Chapter 1 – Homecoming Heat
The August heat hung heavy over the driveway as Justin stepped out of the back of his dad’s truck, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder. Two years in college hadn’t done much to calm the tight coil of hunger that lived in him—hunger for life, for women, for the kind of trouble he’d been too afraid to chase when he left.
Now he was twenty, taller, leaner, more defined beneath the tight black tee clinging to his chest. His jaw had squared, his eyes darker, deeper. He wasn’t the same boy who’d left. He was a man now.
And she noticed.
Stephanie stood at the kitchen sink, iced coffee in hand, the hem of her oversized tank top brushing the curve of her thigh. She was barefoot, sun-kissed, golden blonde hair swept up into a loose bun that exposed the nape of her neck, tendrils sticking to her skin. Forty-eight, yes—but no one ever guessed it. She still had the body of a woman who took care of herself, all hourglass hips and full, heavy breasts, thighs with just the right amount of give. When she moved, it was like honey sliding over heat.
Her heart kicked as she saw him through the window.
God, he was tall now.
“Hey,” he said, stepping into the house with that voice—lower than she remembered, almost cocky. His scent hit her first: clean sweat, shampoo, musk. His eyes lingered a second too long on her legs.
Stephanie shifted, suddenly aware of how thin her shirt was. No bra. And the fabric clung when she breathed. “Hey yourself. Jesus, Justin… look at you.”
He grinned, a slow, easy smile. “You look good too, Steph.”
Steph. He used to call her Stephanie. Always a little stiff. Respectful.
Something twisted low in her belly.
She turned away, forcing a laugh, trying to ignore the throb between her legs. “Your room’s made up. I wasn’t sure when you were coming—your dad’s working late.”
That smile didn’t leave his face. “Guess it’s just us then.”
Something passed between them. A charge. An old wire stripped raw.
He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch—but enough for her to feel it. That heat. That body. That male presence that didn’t belong to a boy anymore.
“I missed this house,” he murmured. “Smells the same. Coffee and vanilla.”
She felt her nipples stiffen. His eyes flicked downward. Did he notice?
“You’re tired,” she said, too fast, voice too high. “You should shower, maybe rest.”
He didn’t move. “Yeah,” he said. “I probably should.”
His voice dropped, a note darker. “Unless you wanna show me around first. Remind me where everything is.”
Her heart pounded. She backed away—just a step—toward the hallway.
“Bathroom’s where it always was.”
He followed.
Not close. Just enough that her skin prickled. That her thighs rubbed together. That she remembered things she shouldn’t be thinking.
She reached the door, hand on the knob. He stood behind her now. So close she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.
“I should go change,” she whispered, but she didn’t move.
Neither did he.
“I don’t mind the view,” he murmured, eyes drifting down the hem of her shirt again.
She turned, sharply, meaning to scold—but he was right there, right there—and her body betrayed her. She gasped as he brushed against her hip. Not a touch. A graze. But it burned like flame.
“Justin,” she said, warning in her voice.
His eyes met hers. Bold. A man who wanted. “Stephanie.”
The sound of her full name in that low voice sent heat straight to her core.
Their breath mingled.
Their bodies swayed—just slightly.
And then—her voice cracked.
“You should shower.”
She turned the knob, flung the door open.
Escaped.
But not before she saw the bulge in his jeans. Not before he saw the flush crawling up her chest. Not before they both knew:
They were no longer playing pretend.
Steam ghosted down the hall, the scent of his soap dragging behind it—citrus and clean sweat, something masculine and sharp that stabbed at her resolve. Stephanie gripped the counter edge, nails whitening, legs tight at the thighs. Her pussy ached, throbbing softly, panties damp and clinging from nothing but the sight of him fully clothed.
And now he was naked.
In her shower.
Water pounded tile like the echo of a heartbeat, and hers kept skipping—wild, frantic, embarrassed. Or was it aroused? She couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Her body betrayed her, slick and fluttering with need like a girl half her age. Her nipples brushed the inside of her shirt, stiff and swollen, the tank clinging between her breasts where sweat and want gathered.
