He touched her breast and there was and inevitable lurch in her stomach and she was surprisingly wet. She was rarely ever wet, joked with her husband about desert winds as they lubed up with spit, some from him, some from er, but now she was wet and no one had touched anyones genitals with spit or lube or otherwise. So he touched her breast and she felt the sharp shock of sex twitching her nipples to little daggers at her chest and, simultaneously she thought about the way large breasts, like her own, sag prematurely. That he would never have seen breasts as sagging as her own. He touched her nipple and the point of his thumb focused all of her longing. The skin stretched further than she ever anticipated it could. A lance of a nipple, any tighter and it would tear and yet there was her body, attached to it, her age-wearied wreck of a body washed up on his bed that smelled like wet dog and sweat and he wasn't particularly beautiful at first glance, but he was young, half her age or thereabouts and the girls he would have been with would be just as young and therefore she felt herself judged.
His kisses almost convinced her. They were heart felt. They were closed eyed things, mostly lip and breath with just a hint of tongue. His kisses were designed to reassure her. He took his time with them. There was nothing urgent about his tongue but he wasn't denying her the full force of his passion. He can kiss, she thought. He has practiced kissing. It is one of the things she likes about his most, his studious inhaling of information. When he watched her developing, printing, asking questions, taking it all in. It is how she first decided he might be attractive.