The silence in the bathroom was deafening, broken only by the hiss of the shower spray hitting the tile floor. Steam was already beginning to curl in the air, veiling her in a soft, ethereal mist. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the throbbing ache between my legs. She hadn’t been joking. She hadn’t been subtle. The invitation was as clear as the hungry look in her eyes.

She reached behind her back, her fingers deftly working the knot of her bikini top. The scrap of fabric came away, and she let it fall to the damp floor with a soft, wet sound. Her breasts were free, full, and heavy, their peaks taut and dusky pink in the humid air. My breath hitched. She was magnificent.

This is really happening.

Her hands went to her hips, hooking into the sides of the bikini bottoms. She bent slightly, a graceful, deliberate movement, and peeled the last barrier away. She stood before me, utterly naked, water beginning to bead on her sun-kissed skin. Her body was a testament to a life well-lived, with curves that spoke of strength and softness in equal measure. A dark, neat triangle of hair rested at the junction of her thighs.

“Your turn,” she said, her voice a low, throaty command that brooked no argument.

My fingers, suddenly clumsy, fumbled with the button of my shorts. The damp denim resisted for a moment before giving way. I pushed them down my hips, my erection springing free, standing proud and urgent. I kicked the shorts away, standing as naked as she was, exposed and wanting.

A slow, utterly delighted smile spread across her face. “My, my. Your mother didn’t tell me you were so… blessed.” She stepped into the shower and held out her hand. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I followed her into the stream of hot water. It cascaded over my head and shoulders, washing the dust and sweat from my skin in rivulets. She reached for a bottle of body wash, pouring a generous amount into her palm. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood filled the steamy enclosure.

She didn’t speak. Instead, she placed her slick, soapy hands on my chest. Oh, god. Her touch was electric, sending jolts of pure need straight to my core. Her palms slid over my pecs, circling my nipples, making them pebble instantly under her ministrations. She worked slowly, methodically, lathering my torso, my arms, my back as I turned for her. Every inch of skin she touched felt hyper-aware, alive with a desperate sensitivity.

When she finished my back, I turned to face her again. Her eyes were dark pools of desire, fixed on me. Her soapy hands slid down my stomach, leaving trails of fire in their wake. My abdominal muscles clenched involuntarily, a tremor running through me. She watched my reaction, her smile turning predatory.

Her fingers traced the line of my hip, then dipped lower, finally closing around the base of my shaft. A sharp, guttural gasp escaped my lips. Her grip was firm, knowing. She began to stroke me, her soap-slick hand sliding up and down my length with a rhythm that was both tender and demanding. The water sluiced over us, mixing with the soap, creating a slick, erotic friction that was almost too much to bear.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the shower’s spray. “Seeing you up in that attic, all young and strong and sweating… it drove me wild.”

I could only moan in response, my head falling back against the cool tile as pleasure, hot and coiling, built deep within me. Her thumb swirled over the sensitive head, spreading the beads of moisture that gathered there, and my knees almost buckled.

Then she sank to her knees before me.

The sight was utterly implausible, a fantasy made wet, steamy reality. This beautiful, experienced woman, on her knees for me. She looked up, holding my gaze as her tongue darted out, tracing a slow, hot path from root to tip. My whole body shuddered.

She took me into her mouth.

The heat was indescribable, a wet, velvet inferno that engulfed me. Her lips formed a perfect seal around me, and she began to move her head, taking me deeper with each pass. Her tongue worked miracles, swirling and pressing against the most sensitive parts of me. One of her hands cupped and gently massaged my sac, while the other gripped my hip, holding me steady.

I tangled my hands in her wet, raven hair, not guiding, just feeling. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust and she accepted it, a muffled sound of pleasure vibrating around me. The world narrowed to this shower stall, to the sound of water, to the feeling of her mouth on me, drawing me closer and closer to the edge.

I was panting, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. “I’m… I’m close,” I managed to choke out.

But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she looked up, her eyes meeting mine, and she took me even deeper, her invitation clear. The visual, the sensation, the overwhelming reality of it all sent me spiraling over the edge. Pleasure, white-hot and absolute, ripped through me. I cried out, my release pulsing into her warm, welcoming mouth. She took it all, swallowing gently, her hands stroking my trembling thighs until the last shudders subsided.

