate push, she arched her back, her legs parting, and I plunged inside her, releasing a torrent of pent-up desire. Her screams of pleasure mingled with my own, a symphony of ecstasy that filled the room.

We moved together, a rhythm of thrusts and moans, our bodies locked in a passionate embrace. Her nails dug into my ass, a welcome distraction from the overwhelming pleasure. Her cries for more were incessant, demanding, and I obliged, pushing myself further, deeper, until we reached the pinnacle of our shared desire.

As we finally exhausted ourselves, panting and gasping, we lay entangled in each other’s arms, our bodies slick with sweat. The rain continued to fall, a soothing soundtrack to our mutual satisfaction.

“You’re incredible,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with pleasure. “You know just what I need.”

I smiled, my body aching with the afterglow of our encounter. “And you, my love, are simply divine.”

We lay there for a long time, lost in the blissful silence of our shared pleasure, our bodies intertwined, our souls connected. The world outside faded away, replaced by the intoxicating warmth of our love. The sickness, the longing, the forced abstinence – all forgotten, lost in the aftermath of our passionate reunion. In that moment, surrounded by the scent of lavender and vanilla, cradled in the arms of the woman I loved, I knew that we had not just healed from our illness; we had rediscovered the depths of our desire, and in doing so, had forged an even stronger bond between us. It felt good to be well again. It felt even better to be with her.

Did you like this story? Winter Fever: Post-Cold Passion look, but like these, here Story taboo sex.