Drey set his fork down. "There's a place," he said, his voice lower now. "The Alvernia, on the west side. It's... quiet."

Poppy dabbed her lips with the napkin, a deliberate and slow motion. "A hotel?" she asked, her green eyes holding his. "Just the kind of quiet I had in mind, Uncle Drey?"

He shifted in his seat. "It's just discreet," he muttered, unable to look away from the freckles dusted across her nose. "We could talk."

"We could," Poppy agreed, a smile playing on her lips as she leaned forward just enough. The dress he’d bought for his wife tightened across his niece's chest. "Do they have rooms with a view? We could just enjoy a talk and a view, or we could just give in and fuck."

His pulse thudded heavily in his ears, drowning out the mall's distant hum. "I think… that we should," he heard himself say, surrendering. 

The walk to the car was silent and charged. He fumbled with the keys, his hands unsteady. Poppy slid into the passenger seat, the new dress riding up her thighs with intent and left uncorrected.

Poppy spoke softly when her uncle got in and eyed her. "Since you bought the dress, Uncle Drey." She ran a hand over the fine fabric stretched across her lap. "Seems only fair you get a proper look at it and what's below it." She pulled the hem of her dress up to reveal her panties, the hint of her lips imprinted and moist on the fabric.

The drive was a blur of streetlights and his deepened breathing. He parked, almost abandoned in a shadowed space.

A young and bored lad on reception handed him a keycard without eye contact. It was clear to Poppy they knew each other; her mind wandered and asked if her uncle had brought her mother to this place.

"Usual Room 312," the clerk said and answered one of Poppy's questions, just the question of if it was her mum he had brought before; she assumed that the similarity between her and her mum was the reason the man didn’t look up.

The hallway was deserted; Poppy stepped out of the lift first, leading the way with the sway of her hips, fully signalling intent as he followed closely.

The hallway’s industrial carpet swallowed their footsteps. Poppy stopped before the faded brass numbers: 312. She turned, her back now against the door, and watched him approach.

He missed the reader twice, the red light blinking a dull refusal. A shaky breath escaped him, loud in the confined space.

Poppy leaned against the door frame, a slow, deliberate shift of her weight. She watched his struggle for a moment, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. Then she reached over and clasped his trembling hand, her skin cool against his feverish heat.

She guided his hand with a firm, steady pressure. The card slid home. A green light glowed, accompanied by a definitive click, and she pushed the door open. The faint scent of old perfume and cleaning solutions drifted out.

"Cosy," she said, her voice flat.

Drey closed the door, a vault sealing it. The only light came from a brass lamp on the nightstand and the silent, flickering television casting blue ghosts across the ceiling.

Poppy walked to the rickety bed, her back to him.

“Come here,” she said, not asking. 

Drey’s feet finally unstuck from the floor. He crossed the room, the distance closing quickly.

He stood behind her. She leant her head back, his arms around her, her breath rebounding off his neck. “Kiss me,” she whispered, her tone leaving no room for his doubt. "Please," she stopped herself from asking to be kissed like he kisses her mother.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision of heat and mint and the waxy taste of her lipstick. His hands rubbed and pawed at her through the thin fabric of her dress as her own arms reached behind her and held him.

When she finally broke away, her breathing was uneven. “See?” she said, her thumb wiping a smudge of red from his lip. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She stepped back, putting a foot of charged air between them. Her eyes travelled over his flushed face and his rumpled shirt. She hopped back and onto the bed, pulling her dress up and her panties to the side, showing him her tidy pubic hair and pussy.

"I really don't think you are done eating tonight," she teased and invited him.

Drey couldn’t speak, words stuck in his throat.

Poppy’s smile was wide. She reached behind her own back and propped herself up with a stack of pillows. "Come on, eat up."

Drey eagerly stepped forward and knelt at the bed, his head travelling between her legs.

Her body arched off the mattress. “Oh, yes," she breathed as soon as she felt his hot breath on her wetness, her fingers threading into his thinning hair, claiming. “So good.”

His tongue moved with a practised, relentless rhythm that made her thighs tremble. She gasped, the room's dated, stale air catching in her throat as a wave of heat surged through her. Was he this good through thorough practice with her mom?

The thought should have sickened her. Instead, it coiled hot and sharp in her belly, pushing her hips harder against his mouth. “There,” she flinched as he narrowed in on a sensitive spot, her voice ragged, fingers tightening in his hair.

He obeyed, a low groan vibrating against her. She could feel the scratch of his stubble, the wet, focused pressure. Her back arched, a silent plea for more.

“Don’t stop; keep doing that." She trembled against his motion, the command dissolving into a whimpered plea. His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her as she began to shake.

