Chapter 103: Mornings
The first thing Olivia became aware of was a profound, pleasant fullness. A deep, internal pressure that was both a memory and a continuing presence. She shifted slightly in the tangled silk sheets, and the subtle weight of the plug inside her shifted in response, a persistent reminder of her son’s possession. Sunlight, harsh and golden, stabbed through a gap in the curtains, painting a molten stripe across the rumpled bed and over her hip. She was on her stomach, one arm flung out, and the solid, warm line of Ethan’s body was pressed along her back, his arm still a heavy, comforting band across her waist.
She smiled into her pillow. The scent of him—sleep, sex, and his own clean skin—was everywhere.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, she turned her head. He was asleep, his face relaxed, younger-looking. Dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. The sight of him, so peaceful and yet so capable of the filthiest, most exquisite worship, sent a lance of pure affection through her. Her body hummed with a residual ache, a satisfying soreness in muscles deep inside her that she cherished. It was the physical scripture of their night, written in the language of strain and release.
She lay still for a long time, just feeling. The plug was not uncomfortable; it was an anchor. It kept a part of him sealed within her, a crude, intimate connection even as they slept apart. She could feel the faintest trickle of leakage around its base, a cool contrast to the warmth it held inside. The memory of that flooding, the sheer volume of his climax, made her thighs clench subtly. Her belly did feel different. A little heavier, a little fuller. The thought was profoundly erotic.
Eventually, the need for the bathroom and the promise of coffee nudged her into motion. She slid out from under his arm with the practiced stealth of someone who shared a bed with a deep sleeper. The cool morning air kissed her naked skin, raising goosebumps. She paused, looking down at herself. She was a mess, and it was beautiful. Dried streaks of oil mingled with other fluids traced maps across her thighs and lower back. Her skin was faintly marked from the pressure of the sheets and his hands. She felt deliciously used.
In the en-suite bathroom, she took care of the plug first. The removal was a slow, careful process, followed by a soft, wet sound as it came free. She cleaned it, set it aside, and then herself, washing gently. The evidence of him was stark in the toilet, a cloudy testament to the night’s conclusion. She flushed it away with a sense of ritual, a quiet goodbye to one intimacy before the day began anew.
She didn’t dress. Not truly. She opened her wardrobe and bypassed the casual leggings and tees, her fingers instead finding the hem of a silk robe. It was short, barely reaching mid-thigh, and a deep emerald green that made her eyes look like jewels. The fabric was treacherously thin, nearly translucent where it lay flat. She tied the belt loosely, leaving a deep V that plunged between her breasts, which swung heavily, unconfined. The robe clung to every curve, outlining the narrowness of her waist, the swell of her hips, the perfect roundness of her ass. It was less clothing and more a suggestion, a highlighting of assets. She ran a hand through her hair, tousling it into something artfully messy, and applied a mere touch of balm to her lips.
Satisfied, she padded barefoot out of the bedroom and into the main living space. The penthouse was quiet, filled with morning light. And then the smell hit her: rich, dark coffee, and underneath it, the buttery, heavenly scent of baking pastry.
She followed it to the kitchen.
Ethan stood at the large island, his back to her. He was wearing only a pair of loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. The muscles of his back and shoulders moved beneath his skin as he worked, a landscape of corded strength that her hands knew intimately. The espresso machine was hissing softly, delivering a stream of dark gold into a small cup. On a baking sheet on the counter sat a half-dozen perfect, golden-brown croissants, their layers flaky and promising. A bowl of ripe peaches sat beside a cutting board, a knife waiting.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice still sleep-rough.
He turned, and the sight of her in the doorway stopped him for a full second. His eyes travelled from her face, down the treacherous plunge of the robe, over the way it clung to her nipples, down to the bare expanse of her thighs. A slow, warm smile spread across his face, the same smile he’d had as a boy on Christmas morning, but now layered with a heat that made her stomach flip.
“Morning, ma,” he said. His voice was morning-deep. “Sleep okay?”
“Mmm,” she hummed, walking towards him. She leaned against the counter opposite him, the cool marble meeting the backs of her thighs. “Like the dead. A very well-fucked dead person.” She grinned, watching his eyes darken. “I could feel you all night. That plug… it was a nice reminder.”
“Good,” he said simply, turning back to finish the coffee. He poured the espresso into a larger cup, then steamed milk with a practiced whirl. “I woke up a couple hours ago. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Figured I’d make you breakfast.”
“My hero,” she murmured. She watched his hands, those strong, clever hands that had massaged and penetrated her with equal devotion, now moving with domestic precision. The contrast was dizzying.
