Chapter 28: Steamy
The first thing Lori became aware of was the profound, saturating warmth. It wasn’t just the heat of the body wrapped around hers, though that was considerable. It was a deep, internal glow, a contentment that had settled into her marrow during the night. The second thing was the gentle, insistent pressure, a familiar fullness that even in the haze of sleep made her sigh and press back.
Colt was still inside her. He had softened hours ago, but in the slow, unconscious shifts of sleep, he had grown hard again, nestled firmly in the warm, pliant clutch of her ass. He wasn’t moving, just existing there, a part of her. The early morning light, pale and winter-thin, filtered through the curtains, painting the rumpled sheets in shades of gray and gold.
She felt his breath stir her hair. His arm was a heavy, comforting weight across her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her lower belly. She smiled, eyes still closed, and flexed the muscle around him, a slow, intimate squeeze.
A low groan vibrated against her back. “Morning,” his voice was rough with sleep, a gravelly whisper in her ear.
“Morning, baby,” she whispered back. She arched her spine slightly, feeling him slide an infinitesimal degree deeper. “You’re… eager.”
“Always for you.” He nuzzled the nape of her neck, his lips warm. “Woke up like this. Dreamt I was still fucking you. Then I realized I kind of was.”
He began to move, not with the driven urgency of the night before, but with a lazy, luxurious rhythm that matched the slow unfurling of the day. A slow withdrawal, an even slower return, a deep, rolling grind that had less to do with climax and more to do with connection. It was a reaffirmation, a quiet ‘good morning’ in the oldest language they knew.
“We slept like this all night,” she murmured, her hand coming up to cover his on her stomach, lacing their fingers together.
“Best sleep I ever get,” he said. He kissed her shoulder, his hips maintaining that gentle, rocking cadence. “Feel you around me. Know you’re safe. Know you’re mine.”
They lay like that for long, quiet minutes, simply existing in the feeling. The ranch outside was silent, the world holding its breath in the frosty dawn. There were no chores shouting for attention today, no distant roar of Marty’s truck coming up the drive. It was Boxing Day, a stolen pocket of emptiness, a day that belonged utterly to them.
After a while, the need for a more substantial connection began to simmer under the lazy warmth. Colt’s strokes grew slightly longer, more defined. The wet, soft sound of their joining grew more audible in the quiet room. Lori’s breathing hitched. She pushed back against him, meeting his slow thrusts.
“I’m all sticky,” she whispered, a playful note entering her voice. “From last night. You made quite a mess of me.”
“I did,” he agreed, his own voice thickening. His hand slid down from her belly, through her damp curls, finding her clit. It was swollen, sensitive. He pressed the pad of his thumb against it in a slow, circular motion that matched the pace of his cock in her ass. “I’ll clean you up. But first…”
“First what?” she breathed, her hips beginning to move with more purpose.
“First I want to feel you come like this,” he said, his breath hot on her ear. “With my cock buried in your ass and my fingers on your pussy. I want to feel you clamp down on me. I want you wet and screaming for it before we even get out of this bed.”
His words, crude and direct, ignited the kindling of pleasure he’d been carefully stoking. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the deep, stretching fullness behind, the precise, electric friction in front. She was utterly pinned between them, a prisoner of his exquisite attention.
“Colt…” His name was a prayer, a plea.
“That’s it,” he urged, his thrusts gaining a hint of force. “Let go. Come for me, Mom. Show me how much you love your son’s cock in your ass.”
It was the permission she needed. The coil, wound so tightly from the slow, relentless pleasure, snapped. A wave of climax crashed through her, silent at first, a breathtaking seizure of her entire body. Her back arched violently, her head pressing back into his shoulder. Her ass clenched around him in rhythmic, milking spasms, and a high, thin cry finally tore from her throat as the vibrations shook her.
Colt held her through it, his own rhythm stuttering as her tight channel massaged him unbearably. He kept his thumb on her clit, gentling the pressure but not stopping, drawing out the pulses of her orgasm until she was a trembling, boneless heap against him.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, kissing her temple, her cheek. “So fucking beautiful.”
He slowly pulled out of her, and she whimpered at the loss, the sudden, empty coldness. He rolled her onto her back, looking down at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes glassy. He kissed her, deep and slow, tasting sleep and herself on her lips.
“Bath time,” he said softly.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, a tall, powerful silhouette against the window. He bent and scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. She looped her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his chest, still humming from her release.
