His eyes roamed over her body with obvious hunger—taking in her stretch marks, the slight sag of her breasts, the soft pouch of her belly, the dark hair between her legs that was matted with her own arousal.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Forty-six years old. Stretch marks from carrying a kid. Hairy. Sweaty. Your body showing every single year you've lived."
Each word was like a knife, cutting into her already fragile sense of self-worth.
Hana's lips trembled, fresh tears welling up even through her cum-drunk haze.
"And it's perfect," Raven continued, his hand reaching down to trace one of the stretch marks on her belly. "You know why? Because this body has 'lived'. It's been used. It's been through hell and survived."
His hand moved lower, fingers brushing through her pubic hair.
"Your husband was an idiot. He had a breeding mare at home—thick thighs, wide hips, massive tits—and he ignored it all to fuck some skinny prostitute next door."