She bent to grab the laundry basket, tugging it up with both hands. The soft whoosh behind her wasn’t the AC.
“Need help with that?”
The voice. Low. Close. Still wet. Still him.
Stephanie froze.
When she turned, her knees buckled a little—just enough to notice.
Justin stood in the hallway, towel slung recklessly low on his hips. Drops clung to his chest, rolled down the ridges of his abs, and vanished into the dark trail leading to what the towel barely hid. His biceps flexed lazily as he leaned against the doorframe. He didn’t bother looking away.
She did.
She had to.
“Jesus—put some clothes on,” she snapped, face flushed, mouth dry.
He grinned. “You used to tell me what to wear. Didn’t think that still applied.”
His voice had changed—husky, cocky, that college swagger baked in. She hated how much it made her clit twitch.
“I said put clothes on.” She pushed past him, brushing his arm. His skin was hot. She caught a whiff of the water steaming off his chest. She shivered.
“You’re shaking,” he said behind her, walking slowly after her like a wolf scenting something ripe. “Cold?”
“Don’t follow me.”
“I live here.”
“Temporarily,” she bit out, heart pounding. “And not like that.”
He stepped into the laundry room with her. Small space. Too small. The air thickened. She tried folding towels with shaking hands.
Justin reached beside her, grabbed one.
She smacked his hand. “I said no.”
His fingers brushed hers. “You didn’t say I couldn’t touch you.”
Stephanie jerked back like burned.
His eyes dropped.
Straight to her tits.
Straight to the hard points pressing the fabric.
She caught him.
He didn’t stop looking.
“You’re not a little boy anymore,” she whispered, breath hot. “That doesn’t mean you can fuck around in my house.”
Justin looked up.
“That’s exactly why I should.”
Silence. Thick. Pulsing.
He moved closer. Not touching. Just crowding her. The towel brushed her thigh. Her pussy throbbed so hard she had to clench.
“I bet he never made you feel like this,” Justin said, voice a hush, but sharp. “Did he ever notice the way your nipples looked under this shirt? Did he ever make you wet just by standing this close?”
“Don’t.”
He reached—slow, deliberate—and lifted one towel from the basket.
Folded it.
She couldn’t stop watching his hands.
“I’ll get dressed,” he said finally. “But you should think about something.”
She didn’t speak.
He leaned down, mouth near her ear.
“You’ve already thought about it. I saw you.”
Then he turned.
Walked out.
Towel slipping, just a little lower than before.
She locked the bedroom door behind her, tossed the laundry basket onto the floor, and leaned against the frame like she’d been gut-punched.
Her heart wouldn’t stop. Her skin felt too tight, like it wanted to be touched. She stripped the tank off first—nipples flushed pink, the cotton dragging over them made her gasp—and then she peeled off her panties.
Soaked.
Fucking soaked.
She sat on the bed, legs spread, hand already between them. No pretending. No guilt. Just fingers and heat and the image of him with water sliding down his chest, the thick shape beneath that towel, the way he said I saw you.
She rubbed in slow circles, not even gentle, her breath turning into gasps—head thrown back, thighs trembling as she pictured what it would feel like if he didn’t stop next time. If he dropped the towel. If he pushed her back against this very bed.
Her orgasm hit like a slap. Fast. Brutal. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
And outside her door, in the hallway, Justin paused with a hand on his doorknob.
He could hear her.
Breathing. Moaning. The rustle of the mattress.
He smirked.
And went to bed hard.
Chapter 2 – Temptation in the Halls
The sun rose on a quiet kitchen. Light spilled through the window in long gold blades, cutting across the countertop, glinting off the edges of a polished sink. The house was still—except for the soft thump of bare feet and the slow hiss of a coffee machine waking from sleep.
Stephanie stood at the counter in nothing but a silk robe. Thin. Pale pink. No bra. No panties. Tied loose around her waist like an afterthought. Her nipples—still sore from last night’s fingers—pushed against the fabric, brushing it with every breath. Her thighs were damp with sleep-slick, a wetness she hadn’t expected to linger.
But she hadn’t stopped thinking about him.
