Chapter 4: Breakfast and a Secret
The air in the breakfast room smelled of coffee, crisping bacon, and expensive perfume. Sunlight, weak and diluted by the morning mist over the harbor, bled through the towering windows and pooled on the polished mahogany floor. Karen took it all in from her seat at the long table, a tableau of her family in the quiet, chandelier-lit glow. It felt like watching a play from within the cast.
Tim, to her left, was engrossed in the sports section of a complimentary newspaper, one hand absentmindedly stirring his coffee. His other hand rested on her knee, a habit of decades. The touch, once comforting, now felt like a placeholder, a claim staked on territory that had already been invaded. She let it lie there, a passive weight.To her right, Sam. His lanky frame was folded into the chair, shoulders hunched as he pushed scrambled eggs around his plate with a fork. He hadn’t looked at her directly since she’d arrived, his gaze fixed on his food or the misty view of sailboats bobbing in the grey water. But his thigh, warm and solid, pressed insistently against hers under the fine linen tablecloth. It was an accident of seating, perhaps, but neither of them moved to adjust the contact. It was a live wire, humming with the memory of the night, of the dawn.
Across from them, Alex looked rakish and well-rested, a slight, smug curve to his mouth as he conversed with Lauren. Katie, the bride, sat at the table opposite him, but her attention was fragmented. She picked at a croissant, her eyes flicking between Alex and her new husband, Karen’s nephew Michael, who was deep in conversation with his father about the drive home. Katie’s fingernails, perfectly polished for the wedding, tapped a nervous rhythm against her water glass.
“The biodiversity in that one estuary alone was staggering,” Lauren was saying, her green eyes, so like Karen’s, animated with passion. “I’m telling you, Mom, you would have loved it. Seven months felt like seven days.” Lauren’s curvy figure was poured into a simple sundress, her generous breasts straining against the cotton. She was the picture of vibrant, oblivious youth.
“It sounds incredible, sweetheart,” Karen said, her voice perfectly modulated, the caring mother. She took a sip of orange juice, the cold tartness a shock. Her fingers, of their own volition, crept from her own lap and came to rest high on Sam’s thigh, just above his knee, under the concealment of the tablecloth. She felt him jolt, a tiny convulsion that rattled his coffee cup in its saucer. He froze, his fork hovering mid-air.
Tim chose that moment to fold his newspaper with a crisp snap.“Well, I’m going in for a second round. Those little quail eggs are something else. Karen, can I grab you anything?”
“No, thank you, honey,” she said, smiling up at him, her hand squeezing Sam’s rock-hard muscle.
As Tim’s chair scraped back and he ambled toward the gleaming silver chafing dishes, Karen leaned infinitesimally closer to Sam. The room’s gentle clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations formed a perfect curtain of sound. She turned her head, her lips close to his ear, so close she could smell his clean skin, the hotel shampoo in his hair.
“You were incredible last night,” she whispered, her voice a low, molten thread meant for him alone. Her thumb began to stroke slow, deliberate circles on the inside of his thigh, inching higher. “I can still feel you inside me.So deep. I’m sore in the most wonderful way.”
A violent blush erupted from Sam’s collar, crawling up his neck and flooding his cheeks. He dropped his fork with a clatter that made Michael glance over.“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, his voice strangled. He kept his eyes cast down, his body rigid except for the slight tremor she could feel beneath her fingers.
“It’s okay, my love,” she murmured, the term of endearment both a caress and a brand.“Just eat your breakfast. You need your strength.” She gave his thigh a final, possessive squeeze before withdrawing her hand, placing it back in her own lap, where Tim’s touch now felt ghostly and absent.As she sat back, she caught Alex’s eye. He was watching her, a faint, quizzical line between his brows. Had he seen the intensity of her whisper?The flush on Sam’s face? He held her gaze for a beat too long, then looked away, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned over to say something to Katie that made her giggle nervously and glance at Michael.The duality was dizzying. Her eldest, sharing a secret just as dark as her own, a secret that made a mockery of the wedding rings gleaming around the table.Katie suddenly stood, her chair scraping loudly. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice a little too bright. “Ladies’ room.”
She hurried off toward the corridor that led to the restrooms. Not thirty seconds later, Alex stretched languidly. “Gonna grab another coffee,” he announced to no one in particular, and he too disappeared in the same direction.
