The Housewife’s Deadly Trap

The silverware clattered to the floor. As I bent down to pick it up, the American woman across from me carelessly parted her legs. My gaze traveled up her skirt—beneath the white lace lay a golden forest, and beyond that, a dark abyss...

I think I've caught the attention of a peculiar American woman.

After college, I stayed in the U.S. and opened a Chinese restaurant due to family circumstances. Business had always been lukewarm—enough to put food on the table, but not much else.

Then, three months ago, she took an interest in me.

Since her first order, she’d exclusively eaten at my place—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—always paying a generous delivery fee to have every meal brought straight to her home.

The only odd thing was, she never stepped outside. Every meal had to be delivered.

Thanks to her, though, I’d managed to save a little each month.

Today, however, she not only ordered more than usual but also invited me to join her for lunch at her table.

"Ethan, you have no idea how miserable my life has been..."

After a glass of wine, she began recounting the tragedy of her previous marriage.

"Madam, don’t dwell on it. You’re like a radiant diamond. Losing you was his loss. A man like that isn’t worth your sorrow."

I meant every word—though it wasn’t entirely flattery.

American women bloom early but fade fast.

Perhaps due to early maturity, most girls peak around fifteen and remain in full bloom until twenty-five. A simple tank top and shorts are enough to showcase their youthful allure. Nothing can overshadow their vibrant beauty at that age.

But once past that threshold, the petals begin to wither—especially after thirty. Maintaining that glow requires an arsenal of skincare.

It was clear she had both natural beauty and wealth.

I barely processed her marital woes, though. Today was the first time I noticed how provocative her nightgown was.

Whether intentional or not, the neckline dipped so low it barely contained her curves. A slight tilt of her head would reveal the rosy coins beneath.

She stood to refill my glass but accidentally knocked my spoon to the floor.

I assured her it was fine and bent to retrieve it.

Then I froze.

From this angle, I could glimpse the lace beneath her skirt—white and delicate.

!!!

The sheer fabric revealed smooth skin, meticulously groomed. Given the distance, I couldn’t tell if it was natural or maintained, but given most foreigners' tendencies, it was likely the latter.

More shocking than the view was her reaction.

I was now certain: her invitation hadn’t been purely for dining.

At first, I’d only caught a sliver of fabric. Then, without warning, she parted her legs, baring everything.

My pulse spiked. Years in the U.S., and I’d never indulged. This temptation was overwhelming.

Too embarrassed to keep staring, I straightened with the spoon.

Suddenly, she was beside me.

"You called me a diamond. Did you mean it?"

Mmm—

Before I could answer, her lips sealed mine.

American boldness lived up to its reputation. Though I couldn’t see, I felt her straddle me completely.

She’d mentioned being divorced for eight years. If she’d gone unsatisfied all that time, no wonder she was starved.

Her tongue danced with mine, relentless. I wasn’t inexperienced, but she had me breathless in minutes.

Only when I gasped for air did she release me.

"Want a closer look at your diamond?"

Her fingers tugged her hem upward, eyes smoldering.

There were three types of American MILFs: outright vulgar, teasing but tasteful, and those whose every gesture dripped seduction.

She was the third—and unlike others her age, she’d aged like fine wine.