Even now, coffee mug in hand, she could still feel the ache.
The way his eyes had devoured her. The sound of his voice in her ear. The weight of her orgasm when she came whispering his name into her fist.
Stephanie closed her eyes, sipped her coffee, and tried to steady the twitch in her clit.
The floor creaked behind her.
She didn’t turn.
She didn’t have to.
His presence hit her like a warm wind—thick, slow-moving, dangerous.
“Morning,” Justin said, voice rough from sleep.
She could hear it—that in his voice. The same heat as yesterday. No shame. No backtracking.
She turned slowly.
He stood there in low-hanging sweatpants, nothing else. No shirt. No underwear. The outline of his cock unmistakable, draped heavy and long against his thigh. He rubbed a hand through his hair, messy and wild. Still damp at the neck.
“I thought you’d sleep in,” she said, keeping her voice even.
“I couldn’t,” he murmured, stepping toward the coffee. “Bad dreams.”
She raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
His eyes dropped to her robe. His voice dropped even lower. “Frustration.”
She felt her nipples harden instantly.
He poured a cup, then leaned back against the counter beside her. Close enough to smell her—vanilla, sweat, something faintly musky and warm that made his cock twitch beneath the fabric. She didn’t move away.
“I heard you last night,” he said casually, sipping.
She froze.
“What?”
He turned, watching her over the rim of his mug. “You didn’t close your window. Thin walls.”
Her cheeks burned.
“I was—”
“Touching yourself.” He cut her off. Calm. Inevitable. “Moaning.”
“Justin—”
“You said my name.”
Silence cracked the space like thunder.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I don’t—remember that.”
He smiled. Not smug—dangerous.
“I do.”
She turned to face him, chest rising, falling. Her robe slipped slightly open, revealing the inner slope of one breast.
His gaze dipped. Stayed.
“I could help with that,” he said. “If you ever want it… done right.”
Her breath hitched.
He stepped closer, now barely inches away. She could feel the heat rolling off his chest. The scent of him all over her kitchen.
She didn’t step back.
“I know you’re older. I know it’s wrong. I don’t care. I want it.”
Her eyes fluttered. Her thighs squeezed. Her hands twitched at her sides.
“Say something,” he breathed.
Stephanie swallowed hard.
“I shouldn’t want you.”
“But you do.”
His fingers brushed the edge of her robe. Not pulling it. Just touching it.
Her breath caught. Her body screamed.
But her voice came out soft, cracked and hoarse.
“Go get dressed.”
A beat.
He smiled. Turned away.
And her knees nearly buckled again.
Because as he left the kitchen, he adjusted the bulge in his pants—and didn’t hide it this time.
Stephanie stood at the sink long after he’d gone, her coffee cooling in her hand, the aftertaste of him lingering thicker than caffeine. Her robe felt suffocating now, clinging to damp skin, fabric darkened in places from sweat—or want. Her thighs wouldn’t stop brushing. Every step dragged friction over her soaked slit like sandpaper and silk.
She’d almost let him.
One more second and she might’ve leaned in. One more word and she’d have undone the robe herself.
She clutched the counter harder. No. Fuck no. She was not going to be that woman. She had rules. She had lines. She had shame.
He had a towel. He had cocky little smirks. He had youth, hardness, that look in his eyes like he’d fuck her until her legs gave out and tell everyone what she sounded like when she came.
She wouldn’t let it happen.
Not again.
Not even if her body was already begging her to lose.
He found her two hours later in the laundry room again. It was always the laundry room—tight space, nowhere to run. She was bent over the basket, folding shirts this time. Denim shorts. Too tight. Too short. No robe. No bra. Just a plain ribbed tank with her nipples fat and poking through like they were dying for friction. Her ass moved as she folded.
He didn’t say a word. Just watched her.
She felt him.
Didn’t look up.
“Don’t,” she said.
He leaned against the frame again. Familiar. Confident.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t watch me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to fuck me.”
Silence.
Then—
“I do.”
Her hands faltered.
“Justin.”
He stepped in. Again. The heat between them sprang back to life like it had never gone.