Karen took a slow, deliberate bite of a strawberry, a small, knowing smirk settling on her lips.She let her eyes find Sam again. He was staring at her now, his earlier shyness burnt away by a raw, hungry confusion. The look in his eyes was no longer that of a stunned boy, but of a young man who had been given a taste of a forbidden feast and found himself starving for more.Lauren’s voice cut through her thoughts. “So, Sam, what are your plans for the summer? Now that you’re a free man.” She smiled at her younger brother, kindly, obliviously.
Sam cleared his throat, dragging his eyes from Karen with palpable effort.“Uh.Not sure.Maybe get a job. Here in the city, maybe.”
“You should come visit me,” Lauren said enthusiastically. “Once I’m set up in the new place. It’s beautiful there.”
“Maybe,” Sam said, his eyes flicking back to Karen, as if seeking permission, or validation.
Tim returned then, his plate piled high. “What did I miss?”
“Just discussing Sam’s future,” Karen said smoothly, reaching over to pat Tim’s hand. “Our boy is all grown up.” The words were thick with a double meaning that soured the sweet strawberry on her tongue.
The rest of the breakfast passed in a haze of trivial chatter and the clinking of china. Goodbyes were said, hugs exchanged.Michael and Katie left first, Katie avoiding everyone’s eyes. Alex slapped Sam on the back, gave his mother a peck on the cheek that felt curiously assessing, and sauntered out with a wave.Lauren was the last to leave, wrapping Karen in a tight, fragrant hug. “I’m so glad to be back, Mom.We’ll talk soon, okay? Real talk.”
“Of course, my darling,” Karen whispered, holding her daughter close, feeling a pang of guilt so sharp it was nauseating. This vibrant, innocent young woman, so like her, knew nothing of the rot festering at the heart of her family.
Finally, it was just the three of them: Tim, Karen, and Sam, standing in the muted grandeur of the nearly empty breakfast room.“Well, boys,” Tim said, clapping his hands together. “Checkout is in an hour. Sam, you riding back with us?”
Sam’s eyes shot to Karen, a silent plea. “I, uh… I was thinking I might stay in the city for a day or two.Look at those job possibilities. If that’s okay?”
Tim shrugged amiably.“Sure, son. Your mother worries, but you’re a man now.” He turned to Karen.“Ready to head up, hon? I want to beat the traffic.”
Karen’s heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She looked at Sam, at his pleading, desperate face, then at Tim, her kind, oblivious husband.The power surged again, cold and electric. “You go on up, Tim,” she said, her voice astonishingly even. “I want to have a quick word with Sam about… about his budget. Make sure he’s not planning to live off instant noodles. I’ll meet you in the room in 30 minutes.”
Tim nodded, seemingly pleased at her maternal diligence. “Don’t be long,” he said, and with a final, fond ruffle of Sam’s hair, he walked away, disappearing into the elevator lobby.
The silence he left behind was profound, charged with the electricity of their earlier contact. The waitstaff moved quietly, clearing distant tables.“Mom, I—” Sam started, his voice cracking.
“Not here,” she said, her tone low and urgent. She glanced toward a draped archway that led to a smaller, abandoned lounge area, likely closed until the evening. “Come with me.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked briskly toward the archway, not looking back, trusting utterly that he would follow. The lounge was shadowy, lit only by the grey light from a single window.Plush, dark purple couches were arranged in silent clusters. It was private, secluded, the hum of the main breakfast room now a distant murmur.
She turned just as he stepped through the heavy curtain after her. In two steps, she closed the distance between them, her hands flying up to cradle his face. She kissed him with a ferocity that bordered on violence, her tongue plunging into his mouth, claiming him. He responded instantly, his arms wrapping around her, crushing her against his lean frame, his own tongue tangling with hers in a wet, desperate dance.When they broke apart, both were gasping. “I lied to your father,” Karen breathed, her forehead resting against his. “It wasn’t fifteen minutes I needed.” Her hands slid down his chest, over the crisp cotton of his shirt, to the waistband of his chinos.She palmed the massive, rigid bulge there, making him gasp.“I need you. Right now.”
“Here?” he whispered, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and exhilaration as he glanced at the open archway.