I slumped against the wall, spent and breathless. She rose gracefully, water streaming down her body, a look of serene satisfaction on her face. She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear, her voice a husky whisper.

“Now… it’s your turn to wash me.” She took my hand and placed it on the slick curve of her breast. “Start here.”

Her whisper is a hot brand against my ear, a command and a promise all at once. My hand, still tingling from my own release, rests on the slick, impossibly soft curve of her breast. Her nipple is a hard pebble against my palm, and beneath it, I feel the frantic, thrilling rhythm of her heart. It matches my own. She’s as affected by this as I am.

The body wash is slippery between us. I pour more into my hand, the jasmine and sandalwood scent rising with the steam, intoxicating. My movements are hesitant at first, my touch unsure as I slide my soapy palm over the swell of her breast. She leans into it, a soft, encouraging sigh escaping her lips.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Just like that.”

Her approval is a spark to kindling. My confidence grows with every circle my fingers make, lathering the soap into her skin. I worship her with my hands, tracing the contour of her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, the incredible fullness of her breasts. I take her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, rolling them gently, and she arches her back, pushing them more firmly into my touch. A low, throaty moan vibrates through her, lost in the sound of the shower. This is for me. These sounds are because of me.

My soapy hands glide down the tight plane of her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver under my slick fingers. I knead her hips, the generous curves of her ass, and she pushes back against my palms, a silent demand for more pressure, more touch, more. My own arousal, which had ebbed into a warm, satisfied hum, roars back to life with a vengeance. I’m hard again, achingly so, pressed against the small of her back.

She must feel it. She turns her head, her cheek resting against the cool tile, and looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with a need that mirrors my own. That hungry, predatory smile plays on her lips again.

“You’re doing so well,” she purrs. “But don’t stop there. I’m not nearly clean enough.”

She guides my hands lower, her fingers interlacing with mine, directing them between her legs. My breath catches. The hair there is soft and wet, and as my fingers slide through the slickness of soap and her own excitement, a shudder wracks her entire body. She’s so wet. I explore her tentatively, my touch light, learning the shape of her, the hidden, swollen folds.

“Deeper,” she commands, her voice ragged.

I obey, slipping a finger inside her. She’s hot and unbelievably tight, clenching around me instantly. A guttural cry is torn from her throat, and she grinds herself back onto my hand. I add a second finger, curving them, and her knees seem to buckle. She braces herself with her forearms against the shower wall, her head bowed. Water cascades over her raven hair, streaming down the beautiful, vulnerable line of her spine.

“Oh, god… yes,” she pants. “Right there. Don’t you stop.”

I stroke her, my fingers moving in a rhythm she sets with the rocking of her hips. Her pleasure is a palpable thing in the steam-filled air, a tension coiling tighter and tighter. I can feel the proof of it coating my fingers, hear it in her broken, breathy moans. I watch, mesmerized, as my hand moves between her legs, bringing this incredible woman to the brink.

Suddenly, she stills. Her hand flies back, gripping my wrist, stilling my movements. She’s trembling. “Stop. Stop, or I’ll come right now,” she gasps. “And that’s not how I want this to end.”

She turns around fully now, pressing her front against the cool tiles. Her skin is flushed a deep, rosy pink from the heat and arousal. She reaches back, her hands finding my hips, and pulls me firmly against her. My erection, thick and straining, slides between the cheeks of her ass. The sensation is electric, maddening.

“I want to feel you,” she whispers, her voice husky with raw need. “All of you. Now.”

She guides my hands again, placing them on her waist. Her skin is like hot silk under my fingers. Then, with a grace that steals the air from my lungs, she bends over, presenting herself to me. The sight is utterly primal, completely erotic. The water runs in rivulets down the perfect, rounded globes of her ass, down the backs of her thighs.

“Take me,” she says, the words a challenge and a plea.

My hands are shaking. I position myself, the head of my cock nudging against her slick, waiting heat. I push forward, just an inch, and we both groan in unison. So tight. So impossibly, perfectly tight and hot. I grip her hips, my fingers pressing into her soft flesh, and thrust forward, burying myself inside her in one smooth, deep stroke.

She cries out, a sharp, ecstatic sound that echoes off the tiles. Her inner muscles clamp down on me like a velvet fist, and for a moment, I can’t move, can’t breathe, can only feel the overwhelming sensation of being buried deep inside her.