“You’re not gonna fold your way out of this,” he said, voice dark silk. “You keep telling me not to look, but you dress like you want me to. Walk like you want me to chase.”
She turned. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s not true.”
“I said—”
“You’re wet again, aren’t you?”
Her breath caught. He moved closer, slowly, giving her every chance to move, to scream, to run.
She didn’t.
“I bet it started when you saw me in the towel,” he whispered. “You were probably dripping through those panties the second I said your name.”
“Justin, stop.”
But her voice cracked.
He brushed his hand along the laundry table beside her, fingers idly tracing the edge, the tension dragging out like wire.
“Last night,” he said, “you didn’t say no. You moaned. You rubbed that pretty little clit like you’d die without it.”
“Stop.”
“You whimpered my name.”
“Justin—”
“You want me to stop touching you?”
“I said—”
“I’m not touching you.”
He stepped even closer. His breath hit her neck.
“You are.”
He shook his head. “Haven’t laid a hand on you.”
Her whole body was humming. Her legs clenched. Her cunt wept.
But she turned—sharply, violently, desperate to cut the string.
“I can’t,” she hissed. “You’re my stepson.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
But the heat between them pulsed like something alive.
“You didn’t choose me,” he said. “You chose him. My dad. You married a man who doesn’t even touch you. Doesn’t see you. I do.”
She stared at him.
Every muscle screaming.
Every nerve on fire.
“Get out.”
A pause.
Then—he obeyed.
Left the room.
And the moment he was gone, she crushed a towel between her legs to soak the evidence of how badly she’d wanted him to stay.
The house was quiet again. Too quiet.
Stephanie sat on the edge of her bed, the thick white towel clenched in her fists, damp from where she’d pressed it between her legs. It still smelled like clean cotton. It still reminded her of his voice. Of the heat that came off him when he stood too close.
“I’m not touching you.”
But he had. Not with his hands. With every word, every look, every inch of cock that shifted under sweatpants meant to hide nothing.
She couldn’t take much more of this. Her skin itched. Her clit throbbed with memory. Her cunt was raw from the way she kept squeezing her thighs together, trying not to touch. She hadn’t even come since this morning.
She was going to break.
And Justin knew it.
She found him outside.
No shirt.
No shame.
Sitting on the porch steps like he owned the yard and the air. Muscles gleaming with sweat. One hand on his knee. The other holding a water bottle he didn’t drink from.
He didn’t look up when she stepped out. He didn’t speak first.
So she did.
“Don’t do that to me again.”
He took a slow sip. Swallowed.
“Don’t do what, Stephanie?”
Her name in his mouth made her hips rock forward.
“You know what,” she snapped. “Don’t come up behind me. Don’t talk to me like you know what I want. You don’t. You’re not a man. You’re not even—”
He stood.
Quick.
Hard.
Suddenly in front of her.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say I’m not a man again. Look me in the eye and tell me I didn’t make your cunt twitch this morning.”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
He stepped closer.
“Tell me you didn’t press that towel between your legs like it was my hand.”
She flinched.
That was the crack.
She saw it in his face.
He knew.
He reached for her—not fast. Not rough. But deliberately. Fingers brushing the edge of her hip, right where her tank met her bare waist. Skin to skin.
She didn’t move.
“You’ve got two seconds to stop me,” he whispered.
His hand slid up, palm grazing her side, thumb skimming under the edge of her shirt. Her stomach fluttered. She sucked in breath through her teeth.
She didn’t stop him.
One hand found her lower back, pressed her in. Her breasts hit his chest—bare skin to bare skin.
Her eyes shut.
His mouth was so close.
“Tell me no,” he whispered.
Her lips parted.
She felt it in her throat.
But her voice broke before the word could form.
His thumb stroked under her breast.
Not quite touching.
But close enough that her nipple leapt under the fabric.
Her body betrayed her again.
A gasp.
A twitch of the hips.
He leaned in—mouth at her ear now, voice like gravel and smoke.
“You’re gonna let me touch it, aren’t you.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t step back either.
And his hand moved higher.