Every flick and curl of his tongue felt calculated and expert. Expert and practised, then woven into skill, Poppy was losing herself in the building tension.

A climax tore through her, suddenly and unexpectedly quick. She cried out, the sound muffled by her own arm pressed against her mouth as she shook violently to escape his still pleasuring mouth. Waves of pleasure pulsed, and for the first time, I was less than in control of tonight’s intent.

Drey finally lifted his head, his breathing harsh. He looked up at her, his face glistening, his expression raw and questioning. Poppy met his gaze, her chest still heaving, and managed a slow, deliberate smile.

“Wow,” she whispered, the word leaving her like a sigh. She tugged gently on his hair, guiding him back up the bed toward her. “Your turn.”

"Let me wash my face," he said, but it was no use; she was pulling him and twisting him onto the bed all in one forced motion.

"Not a chance. I want to taste myself on you when you fuck me missionary, but as I said, your turn first," Poppy said, fishing out his hard cock.

She lowered her head, her long red hair falling like a curtain around them. Her tongue, slick and warm, traced a slow, deliberate path from the base of his cock to the tip, collecting the faint, musky salt of his skin.

Drey choked on a gasp, his hands flailing before gripping the cheap bedspread.

“Easy,” she murmured, her breath hot against him, then took him fully into her mouth.

The wet, tight heat was absolute. His head slammed back against the mattress and the missing pillows.

Her rhythmic, exploring pressure, one hand cupping him below while the other braced itself on his thigh. A soft, thoughtful hum vibrated through him, as if he were tasting a complex wine.

"Christ", his voice shredded and rough.

She pulled off with a soft pop, glancing up through her long lashes. “Just getting you ready for me,” she said, her tone playful, then swirled her tongue around the head. “You like that view from there, or this one?”

He could only groan, his hips giving an involuntary jerk as she took him deep again, her eyes on his with purpose until she could not take him deeper and her eyelids shuttered in quick succession, her lashes fluttering.

When she finally released him, he was throbbing and at her mercy. Poppy wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes tearing with satisfied delight.

“There,” she said, climbing over him, the dress bunched at her waist. “All prepared.” She said as she guided him inside her with a sure, confident motion; they both moaned out in unison.

Her body stiffening above his for a single suspended moment before she began to relax and move deliberately with a roll of her hips that made the mattress springs creak below them. His shirt was rough as her fingers grasped it, thankful for the purchase she got from the hold, her own dress a canopy over them.

“Your dick is so, so good,” she moaned above him, her freckled cheeks flushed. She placed one of her palms flat on his chest, fingers splayed over his rumpled cotton shirt, using him for more leverage as she established a rising rhythm that preferred only her own needs. She saw the desperate clench of his jaw and pulse.

He could only stare up, mesmerised by the sight of her, this vibrant niece in a dress meant for his wife.

“Poppy,” he groaned, his hands finding her hips, his grip tight over the fabric.

“Yes,” she corrected sharply, not breaking her pace. She leaned forward and flicked her long hair to one side down her shoulder, bringing her mouth close to his ear, her hair a fragrant curtain.

The cheap headboard began a rhythmic, hollow thump against the wall in time with their changed motion. She rode him with a focused intensity, her eyes locked on his, watching every flicker of shame and pleasure cross his face. She felt a thin sheen of sweat develop over her chest, over her cleavage.

His breathing became ragged, pleading gasps. “I’m not… I can’t…”

“You will,” she stated, her own breath coming in short, sharp hitches now, the clinical control starting to fracture.

She drove down harder, faster, chasing her own second peak, using his body to find it as her lips met his, pressing herself into a deep, passionate kiss. Drey moaned into the kiss, a raw, guttural sound of surrender. Poppy grabbed his head, her fingers tangling in his damp, curling hair, holding his mouth to hers as his hips stuttered beneath her.

“Do it,” she whispered against his lips, her breath hot and shared. "Cum inside me, right now.” The command, uttered between deep, consuming kisses, shattered his last shred of control. His body seized, a sharp, helpless tremor, and he spilt into her with a choked cry.

The hot, pulsing release triggered her own. Poppy cried out, her body clenching around him in rhythmic waves, a second, sharper climax tearing through her over his spurting cock. She collapsed onto his chest, their sweat-slick skin sticking together, the only sounds their ragged, harmonising breaths and the silent flicker of the television.

The dress was a ruined, bunched mess around her waist. Drey’s hands, which had been gripping her hips, now lay limp and trembling at his sides. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, the reality of the room, of her weight on him, crashing down with clarity.

Poppy nuzzled into her uncle, her voice muffled. She murmured, her fingertip tracing a slow circle on his damp shirt. “That was so much better than just talking, but I fully intend to do missionary NEXT time.”