The master bathroom was her sanctuary. Colt shouldered the door open and carried her inside, setting her down gently on the plush rug. He reached over and started the water in the large, glass-walled shower, adjusting it until steam began to billow, clouding the transparent panels.
The room was soon filled with the sound of cascading water and the calming scent of lavender from the expensive bath salts she kept in a crystal jar. He took her hand and led her into the shower enclosure.
The water was perfect—hot, almost scalding, pounding down from the wide rainfall showerhead in a relentless, cleansing torrent. It sluiced over their bodies, washing away the dried sweat and spend of the night, the evidence of their love-making. Lori tipped her head back, letting the water stream through her blonde hair, flattening it to her skull and shoulders. Colt watched, his gaze heavy and possessive, as the water traced the curves of her body, beading on her nipples, running in rivulets down the valley between her breasts, over the soft swell of her stomach, and through the blonde curls at the junction of her thighs.
He took the bar of soap, a creamy, sandalwood-scented thing, and began to lather his hands. He started with her shoulders, his strong hands working the muscles, kneading the tension from her. He soaped her back, his fingers tracing the line of her spine, sliding down to massage the full, rounded cheeks of her ass. He spent extra time there, his soapy fingers slipping into the cleft, gently cleaning the tender, well-used pucker.
“Mmm,” she hummed, leaning into his touch. “That feels incredible.”
“My job,” he murmured, turning her to face him. He lathered her breasts, his hands sliding over the heavy, slippery globes, circling her nipples until they were hard, pebbled peaks under his palms. He leaned down and took one into his mouth, sucking hard, the hot water streaming over his head and her breast. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his wet hair.
He continued his ministrations, soaping her stomach, her hips. He dropped to his knees in the shower spray, his hands sliding down her thighs, then back up the insides. He looked up at her, water running down his face, his expression one of open worship and burning hunger.
“Open for me,” he said, his voice a low command barely audible over the water.
She shifted her feet apart on the textured tile floor. His soapy fingers found her pussy, stroking through the folds, circling her entrance, then moving up to her clit. He washed her with a thorough, intimate care that was more arousing than any overt touch could be. He cleaned every part of her, his touch firm and reverent.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice shaky.
He handed her the soap. She lathered her own hands and began on his chest, smoothing them over the defined planes of his pecs, the hard ridges of his abdomen. She took his cock in her hand, slicking it with soap, stroking him from root to tip with a slow, knowing rhythm. It jumped in her hand, thickening, lengthening, until it stood proud and heavy, the water sheeting off its flushed head.
He was breathing hard, his hands braced against the glass wall on either side of her. “Lori…”
She dropped the soap and turned around, placing her hands flat on the fogged glass. She looked over her shoulder, water streaming down her face. “I’m clean now. But I feel empty again.”
It was all the invitation he needed. He stepped close, his body pressing against her back, his wet skin sliding against hers. His cock nestled into the cleft of her ass. He reached for the bottle of shower gel, pouring a generous amount into his hand. He slicked himself thoroughly, then spread the cool, slippery liquid over her rear entrance, his fingers working it into her with practiced ease.
The glass was cool and smooth against her palms and her breasts, which were pressed flat against it. The contrast of the hot water on her back and the chill of the glass on her front was exquisite. She could see nothing but vague, watery shapes through the fogged partition, but she knew their reflection—a son taking his mother from behind—would be a blurred, anonymous silhouette to any outside eye. The secrecy, the sheer taboo of it, sent a fresh thrill through her.
He positioned the head of his cock at her entrance. He didn’t ask. He simply pushed.
The intrusion was slow, relentless, and breathtakingly deep. The water and gel made the passage impossibly smooth, but the stretch was still monumental, a burning, filling conquest that made her cry out, the sound echoing in the tiled space. He sank into her to the hilt in one continuous, steady motion, until his hips were flush against her ass.
“Oh, God… Colt…” she moaned, her forehead resting against the glass.
He stilled, buried completely, letting her adjust. His hands came around to grasp her breasts, squeezing them, pulling them away from the glass so he could pluck and roll her nipples. “Fuck,” he breathed into her wet hair. “Your ass is fucking heaven. So hot. So tight. Even after all night.”
He began to move. Not the frantic, driving pace of raw lust, but the same deep, possessive rhythm he’d started the day with. Long, slow withdrawals until just the tip remained, then deep, penetrating thrusts that seemed to reach the very core of her. Each stroke was a claim. Each grunt from his lips was a psalm.
“This,” he growled, his voice rough with emotion as much as need. “This is where you belong. My cock in your ass. Your tits in my hands. Taking what’s yours. Giving me what’s mine.”