“Oh, fuck…” I gasp, the words torn from me.

“Move,” she demands, her voice strained. “Please, move.”

I pull back almost all the way, savoring the exquisite friction, before driving into her again. And again. I set a slow, deep rhythm, each thrust a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure. The slap of our wet skin mingles with the spray of the shower and our ragged breathing. My world has narrowed to this: the feeling of her body yielding to mine, the way her back arches, the desperate, hungry sounds she makes with every inward stroke.

I lean over her, bracing one hand on the wall beside her head, my other hand sliding around her hip, finding the wet, swollen nub of her clit. As I continue to thrust into her, deep and steady, I circle that sensitive spot with my thumb.

She shatters instantly.

Her orgasm rips through her with a violent, beautiful intensity. She screams, a raw, uninhibited sound of pure ecstasy as her body convulses around me, milking my length with rhythmic, irresistible pulses. The sensation is too much, too perfect. My own control evaporates.

I drive into her one last, deep time, my own release crashing over me. I cry out her name, a broken shout, as I spill myself inside her, my body shuddering with the force of it. Pleasure, white-hot and absolute, floods every nerve ending. I collapse over her, my chest against her back, both of us trembling, held up only by the wall and the last of our fading strength.

The water hammers down on us, washing over our heaving bodies. I can feel the frantic beat of her heart against my forearm. We stay like that for a long moment, joined, breathless, utterly spent.

Slowly, she tilts her head back, until her lips are near my ear. Her voice is a wrecked, satisfied whisper. “Now… that is how you clean a woman.”

We stand there for a long moment under the cooling spray, our bodies still joined, our breaths slowly returning to normal. The water washes away the evidence of our passion, but nothing can erase the electric charge that still arcs between us. Her back is warm against my chest, her heartbeat a steady, reassuring rhythm against my arm.

“I think we’re finally clean,” she murmurs, a low, throaty laugh in her voice. She presses back against me one last, delicious time before gently pushing me away. “Let’s get dry before we prune into oblivion.”

She reaches out and turns off the water. The sudden silence is staggering, broken only by the drip-drip-drip from the shower head and our own wet breaths. She steps out first, grabbing two large, fluffy towels from a warmed rack. She hands me one, her fingers brushing mine, sending a fresh, albeit smaller, jolt through my system.

I watch, utterly captivated, as she begins to dry herself. It’s not a seductive show; it’s just a woman drying off, but every movement is a study in grace and sensual power. The towel glides over the curve of her shoulder, blots the moisture from the valley between her breasts, sweeps down the long, toned line of her thigh. I’m frozen, my own towel hanging uselessly in my hand, my body already stirring again at the mere sight of her.

She catches me staring and that familiar, wicked smile returns. “See something you like?”

“Everything,” I breathe, the word leaving my lips before I can stop it.

Her smile widens. She finishes drying herself and pads, gloriously naked, toward the bathroom door. “Come on. My bed is far more comfortable than a tile floor.”

I quickly rub the towel over my hair and body, my skin buzzing with anticipation. I follow her into the dim, cool hallway, the plush carpet soft under my bare feet. The house is quiet, filled with the hush of late afternoon. She leads me to a spacious bedroom dominated by a large, four-poster bed with a rumpled white duvet. The air smells like her—like jasmine and warm skin.

She turns to me just as we reach the side of the bed, her eyes dark and intent. She reaches for me, her hands sliding up my damp chest to my shoulders. “I’m not nearly done with you yet,” she whispers, and pulls me down onto the bed with her.

We fall onto the soft mattress in a tangle of limbs. She rolls on top of me, straddling my hips, her damp hair cascading around her face like a curtain. Her warmth settles over me, and I’m fully, completely hard again, trapped gloriously between her body and mine. She grinds down, a slow, circular motion that makes us both gasp.

“You feel that?” she purrs, leaning down until her lips are inches from mine. Her scent envelops me. “That’s all for me. Again.”

She lowers her mouth to mine, and this kiss is different from before. It’s not a prelude; it’s a claiming. It’s deep and hungry and possessive, her tongue exploring my mouth with a languid confidence that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. My hands come up to cradle her face, then slide into her hair, holding her to me. I’m lost in her, in the taste of her, the feel of her weight on me.