Chapter 3 – The First Surrender
The porch was still, the air thick and humming—just like her skin, just like the throbbing pulse between her legs. Stephanie couldn’t breathe without tasting him. Couldn’t move without pressing herself closer. Couldn’t lie to herself, not anymore.
Justin’s hand was under her shirt.
Not groping. Not grabbing.
Worse.
He was waiting.
Thumb just below the swell of her breast, heat radiating through her like his palm was molten iron. His other hand still at her back, holding her there, barely any pressure, but enough to make sure she knew she could leave if she really wanted to.
She didn’t want to.
She hadn’t wanted to leave since the second she saw him shirtless in that fucking towel.
Stephanie’s lips trembled.
“You want me to touch you?” he whispered, mouth at her cheek, his breath hot, lips not quite brushing hers.
“No.”
It came out broken.
Barely a whisper.
He didn’t pull back.
“You want me to pull this shirt off,” he murmured, nose nudging hers. “Put my mouth on those tits you keep pretending you don’t want me to see.”
“Stop it,” she breathed, but she didn’t step away.
“You want to see how deep you can take me,” he said, and that made her gasp—her body lurching with the raw jolt of arousal. “You want me to pin you down and ruin the last good thing you think you are.”
“Justin…”
But her voice was a plea now. Not a warning.
His hand slid higher. The pad of his thumb grazed her nipple.
Stephanie whimpered.
Just that—a soft, helpless sound.
And her head dropped back against the porch column behind her like her spine had given up. Her nipples were stiff as glass beneath the cotton. He rolled one slowly between thumb and forefinger, and her knees buckled so hard he caught her.
“I got you,” he whispered, his mouth at her collarbone now, tongue flicking the sweat off her skin. “I’ve always had you.”
Her hands, traitorous and weak, gripped his shoulders.
“Take it off,” he growled. “I want to see them.”
“No—”
He pushed the shirt up slowly, no rush, no force—just inches of bare skin revealed, her ribs, the underside of her breasts, then—
“Oh, fuck,” he breathed when her nipples hit the open air.
Tight. Pink. Begging.
He dropped to his knees.
Right there on the porch.
And took one nipple into his mouth.
Her cry wasn’t quiet this time.
It cracked the air.
“Jesus, Justin—”
But her hands went to his hair. Clutching. Needing.
He sucked hard, flicked his tongue over her again and again, then switched sides—mouth hot and hungry, lips pulling at the tip while his hand massaged the other, fingers wet from the slick that had already started running down her inner thigh.
She was panting now. Twisting. His name a litany on her tongue.
And still—still—he didn’t pull her shorts down.
Didn’t fuck her.
Not yet.
Because he wanted her to beg.
And Stephanie was so damn close.
Stephanie clung to him, hands buried in his hair, knuckles pale with tension as Justin’s mouth worked greedily over her breast. His tongue was relentless, flicking and curling, each slow suck like a shock to her spine. Her back arched against the porch column, every inch of skin burning where his hands had touched, where his lips had claimed her.
Her nipples throbbed, soaked with his spit, shining in the sunlight like they’d been kissed raw.
He moaned into her chest, low and hungry, the sound vibrating through her ribcage, settling in her cunt like a fever.
When he pulled back, a string of saliva clung from his lip to the tip of her nipple.
Stephanie was shaking.
“Justin…”
He looked up at her, eyes dark, lips swollen. His fingers toyed with the hem of her shorts now, tugging it lightly, just enough to make her thighs twitch. He was grinning. Patient. Fucking cruel.
“You’re dripping,” he murmured. “I can smell it. Through the fabric.”
She flinched, ashamed, aroused, trembling all at once.
“Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” He ran his fingers up her inner thigh, knuckles grazing denim. “Don’t talk about your pussy when it’s soaking your clothes like that?”
Her hips jerked.
He leaned in, mouth against her stomach, kissing lower, teeth scraping the waistband.
“I should tear these off,” he whispered. “Bury my face between your legs and taste how desperate you are.”
She gasped, legs trying to close, but his hands slid between them, held her wide.
“No—”
“Yes,” he growled. “You keep saying no but your fucking body’s begging.”