“Yes.” Her fingers worked his belt buckle, then his button and zipper.She shoved his pants and boxers down just enough to free him. His enormous cock sprang out, already leaking, an awe-inspiring sight in the dim, formal room. She quickly gathered the voluminous fabric of her skirt, bunching it around her waist. She wasn’t wearing panties; she’d left them, soaked, in Sam’s room. The cool air of the lounge kissed her bare, blonde-haired sex.
“Fuck me, Sam,” she commanded, her voice husky and low.“Right here.Quickly. Before we’re found.”
She turned, bracing her hands on the back of a high, wingback chair upholstered in crushed velvet. She looked over her shoulder at him, presenting her wide, pear-shaped ass, still faintly marked from the lace of her discarded underwear.“Take me from behind. Now.”
Sam didn’t hesitate.He stepped up behind her, his hands gripping the generous swell of her hips. He guided his broad, slick head to her entrance, which was already wet and eager for him. With one powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt inside her.
A choked cry escaped Karen’s lips, muffled by the fabric of the chair. The invasion was immediate, total, exquisite in its painful fullness. He was so much bigger than Tim had ever been, stretching her in a way that felt both destructive and gloriously right. “Oh, my God… Sammy…” she moaned, pushing back against him.
He began to move, his thrusts hard and fast, driven by a frantic urgency. There was no time for slow tenderness, only this raw, stolen coupling.Each inward drive hammered the chair legs against the floor with a soft, rhythmic thud. Karen bit her own arm to silence her cries, but her voice escaped in ragged, breathy whispers.“Yes!Oh, yes, my beautiful boy!You feel so good!So deep! You own this pussy, Sam!It’s yours! Fuck your mommy’s tight little cunt!That’s it! Harder!”
Her filthy, loving words drove him wild. His hands tightened on her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pistoned into her. The wet, slapping sounds of their union filled the quiet lounge, a obscene secret beneath the genteel decor. Karen could feel her climax coiling, tight and hot, low in her belly. The risk, the danger of being discovered, the sheer forbidden wrongness of it all, poured fuel on the fire.
“I’m close, baby,” she panted, her knuckles white where she gripped the chair.“I’m gonna come all over your big cock. Make me come, Sammy! Make your mommy scream!”
With a guttural groan, Sam doubled his efforts, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more focused. The pressure built, crested, and shattered. Karen’s orgasm ripped through her, a silent, convulsive wave that clenched her inner muscles around his pounding length in relentless, fluttering pulses. She saw stars behind her clenched eyelids, her body shuddering violently as she milked him through her climax.
Feeling her convulse around him was all it took. Sam drove into her one last, searing time, his body locking, a strangled cry escaping his lips as he erupted inside her. She felt the hot, liquid pulses of his release filling her, a secret deposit in the shadowy lounge. He collapsed forward, his chest heaving against her back, his spent cock still throbbing within her.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined, panting, listening. The distant sounds of the breakfast room continued, unchanged.No one had come.Slowly, carefully, Sam pulled out. Karen quickly smoothed her skirt down, feeling his spend already beginning to leak down her inner thighs. Sam fumbled with his pants, tucking himself away, his face a mask of dazed astonishment.Karen turned and cupped his cheek.She was glowing, vibrantly alive, every nerve singing. “There,” she whispered, her voice tender. “Now you can look for a job.” She leaned in, kissed him softly.“I’ll call you tonight. We’ll figure out… how this works.”
She didn’t wait for his reply. She straightened her dress, ran a hand through her short blonde hair, and walked calmly back through the archway, leaving him standing alone in the silent, scandalous room.The elevator ride up to her floor was a study in stillness. She checked her reflection in the mirrored walls: a slightly flushed, perfectly composed woman.A mother. A wife.A lover.She opened the door to room 814. Tim was zipping up the last suitcase.He looked up and smiled.“All set? Get Sam sorted?”
“Yes,” Karen said, walking over to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her body still humming from Sam, from the secret that now warmed her from the inside. She kissed Tim, a deep, lingering kiss, letting him taste the ghost of his son on her lips. “I got him all sorted out.” She pulled back, smiling a smile that held the memory of a velvet chair and the feeling of being utterly, completely filled. “Let’s go home.”
“Let’s go home.”
The drive was a two-hour ribbon of monotonous highway, flanked by green hills slowly surrendering to the familiar suburban sprawl. Tim drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between them, his fingers occasionally brushing her knee. The radio played a soft rock station, songs from their youth that normally would have prompted a shared memory or a sigh. Today, they felt like artifacts from a museum of a life she had just walked out of.