He placed the latte in front of her—a perfect, creamy leaf design floating on the surface—and then lifted a croissant from the sheet. It was still warm, almost too hot to touch. He broke a piece off, the interior a honeycomb of soft, steaming layers.
“Open up,” he said, his tone softly commanding.
Obediently, she parted her lips. He fed her the morsel. It dissolved on her tongue, buttery and rich. A soft moan of pure culinary pleasure escaped her. “God, that’s good. You’re getting better at these than I am.”
“Doubt that,” he said, breaking off another piece. As she leaned forward to take it, the front of her robe gaped open completely, offering him an unobstructed view of her heavy, pale breasts. She saw his gaze drop, his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. She didn’t pull the robe shut. She let him look.
He fed her another piece. “How’s… everything feeling this morning?” he asked, his voice dropping a register.
She chewed slowly, swallowing before answering, a playful light in her eyes. “Sore. In the best way. That deep, achy soreness that lets you know you’ve been thoroughly used.” She took a sip of the latte, leaving a faint foam mustache on her upper lip which she slowly licked away. “My ass feels… spacious. Used. Loved. I can still feel the shape of you inside. Especially after that last one.” She looked at him directly. “That was incredible, son. The way you came. It felt endless. I swear I felt my belly get warm and heavy.”
A flush of pride and arousal coloured his cheeks. He fed her another piece of croissant, his fingers brushing her lips. “You took it so well. All of it. The massage, and then… you just let me have it. You were so soft. So open for me.”
“I was melted butter,” she agreed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You melted me with your hands, and then you poured yourself into the mould. It was perfect.” As he brought another piece to her mouth, she reached up and guided his wrist, making him feed her slowly, sensually. Then, on impulse, she took his index finger into her mouth, sucking the faint buttery residue from it, her tongue swirling around the tip. His breath hitched.
He pulled his finger away, his eyes blazing. “Keep that up and breakfast is going to get cold.”
She laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Promises, promises.” She leaned back again, and with a casual, natural movement that was both innocent and profoundly lewd, she brought her hands up to cup her own breasts through the thin silk. She kneaded them gently, her thumbs brushing over her nipples, which hardened instantly into visible points against the fabric. “They feel heavy too. All of me feels heavy and full and happy.”
He stood frozen for a moment, watching her fondle herself as he fed her. The domestic act of feeding his mother was now layered with a potent, silent voyeurism. He was giving her sustenance with his hands while she offered a lewd display with hers. The duality was the core of them.
“You’re so beautiful, ma,” he said, the words heartfelt and raw. “I woke up thinking about last night. Thinking about the sounds you made. The way you begged me to come in your ass.”
“I meant every word,” she said, pinching her own nipple lightly, her eyes fluttering. “It’s my favourite place for you. It feels the most… personal. The most forbidden. It’s where my son truly owns me.” She took another piece of croissant from his fingers. “I was thinking in the shower… I can still smell you on me. Even after washing. It’s like it’s in my skin now.”
He finished feeding her the first croissant and reached for a peach. He sliced a ripe, juicy wedge, the golden flesh glistening. He brought it to her lips. Juice ran down her chin as she bit into the sweet, tart fruit.
“Oops,” she giggled. The juice traced a path down her neck, towards her chest. Rather than wipe it away, she leaned forward further, the juice dripping between her breasts.
“Messy,” he chided, but his voice was thick.
“You can clean it up later,” she said, her tone implying how. She took the rest of the peach slice from his hand, eating it slowly. “So what’s the plan for my champion baker and world-class ass-fucker today? It’s your free day, right? No work calls?”
He nodded, slicing another peach. “No calls. The whole day. Just us.” He fed her another slice. “I thought maybe we could just… be. You could pick a movie. One of those long, sweeping romance novels you love, but on screen. We could just curl up on the couch. And you could…” He trailed off, his meaning clear.
“I could suck your cock while you watch?” she offered bluntly, licking juice from her thumb. “Or maybe you could fuck my ass again, nice and slow, while the characters have their little dramas on screen? Maybe both?”
“Maybe both,” he echoed, a smile tugging at his lips. “I just want to be near you. Touch you. However you want.”
“I always want,” she said simply. She stopped kneading her breasts and instead untied the robe’s belt completely. She let it fall open, baring herself fully to him there in the sunlit kitchen. Her body was a testament to their night: faint pink marks from his stubble on her inner thighs, the lingering ghost of his grip on her hips. She leaned back on her hands on the counter, arching her back slightly, presenting herself. “See? Just the sight of you feeding me gets me wet. Thinking about what we’ll do today gets me wetter. I’m a easy, simple woman,