Chapter 3: Cereal and Steam
The smell of burnt toast still clung to the air, a ghost of yesterday's mistake. Penny stood in the kitchen doorway, her silk robe cinched loose at the waist, the fabric whispering against her thighs with every shallow breath. Her mouth tasted like gin and regret, and something else—something saltier, something she refused to name.
Hank sat at the counter.
He was eating cereal. Just sitting there, barefoot, in nothing but his boxers, spooning Honey Nut Cheerios into his mouth like this was any other morning. Like he hadn't been inside her twelve hours ago. Like he hadn't come with a shout that still echoed in her skull.
The morning light caught the planes of his back, the muscles shifting beneath his skin with every movement. He'd always been athletic—she'd watched him play soccer in high school, had cheered from the bleachers—but this was different. This was the body of a man. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Thighs that could crush.
She should say something.
She should turn around and walk back to her bedroom and lock the door and never come out.
Instead, she walked to the coffee maker.
Her bare feet padded across the tile, and she felt his eyes on her. Tracking her. Devouring her. She kept her gaze fixed on the carafe, on the dark liquid dripping into the pot, but her skin prickled with awareness.
She had to pass him to reach the mugs.
Three steps. That was all. Three steps and she'd be at the cabinet, and she could pretend this was normal, pretend last night hadn't happened, pretend she hadn't screamed his name while he fucked her into the mattress.
She took the first step.
Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Just a graze. Just the lightest contact, skin against skin.
He went still.
She didn't stop. Her hand trailed down his arm, slow and deliberate, feeling the warmth of him, the definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. She traced the curve of his bicep, the dip of his elbow, the strong line of his forearm.
"Hank," she said.
Her voice came out rougher than she intended.
"Yeah?"
"Where's your father?"
He shrugged, and her hand slipped to his back. His skin was hot. So fucking hot. She could feel the muscles shifting as he moved, the way his breath hitched when her fingers found the nape of his neck.
"He left early. Said something about a meeting."
"On a Saturday?"
"Beats me."
She should pull away. She should pour her coffee and retreat to her room and figure out how to live with herself. But her hand was still on his back, and his skin was so warm, and she hadn't been touched like this—really touched—in years.
"It's supposed to rain today," she said.
Stupid. Fucking stupid. Small talk. As if the weather mattered when her son's come was still dried on her thighs.
"Yeah," Hank said. "I heard."
His spoon clinked against the bowl. He wasn't eating anymore. Just sitting there, rigid, waiting.
She pulled her hand away.
The absence of contact was immediate, visceral. She felt it in her chest like a physical ache, and she hated herself for it.
"Penny."
She froze.
He'd never called her that before. Not once, not in nineteen years. She was Mom. Mama. Hey, you. Never Penny.
She turned.
He was looking at her—really looking at her—and his eyes were dark, darker than she'd ever seen them. There was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip.
"What?" she asked.
"I can't stop thinking about it."
The words hung in the air between them. Heavy. Damning.
"Hank—"
"I know." He stood up, and the stool scraped against the floor, and suddenly he was closer, so much closer. "I know it's wrong. I know I should feel bad. But I don't."
His voice was low. Rough.
"I don't feel bad at all."
Penny's throat tightened. She should say something. Should tell him this was a mistake, a one-time thing, something that could never happen again.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because she didn't feel bad either.
"I'm going to take a shower," she said.
She turned and walked away, her heart pounding, her skin burning where his eyes followed her.
The bathroom door closed behind her with a soft click.
She leaned against it, eyes closed, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The tile was cool against her back, and she pressed into it, grounding herself in the sensation.
What the fuck was she doing?
She pushed off the door and turned on the shower. Steam billowed up, filling the room, fogging the mirror until she couldn't see her own reflection. Good. She didn't want to see herself right now.
She shrugged off her robe and stepped under the spray.
The water was scalding. Perfect. She let it run over her, soaking her hair, streaming down her face, washing away the sweat and the guilt and the smell of him. Her hands moved over her body, scrubbing, cleansing, trying to erase the memory of his touch.
It didn't work.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. The way he'd looked at her when he came. The way his mouth had felt on her cunt. The way he'd groaned her name—Goldie, Goldie—like a prayer.
She pressed her forehead against the wet tile and let out a shaky breath.
The door opened.
She didn't turn around. She didn't need to. She knew it was him. Could feel his presence like a change in atmospheric pressure.
"Hank," she said. "Get out."
"No."