They talked about everything and nothing, just like always.
“Lauren looked wonderful, didn’t she?” Tim said, his eyes on the road. “So tanned. All that sea air.”
“She did. She’s so passionate about her work. It’s wonderful to see.” Karen’s voice was even, pleasant. Inside, her body was a secret theater, replaying the morning’s scandal in the shadowy lounge. With every slight shift in the passenger seat, she could feel a tender ache, a faint slickness between her legs that was not her own. It was a brand. A receipt.
“Alex seemed in good spirits,” Tim continued, oblivious to the cyclone of implications behind that simple observation. “Though he ducked out quick. Probably has a hot date.”
Karen managed a soft laugh. “Probably.” She saw it again: Katie’s hurried exit, Alex’s languid, calculated follow. The twin secrets sat inside her, one nestled in her womb, the other etched into her skin. They were heavy. They were exhilarating.
The conversation drifted to the wedding food, the cost of the hotel, a funny story about Tim’s brother. It was all so normal, so deathly dull. The calm surface of their marriage, a placid lake beneath which monstrous things now swam. Karen watched the white lines on the highway blur past, her mind a riot of contrast: the crushing, routine weight of Tim’s familiar hand versus the memory of Sam’s long fingers digging into the flesh of her hips; Tim’s soft, middling presence versus Sam’s overwhelming, transformative physicality.
As their own neighborhood, with its mature oaks and identical brick façades, came into view, a deep, restless emptiness opened up inside her. It was more than the post-coital comedown. It was the sight of Sam’s empty bedroom window as they pulled into the driveway. It was the thought of him staying in the city, of his life moving forward, away from her. It was the hollow promise of a quiet house with just Tim, a man who hadn’t truly looked at her in years, a man whose touch she had tolerated for decades but who had never, not once, made her feel the way her own son had in a single night.
Tim killed the engine. The sudden silence was a vacuum.
“Home sweet home,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt with a sigh. “I’m going to get the bags. You want a tea?”
“In a minute,” Karen said, not moving. She stared at the empty porch swing, its chains squeaking faintly in the breeze.
He nodded and got out, popping the trunk. Karen finally moved, her body stiff. She walked into the house, the cool, still air smelling of lemon polish and vacancy. She went straight to the kitchen, not for tea, but for a glass of water. She drank it standing at the sink, looking out at the backyard where she’d pushed Sam on a swing, where she’d bandaged his knees, where she’d watched him become a stranger and then, impossibly, a lover.
Tim clunked the suitcases in the hallway. “All in,” he called.
She heard him amble into his study, likely to check emails, to re-enter the mundane stream of his life. This was the pattern. This was what remained. A profound and terrifying panic seized her. The future stretched before her: a slow, quiet diminishment. A descent into being merely Tim’s wife, then a grandmother, then an old woman. The ferocious vitality Sam had unleashed in her—the screaming, clutching, alive feeling—would be sealed away as a shameful, one-time aberration. She couldn’t let that happen. She needed an anchor. A purpose. A reason for the desperate, mothering love that now had no appropriate outlet.
She found Tim in his study, as predicted, scrolling through his phone. She leaned in the doorway, the frame solid against her shoulder. “Tim?”
“Hmm?” He didn’t look up.
“Do you ever think about it? What we talked about a few months ago?”
He put his phone down, a flicker of confusion on his face. “Talked about? The roof? I called the guys, they’re coming next–”
“No. Not the roof.” She stepped fully into the room, her arms crossed over her chest. “About having another baby.”
He stared at her. His expression cycled from confusion to disbelief to a gentle, patronizing concern. “Karen. Honey. We talked about that. We’re grandparents, practically. Alex is twenty-four. Sam’s just left the nest.”
“Sam hasn’t left,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “He’s talking about it. He will. And then what? What am I, Tim? A mother is what I am. It’s all I’ve ever been really good at.” This was true, in its way. It was just that her definition of ‘mothering’ had undergone a catastrophic, seismic shift.
Tim stood up and came around the desk, taking her hands in his. His were warm, slightly dry. Familiar. “You’re a wonderful mother. The best. But that’s not all you are. You’re my wife. We have our life now. We can travel. We can relax.”