A sharp, loud rap on the front door downstairs shatters the intimate silence.

We freeze.

My eyes fly open. Hers are wide, a flicker of surprise, and then sharp, calculating awareness replacing the haze of desire. The knocking comes again, more insistent this time.

“Lena? Honey, are you home? I saw your car out front!”

The voice is familiar. Warm. Concerned.

My mother.

A cold dread, entirely at odds with the heat coursing through my veins, douses me. Lena’s body goes rigid on top of mine. For a single, heart-stopping second, pure panic flashes in her eyes. Then, it’s gone, replaced by something else entirely. Something thrilling and dangerous. A slow, devious smile spreads across her kiss-swollen lips. She doesn’t move off of me. Instead, she grinds her hips down again, a deliberate, illicit pressure.

“She has a key,” Lena whispers, her voice barely audible, a secret shared in the stillness. Her eyes are locked on mine, challenging, excited. “She’ll let herself in if I don’t answer.”

The sound of a key scraping in the front door lock confirms it. A moment later, the door swings open with a soft creak.

“Lena? Everything alright?”

My mother’s footsteps are loud on the hardwood floor downstairs. She’s inside the house. She’s inside the house. My heart is hammering, a frantic, panicked drum against my ribs. I should be scrambling for my clothes, for cover, for any semblance of an excuse.

But Lena doesn’t let me move. She places a firm hand on my chest, pinning me to the bed. Her other hand comes to my lips, a single finger pressing down to signal for silence. Her eyes are blazing with a wild, forbidden fire. The danger of the situation, the sheer audacity of it, seems to have ignited her even more.

She leans down, her breasts brushing my chest, her lips pressed against my ear. Her whisper is a hot, desperate promise.

“Don’t. Make. A. Sound.”

Her whisper is a hot, dangerous thrill against my ear. "She's coming this way."

Every nerve ending in my body is a live wire, screaming with a mixture of terror and the most potent arousal I have ever felt. Lena’s hips move in a slow, deliberate grind, sheathing me perfectly in her slick, intoxicating heat. My eyes are locked on the bedroom door, expecting it to swing open at any second, revealing my mother, revealing everything.

The footsteps in the hall grow louder, then pause right outside.

Lena freezes, her body tensing around me, her internal muscles clenching so tightly I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted in a silent gasp. We are a statue of illicit passion, waiting for the axe to fall.

The doorknob doesn’t turn.

Instead, my mother’s voice, soft and concerned, filters through the wood. “Lena? Are you alright in there? I thought I heard a noise.”

Lena’s expression shifts from panic to something else entirely—a dark, daring resolve. She places a finger over her own lips, commanding my silence, her eyes gleaming. She takes a shaky, theatrical breath.

“I’m… I’m okay, Sarah,” she calls out, her voice a masterful blend of pain and strain. “Just a… a sharp cramp. My cycle, you know.” As she speaks, she begins to move again, a tiny, almost imperceptible rocking of her hips that sends shockwaves of pleasure up my spine. The audacity. The incredible, intoxicating audacity.

“Oh, you poor thing,” my mother replies, her voice full of genuine sympathy. “Do you need anything? Some ibuprofen? Tea?”

Lena’s hips roll again, a little deeper this time. I can feel the strain in my own body, the desperate need to thrust up into her, to meet her rhythm. She’s talking to my mother while I’m inside her. The thought alone is enough to make me dizzy.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Lena manages, her voice catching perfectly on a gasp as she sinks down onto me fully. “I just need to… ride it out. I’ll be okay. Thank you, though.”

A long pause. I can picture my mother on the other side of the door, her head tilted, concerned. “Alright… well, I’ll get out of your hair. Feel better, sweetie.”

“Bye, Sarah,” Lena says, a little too quickly.

We listen, utterly motionless, as her footsteps retreat down the hall. The front door opens, closes. The lock clicks into place.

Silence.

For a heartbeat, there is nothing. Then, a slow, wicked smile spreads across Lena’s face. The performance is over. The predator is back.

“She’s gone,” she purrs, and it’s a completely different voice—low, husky, and dripping with unleashed desire. Her hips begin to move in earnest now, a smooth, powerful rhythm that steals the air from my lungs. “But she was right there. And you…” Her eyes rake over my face, taking in my stunned, euphoric expression. “…you loved every second of it, didn’t you?”