The shower curtain pulled back. Cold air rushed in, and then warm skin pressed against her back. His arms wrapped around her waist, and his cock—hard, already hard—nudged against her ass.
"Get out," she repeated.
But her voice had lost its conviction.
"I can't." His mouth found her ear, his breath hot and wet. "I tried. I laid in bed all night trying to convince myself this was fucked up. And it is. It's so fucked up. But I don't care."
His hand slid up her stomach, found her breast, squeezed.
"I want you again."
Penny's knees went weak.
"Hank—"
"I want to fuck you again. Right here. Right now."
She should push him away. She should scream. Should slap him. Should do something—anything—to stop this before it went any further.
Instead, she reached back and grabbed his hip.
"Then do it," she said.
He spun her around.
His mouth crashed into hers, desperate and hungry, teeth clashing, tongues fighting. He tasted like cereal and coffee and something underneath that was just him. She moaned into the kiss, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
"You have no idea," he panted against her lips, "how long I've wanted this."
"How long?"
"Since the first photo you sent me."
He pushed her back against the tile. Her shoulder blades hit cold ceramic, and she gasped, but he was already there, his body covering hers, his cock pressing against her belly.
"The first one," he continued, "where you were wearing that black lace bra. I jerked off to that photo four times in one night."
"Fuck," she breathed.
"And then you sent me the one with your tits out. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. All I could think about was your body."
His hands grabbed her thighs and lifted. She wrapped her legs around him instinctively, and his cock slid between her folds, not entering, just dragging along her slick heat.
"I wanted to fuck you so bad it hurt."
"Then fuck me."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He reached between them, positioned himself at her entrance, and pushed inside.
The stretch was immediate. Brutal. She was still sore from last night, but the pain only made it hotter. She cried out, her back arching against the tile, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth.
"Fuck," he groaned. "You're still so tight."
"Harder."
He pulled back and slammed into her.
The force of it knocked the breath from her lungs. He didn't wait for her to recover. He just kept going—hard, fast, relentless—his hips slapping against her ass, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls.
"This is what I wanted," he grunted. "Last night in my bed, this morning in my head—this. Just this. Your pussy wrapped around my cock."
"Don't stop."
"I'm not going to stop. I'm never going to stop."
He hit something deep inside her, a spot that made her vision go white. She screamed, and the sound bounced off the tile, and she didn't care who heard. Didn't care if the neighbors heard. Didn't care if the whole fucking world knew.
"God," she gasped. "God, Hank, right there—"
"Call me something else."
"What?"
He fucked into her harder, deeper. "Not Hank. Not here. Call me what you called me last night."
His username. His profile name. The anonymous boy she'd been sexting for weeks.
"Seven," she breathed.
He groaned like she'd touched his soul.
"Yeah. Call me that."
"Seven—"
"I've been Seven for so long," he said, his voice breaking, "but with you—only with you—I feel like I'm more."
"Seven, please—"
"What do you need?"
"You. Just you. Fuck me until I can't think."
He did.
He fucked her like he was trying to prove something. Like every thrust was a confession. Like if he stopped moving, the spell would break and he'd have to face what they were doing.
She came first.
Her cunt clenched around him, and she screamed, her nails raking down his back, drawing blood. He hissed but didn't stop. Just kept going, fucking her through it, until his own release was building, cresting, about to break.
"Where?" he grunted.
"Pull out."
He did.
He pulled out at the last second, his cock slipping free, and he stroked himself twice—three times—and then he was coming with a guttural groan, ropes of thick, hot cum splattering across her lower back and ass.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Penny stayed there, pressed against the tile, breathless and boneless. The water rained down on her, washing away the mess, swirling it toward the drain.
Hank's hand found her back.
"Here," he said. "Let me."
He grabbed the soap. Lathered his hands. And then he was touching her again—gentle this time, tender—working the soap into her skin, washing away the evidence of what they'd done.
His fingers traced circles on her lower back.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured. "You know that? Every inch of you. I could look at you for hours."
Penny closed her eyes.
"You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because this can't—we can't—"
"I know." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "But we are."
He turned her around. His face was soft now, the hunger momentarily sated. He looked young and lost and terrified and hopeful all at once.
"What are we going to do?" he asked.
She didn't have an answer.
She reached up and touched his face anyway.
The water kept falling. The steam kept rising. And outside the bathroom door, somewhere in the empty house, a phone buzzed with a notification.
Neither of them heard it.
Neither of them cared.