“I don’t want to relax,” she whispered, and it was a fundamental truth. Relaxing meant forgetting the feel of Sam’s skin. Relaxing meant accepting the slow death of her own relevance. “I’m fifty-two, not ninety. I have no signs of menopause, none at all. My cycles are like clockwork.” She was aware of the clinical tone, using facts as weapons. “It’s not impossible. Women have babies later all the time now.”
He searched her face, his brow furrowed. He saw her intensity, but he misinterpreted its source completely. He saw a empty-nest crisis, a fear of aging. He did not see the ghost of his son’s hands on her body, the biological imperative those hands had sparked. “Karen… the risks. For you, for a baby at that age. It’s… it’s not sensible.”
“Since when has love ever been sensible?” she countered, a desperate, romantic plea that tasted like ash in her mouth. She was not talking about her love for him.
He squeezed her hands, a placating gesture. “Let’s just… let’s sit with this, okay? It’s been a big weekend. Emotions are high. You’ve just had Lauren come home, Sam’s talking about leaving… it’s a lot of change.” He pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on her head. “We’re good as we are. We really are.”
She let him hold her, her body rigid. She breathed in the scent of his shirt, his familiar, faintly spicy cologne. It was the smell of safety, of obligation, of a life sentence. Over his shoulder, through the study window, she could see the old swing set, rusting at the edges. She thought of the sheer, terrifying potential of a new life. A distraction. A project. A legitimate reason for the all-consuming, physical nurturing her body seemed to scream for. A baby would tie her to this house, to this role, in a way nothing else could. It would also, a treacherous voice whispered, provide cover. Changes in mood, fatigue, the shifting of her body—all easily explained. And the need for closeness, for physical comfort…
She pulled back, looking up at him with eyes she forced to appear wide and vulnerable. “Just think about it, Tim.Please? Don’t shut the door completely. It’s just… it feels like a door is closing with Sam, and I suppose I want to see if another one might open.” It was the perfect thing to say. It framed her desperation as maternal, noble, a continuation of her life’s work. It hid the rot, the hunger, the sickening thrill.
He sighed, a long, weary sound. He cupped her face. “I’ll think about it.I promise. But no promises beyond that.” He kissed her forehead, a paternal kiss. “Now, how about that tea?”
“I’ll make it,” she said, forcing a smile.
She escaped to the kitchen. The mundane ritual of boiling water, fetching mugs, the teabag steeping—it was a lifeline to normality. But her mind was a plotting, churning machine. Tim would think. He would reluctantly, eventually, probably say yes if she pushed enough. He was suggestible, especially where her “happiness” was concerned. But the logistics… the cold mechanics of it. His tired, mediocre body atop hers, the functional, passionless act they performed once every few weeks. The thought of it, now, after Sam, was repellent. It would be a transaction. A means to an end.
She carried the mugs into the living room. Tim had settled in his armchair, the TV on low, showing a golf tournament. She handed him his tea and sat on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her. She sipped the hot liquid, but it was flavorless.
Her phone, face-down on the coffee table, vibrated with a soft buzz. A text. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Tim didn’t look over.
She waited a moment, then casually picked it up.
A message from Sam. Are you home?
Her fingers trembled as she typed.Yes. In the living room with your father.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. The tension was a wire pulled taut in her chest.
I can’t stop thinking about you. About this morning… last night.
She glanced at Tim. He was focused on a putt. She typed back. I know. Me too. She paused, then added. We need to be careful. But we will talk. Soon.
When?
Tonight. When he’s asleep. Even typing it felt dangerous, electric.
Okay. I’ll wait.
She put the phone down, screen against the wood. The simple exchange had flooded her system with adrenaline. It was a secret conversation running parallel to the drab reality of the living room, the golf commentary, Tim’s absent sip of tea. This was her real life now. This hidden channel.
“Everything okay?” Tim asked, his eyes still on the TV.
“Just Lauren,” Karen lied smoothly. “Confirming dinner next week.” The lies came so easily now, layer upon layer, settling over her like a second skin.
The afternoon bled away into evening. They ordered pizza. They ate in near-silence. The house felt cavernous, every sound echoing. Karen cleaned up mechanically, her ears straining for the vibration of her phone, which she kept in her apron pocket. She felt Tim watching her sometimes, a puzzled, concerned look on his face. He saw her distance, her preoccupation, and attributed it all to their earlier conversation about a baby. He was comforting himself with that narrative. It was safe. It was wrong.
Finally, Tim yawned, stretching his arms. “I’m hitting the hay. Long day. You coming up?”