I can only nod, my hands finding her hips, gripping the soft flesh as she rides me. God, yes. The danger, the deception, the sheer forbidden nature of it all has lit a fire in my blood that her expert movements are fanning into an inferno.

“It’s a shame, really,” she muses, leaning forward so her breasts sway enticingly above my face. Her dark hair curtains around us. “All that maternal concern. She has no idea what her good little boy is capable of. The things he makes me feel.” Her pace quickens, her breaths coming in sharp little pants. “The things I want to do to him.”

Suddenly, she stops, lifting herself off me with a soft, wet sound that seems obscenely loud in the quiet room. My cock springs free, throbbing and wet with her. The loss is a physical ache.

“Get on your knees,” she commands, her voice leaving no room for question. “At the foot of the bed. Now.”

I scramble to obey, my body humming with anticipation. I kneel on the rug, the coarse fibers rough against my skin. She stands before me at the edge of the mattress, a vision of powerful, confident sensuality. She parts her legs slightly, and my eyes are drawn to the glistening evidence of her arousal, of our joining.

“Look at me,” she says. I drag my gaze up to meet hers. Her eyes are dark pools of desire, but there’s a new intensity there, a hint of something wild and untamed. “Your mother thinks she knows you. She thinks she knows me. But she has no idea about the hunger… the need…” Her hand slides down her stomach, her fingers slipping through her slick folds. A soft moan escapes her lips. “…that we have to hide.”

She takes a step closer, until she is right at the edge of the bed. “Taste me,” she whispers. “Taste what you do to me. Taste what we just did with her on the other side of that door.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I lean forward, my hands gripping her thighs to steady her, and press my mouth to her.

The flavor is musky, sweet, utterly her. I delve my tongue inside, licking and exploring the very heart of her. She gasps, her hands tangling in my hair, not guiding, just holding on. I worship her with my mouth, tracing every fold, circling the hard, swollen nub of her clit until her legs begin to tremble. Her moans are music, a symphony of pleasure that I am conducting.

“Yes… just like that… oh god…” she pants, her hips beginning to move in tiny, desperate circles against my face.

I slide two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that spot that makes her cry out. My tongue continues its relentless assault on her clit. I can feel her tension coiling, tightening, a spring about to snap.

“Don’t stop… I’m so close…” she begs, her voice cracking.

I redouble my efforts, sucking and licking, fucking her with my fingers. Her thighs clamp around my head, and her entire body goes rigid. A raw, guttural cry is torn from her throat as her orgasm crashes over her. Her release floods my mouth, and I drink her in, my own arousal a painful, throbbing demand between my legs.

She collapses forward, her hands on my shoulders for support, breathing ragged. “My turn,” she rasps, her eyes glazed with satisfaction and a fresh, hungry spark.

She pushes me back onto the rug and straddles my face, lowering herself onto my mouth once more. “Make me come again,” she demands, grinding against me. “I want to scream, and I don’t care who hears.”

I obey, my tongue plunging deep, lost in her taste and scent. Her moans grow louder, more unrestrained. Her hands are everywhere—on her breasts, pinching her own nipples, then in my hair, pushing me deeper into her.

From the living room, a sudden, clear sound cuts through her cries.

The front door is opening again.

We both freeze.

“Lena? Honey, I forgot my…” My mother’s voice trails off.

The bedroom door, which Lena never fully closed after her performance, swings slowly inward.

There is no performance now. No act. There is only the shocking, undeniable truth.

My mother stands in the doorway, her keys dangling from her hand. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, take in the scene: her best friend, straddling her son’s face, both of us glistening and naked and caught in the most intimate of acts.

Lena doesn’t scramble away. She doesn’t cover herself. Slowly, deliberately, she lifts herself off me, turning to face the door. She doesn’t look ashamed. She looks… triumphant. A slow, sly smile touches her lips.

My mother’s gaze is fixed on us, her mouth slightly agape. The casserole dish she brought is forgotten. The concern is gone. Something else flickers in her eyes—shock, yes, but underneath it… a dark, curious spark. Her eyes travel the length of my body, taking in my obvious, desperate arousal, then move to Lena’s confident, displayed form.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Lena’s voice, when it comes, is a low, inviting purr that seems to vibrate in the charged air.

"Sarah," she says. "We were just talking about you."