I never thought the smell of pine and old books could feel so dangerous.

Snow was coming down thick that night outside Whispered Pages, our family bookstore on Church Street in Burlington. The flakes drifted past the streetlamps, soft and relentless, turning the world quiet. Inside, the lights were low, the tree glowed in the corner, and the last customer had just left. I was slumped at the counter, pretending to study while Mom and Dad moved through closing tasks with that easy rhythm they’ve always had—her laugh low when he brushed past, his hand lingering on her hip a second longer than necessary.

They called me to the reading nook. Fire crackling, cider steaming in my mug. That’s when they said it.

“We’ve been thinking about you,” Mom said, voice gentle, eyes steady. “About how stuck you seem. And about us—how we keep things alive after all these years.” Dad’s hand rested on her knee, thumb tracing slow circles. “We’ve explored fantasies, Jared. Those that include family. Consensual. Loving. We’re offering you closeness, if you want it. No pressure.”

The words hit like wine going down too fast—warm, dizzying, wrong, and right at once. I told them I needed to think about it. That night I barely slept, childhood stars on my ceiling watching while forbidden images looped: Mom’s curves under her sweater, Dad’s quiet strength. Guilt battled want, but want was winning.

The morning brought bright snow and the smell of coffee, bacon, and cinnamon rolls. I came downstairs, nervous, pulse already quick. Mom stood at the stove in a soft robe, hair loose, humming Billie Holiday. Dad looked up from the table, calm as ever.

“Sleep okay?” he asked.

“Some,” I said. Then, quieter, “I’m curious.”

Mom’s smile was slow, knowing. “Then let’s see where the day takes us.”

The store opened late because of the snow. Customers trickled in—locals hunting gifts, Mrs. Leclerc from next door teasing Mom about the steamy romance display. Every brush of hands when we wrapped books together sent sparks up my arms. Each shared glance with Dad carried weight.

We closed early. Upstairs, the apartment smelled of roasting garlic and red wine. Dad poured glasses; we settled by the fire. Nina Simone’s voice filled the room, smoky and intimate.

Mom sat between us. “May I kiss you?”

I nodded. Her lips met mine, soft at first, then deeper—warm, tasting of wine and spice. My hand found her breast through the sweater; she sighed into my mouth. Dad watched, eyes dark, then pulled her sweater off and unclasped her bra. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tight. I took one in my mouth, tongue swirling, while Dad took the other. She moaned, fingers threading our hair.

We moved to the bedroom—red flannel sheets, candles flickering, snow tapping the windows. Clothes fell away. Mom stood in only lace panties, then none at all. I knelt, tasting her—slick heat, swollen clit, her thighs trembling around my ears as I licked deep, fingers curling inside until she came hard against my tongue.

She pulled me onto the bed, sank onto me slowly, tight, wet, perfect. Dad knelt behind her, hands spreading, tongue tracing where we joined. Then he pressed into her from behind, careful, deliberate. She gasped, caught between us, rocking in a rhythm that built fast and fierce. Sweat slicked skin; her walls clenched, pulling us both over the edge together.

We collapsed, tangled, breathless, snow sealing the world outside.

Later, we showered—steam thick, hands soaping slow, mouths lazy. Dinner was shared at the kitchen table, with bites eaten naked and laughing. Night deepened; wind howled. We returned to bed, exploring slower—Mom’s mouth on me while Dad took her from behind, then switching, my turn inside her slick with him, the forbidden heat overwhelming.

Morning light was gray and soft. I woke to Mom riding me gently, Dad’s fingers teasing her clit until we came quietly and rolling.

We ate a late breakfast—pancakes, strong coffee—talking really for the first time in months. About school, about feeling lost, about how this closeness felt like finding solid ground again.

Outside, Burlington lay buried and beautiful. Inside, the apartment smelled of sex and breakfast and woodsmoke. The bookstore waited downstairs, but we lingered upstairs, touching, planning nothing, needing everything.

It started as an indecent proposal. It became the warmest winter I’ve ever known.

Days blurred into a quiet rhythm after that first snow-sealed night. The bookstore stayed busy enough with locals seeking escape from the cold, but upstairs, our world shifted into something private and electric. Mornings began slow—tangled sheets, lazy mouths, hands mapping skin like we were memorizing new territory. Afternoons carried stolen moments: Mom’s hip pressing deliberately in narrow aisles, Dad locking the back door for quick, desperate thrusts against the desk.

Evenings stretched long and indulgent. One night, after wine and a slow dinner, we migrated to the bedroom early. Firelight flickered through the half-open door, casting warm shadows across the red flannel sheets. Mom knelt between us on the rug, eyes dark and hungry, lips already swollen from earlier kisses.

She looked up at Dad first, hand wrapping his thick length, stroking slowly while her tongue traced the head—teasing, circling, tasting the bead of salt there. He groaned low, fingers threading her hair but not pushing, letting her set the pace. Then she turned to me, breath hot against my skin, mouth opening to take me in deep—wet heat, tongue pressing flat along the underside, suction perfect and relentless.

Back and forth she moved, graceful, greedy—Dad in her mouth while her hand pumped me slick, then me sliding between her lips while she stroked him firm and steady. The room filled with wet sounds, heavy breaths, and the soft creak of the bed when Dad leaned back against it. She hummed around us, vibrations shooting straight through, eyes locked upward, watching our faces tighten.

I felt the build first—sharp, urgent. “Mom—” I warned, voice rough.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, she took me deeper, throat relaxing, swallowing around me as I came hard, pulsing hot across her tongue. She moaned, milking every drop, swallowing greedily before turning immediately to Dad. Her mouth sealed over him, hand twisting at the base, drawing him in until his hips jerked. He cursed softly, fingers tightening in her hair as he spilled—thick, endless—down her throat. She took it all, throat working, lips glistening, not spilling a single drop.

When she finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, a thin strand connected her lip to his for a second before breaking. She licked it away slowly, deliberately, then smiled up at us—satisfied, radiant, lips red and swollen.

We pulled her up between us, kissing her deep, tasting ourselves on her tongue, hands roaming lazy and possessive. Snow tapped steadily at the windows; wind howled around the eaves. The world outside could wait.

Later, tangled and sated, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Campus housing: a single room open for spring—cheap, available now.

I stared at the glow in the dark, heart thudding suddenly. Freedom. Distance.

Mom shifted closer, hand sliding warm across my stomach. Dad’s arm draped heavily over her waist, breath steady against her neck.

I silenced the phone and set it face down.

Not yet.

But the message waited, unread, pulling faint at the edges of this perfect, forbidden warmth.

And I wondered how long we could keep pretending the outside world wouldn’t come knocking.