“Soon,” she said, wiping an already-clean counter. “I’m just wound up. Might read for a bit.”
He nodded, kissed her cheek—a peck, a habit—and trudged upstairs. She listened to the sounds: the creak of the floorboards, the running of the bathroom tap, the groan of the bed as he got in. She waited. She counted. She listened for the shift in his breathing, for the familiar, soft snore that signaled his descent into sleep.
When it came, regular and deep, she moved.
She didn’t go to the living room. She slipped out the back door into the cool night air, closing it silently behind her. The garden was dark, lit only by a faint glow from the neighbor’s porch light. She sat on the porch swing, the chains groaning softly. She pulled out her phone. Her heart was a frantic bird in her throat.
She video-called him.
It rang once, twice. He answered. His face filled her screen, pale in the light of what looked like a hotel lamp. His hair was damp, as if from a shower. His eyes were huge, dark.
“Mom,” he breathed.
“Hi, my love,” she whispered, the words carried away on the night breeze. “Are you alone?”
“Yes. In my room.” He shifted, and she could see the headboard behind him, different from the one at the Harborview. A cheaper hotel, a temporary place. “It’s weird here without you.”
The sentiment was a balm and a poison. “I know.” She adjusted the phone, leaning back into the shadow. “We have to be smart, Sammy. So smart.”
“What does that mean?” His voice was young, anxious, full of a need for direction. She was his mother. She would direct him.
“It means we can’t be reckless like we were today. As much as I… loved it.” She let the word hang, saw him react to it, his lips parting slightly. “We need rules. We need a system.”
“Rules?” He sounded almost disappointed.
“To protect this. To protect us.” She was making this up as she went, weaving a safety net out of cobwebs. “We don’t text during the day unless it’s an emergency. We don’t meet in our own city. We find places, neutral places. We plan ahead.” She was speaking like a general, like a mistress, like a mother organizing a playdate. The roles blurred into a single, commanding authority. “Your father… he might be agreeing to something. Something that could give us more… flexibility.”
“What?” Sam leaned closer to the screen.
“A baby.” She said it plainly, watching his face crumple in confusion and shock.
“What? With Dad? But you’re… I mean…”
“It’s a thought. Just a thought,” she backpedaled slightly, seeing his distress. “It would change things here. It would give me a reason to be… preoccupied. Tired. Needing time away.” She was revealing too much of her calculation, but she needed him to understand the landscape. “It’s just an idea. But my point is, the situation here might change. And we will find our way.”
Sam was silent for a long moment, processing. The idea of a sibling, born of his father, while he was engaged in this with her, was clearly a monstrous concept for him. “I don’t want you to… be with him,” he finally mumbled, jealousy raw in his voice.
The possessiveness in his tone sent a thrill through her. “Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, her voice dropping to its most tender, maternal register. “That’s just… biology. What you and I have is something else entirely. It’s soul-deep. You showed me a part of myself I thought was gone forever. You woke me up.” She saw her words land, inflating him, binding him tighter to her. “What we do together, what we share… that’s our secret world. Nothing can touch that.”
He nodded, his expression softening, bought by her praise and her differentiation. “Okay. Rules. I can do rules.”
“Good boy,” she whispered. The two words were a spell. She saw him shudder. “Now, tell me. What are you thinking about right now?”
He swallowed. “The breakfast room. Your hand. What you said to me.”
“And what did I do after?” she prompted, her own body warming, responding to the phantom ache.
“You took me into that dark room,” he said, his voice gaining a low, hesitant confidence. “And you let me fuck you.”
“Language, sweetheart,” she chided automatically, a pure, ingrained reflex. Then she smiled, a slow, wicked smile he could see even in the poor light. “But yes. I did. And I loved every second of it. I’m sitting here now, swinging on this old swing, and I can still feel where you were inside me. I’m sore in the very best way.”
On the screen, Sam’s eyes closed. He was picturing it. He was there with her. “I wish I was there,” he groaned.
“You are,” she murmured. “In all the ways that matter, you’re right here with me.” She let the silence stretch, filled only by the crickets and the distant whisper of traffic. “Now, you should get some sleep. Text me your address and I’ll be over in the morning, right after You do some job-hunting. Be a good man for me.”
“I will.” The promise was fervent, “I love you mom”
“I love you too baby… see you tomorrow around 10”