“Yes,” she chanted, pushing back against him, meeting each deep drive. “It’s yours. It’s all yours. Only yours. No one else, ever. Just my son. Just my boy.”
Her words shattered something in him. The careful, slow pace fractured. His thrusts became harder, faster, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet, meaty sound that competed with the drumming shower. The glass rattled slightly in its frame with the force of his movements.
One hand left her breast and tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her throat. He leaned over her, his teeth grazing her shoulder. “Say it again,” he demanded, fucking her with deep, punishing strokes.
“My son!” she cried out, the words ripped from her. “You’re my son and you’re fucking my ass! You’re breeding your mother’s ass!”
It was the most depraved thing she’d ever said, and it sent them both spiraling. Colt roared, a raw, animal sound, and his release tore through him. He slammed into her, hilt-deep, and held, his body rigid. She felt the hot, pulsing rush deep inside her, jet after jet filling a place no man ever should. It went on and on, a seemingly endless flood, and she came again, her own climax triggered by the feeling of his possession and the filthy, perfect truth of their union.
He collapsed against her, his weight pressing her into the cool glass, his breath coming in ragged gasps against her neck. The water beat down on them, washing over their spent, trembling bodies.
For a long time, they didn’t move. They just stood, connected, under the endless pour. Finally, Colt softened and slipped out of her. He turned her around, pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly under the spray. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her lips.
“I love you,” he said, the words simple and monumental.
“I love you, more than anything,” she whispered back.
They finished washing in a quiet, tender haze. He helped her shampoo her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp. She rinsed the soap from his back. It was domestic, intimate, a shared chore that felt as meaningful as what had preceded it.
Stepping out onto the bath mat, they toweled each other dry with soft, oversized towels. Colt buffed her hair, then wrapped the towel around her like a robe. He looked at her, his eyes soft.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starving,” she admitted. “You worked up an appetite.”
He grinned, a boyish, lopsided smile that made her heart ache. “I’ll make breakfast. You wanna just… be lazy today?”
“Absolutely,” she said, following him back into the bedroom. They pulled on soft clothes—sweatpants for him, a long, worn t-shirt of his for her. It swam on her, the collar slipping off one shoulder.
Down in the kitchen, the silence of the empty ranch was a palpable thing. Colt moved with an easy efficiency, cracking eggs, frying bacon, toasting bread. Lori sat at the island, her chin in her hands, watching him. The morning sun streamed in, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. It was peaceful. Perfect.
“Marty’s probably still asleep,” Lori mused, sipping the orange juice Colt placed in front of her. “Or off visiting her sister in town.”
“Good,” Colt said, flipping an egg. “Means we have the whole place to ourselves.” He glanced at her, a slow heat returning to his eyes. “No interruptions.”
Lori felt a corresponding warmth bloom low in her belly. “What did you have in mind?”
He brought two plates heaped with food over to the island and sat beside her. “I was thinking,” he said, spearing a piece of bacon. “We’ve christened most rooms in this house. Our room. The living room. The kitchen counter that one time. The shower, obviously.” He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “But there’s still the study. Your big desk. The leather couch in there.”
Lori’s breath hitched. The study was her formal space, where she handled ranch paperwork, a room of responsibility and quiet order. The thought of being bent over that polished oak desk, of staining that expensive leather…
“And the barn,” Colt continued, his voice dropping. “The hayloft. We haven’t… not since I was a teenager and too scared to really do anything.”
A vivid memory flashed in Lori’s mind: a fumbling, frantic groping in the dusty hay, all desperate kisses and clumsy hands, ending with him coming in his jeans. They’d been so nervous, so new to the terrifying, wonderful path they were choosing.
“It’s cold in the barn,” she said, but it wasn’t a refusal.
“I’d keep you warm,” he said simply. He reached over and ran a finger down the bare skin of her shoulder exposed by the drooping collar of his shirt. “I wanna fuck you everywhere, Mom. I wanna claim every inch of this place, so no matter where you are, you remember who you belong to.”
The crude, possessive words, spoken so calmly over breakfast, sent a jolt of pure lust straight to her core. She shifted on the stool, suddenly very aware of the tender ache between her legs, the deeper, more profound ache where he’d taken her last and first this morning.
“The study first,” she said, her voice barely audible. “While the light is good. I want… I want to see everything.”
Colt’s smile was dark and promising. He finished his last bite of egg. “Hurry up and eat,” he said.