He kissed the inside of her thigh.
Then again. Higher. Again.
She whimpered. Her knees were buckling.
His breath was hot through her shorts.
“I’ll lick you through this denim if I have to,” he said, voice a threat. “I’ll make you come with my mouth while the neighbors mow their fucking lawns.”
“Stop—”
He bit the button.
Hard.
Stephanie moaned.
“Please—” she choked.
He stilled.
Pulled back.
“What was that?”
She clenched her fists, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.
“Say it,” he said. “You want me to taste it?”
Her voice cracked.
“I want your mouth.”
“Where?”
Her face flushed crimson. She shook her head.
He stood.
Towered over her again.
His hand cupped her cunt through the shorts. His palm pressed hard enough to make her gasp.
“Tell me, Stephanie.”
Her legs parted without her meaning to. She ground into his hand, chasing friction, losing every ounce of restraint she’d clung to.
“I want your mouth on my pussy,” she whispered.
“Louder.”
“I want you to eat me.”
His hand pulled back. He dropped again to his knees.
And yanked the shorts down in one swift motion.
No panties.
Her slit glistened in the sun. Shaved, flushed, wet.
He didn’t hesitate.
He dove in.
Tongue first.
Justin buried his face between her thighs like he was starved.
Stephanie’s legs trembled, hips jerked, the first touch of his tongue making her cry out loud enough to send birds scattering from the trees. His hands slid beneath her ass, gripping her cheeks to hold her steady, to keep her from collapsing as his mouth worked her like it was the only thing he’d ever been made to do.
His tongue parted her folds, dragging up the length of her slit, slick and swollen and soaked. He moaned into her pussy, nose pressed right up against her clit, inhaling her heat, her scent, her taste like it was the first sip of something forbidden and addicting.
“F-fuck—Justin—oh my god—”
Stephanie’s back slammed into the porch column as her knees gave out. He caught her, held her up with a strength that turned her insides to liquid. His tongue flicked her clit now, sharp, fast, then circled it, then flattened out to lap her open, deeper, wetter.
Every time she squirmed, he growled.
Every time she whimpered, he sucked harder.
He was drunk on it—her taste, her sounds, the way her thighs clenched around his head as she began to lose control.
Her hands found his hair again, nails scratching his scalp, pulling as she rocked her hips into his face.
“You little fuck—” she panted, “you can’t—oh fuck—can’t do this to me—”
But he was.
And he wasn’t stopping.
His tongue pushed into her now, fucking her slow, then fast, then back up to flick at her clit while two fingers replaced it, curling deep inside. She cried out again, louder this time, the stretch perfect, the rhythm merciless.
His fingers fucked.
His tongue teased.
And when he sucked her clit into his mouth and moaned against it, Stephanie shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a storm, legs twitching, cunt clenching, thighs crushing his head as her voice rose into a broken scream.
“*Justin—fuck—*oh god—yes—yes—fuck yes—”
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t even pause.
He kept licking her, riding her orgasm with mouth and hands and hunger until her body couldn’t take anymore.
She sagged against him, soaked and ruined.
And he stood.
Face slick with her.
Lips glistening.
Eyes feral.
“I told you,” he said, voice low, breath ragged, “you’d beg.”
And Stephanie, still panting, barely standing, body buzzing and cunt twitching, whispered the only thing she could:
“Do it again.”
Chapter 4 – Claimed in the Kitchen
She didn’t sleep.
Not really.
Stephanie lay in bed, sheets tangled around her thighs, her skin still humming, soaked in the memory of his mouth, the pulse of his tongue, the way her name had sounded when he whispered it between her legs. She’d washed her face twice, showered with the water scalding hot, scrubbed between her thighs like it might erase the guilt.
It didn’t.
Because the guilt wasn’t as loud as the hunger.
She was going to let him fuck her.
It wasn’t a question anymore.
It was when.
And how hard.
Morning burned slow. Too bright. The kitchen smelled like toast and bacon and sin. Stephanie walked in wearing nothing but a thin gray tank and matching cotton boyshorts—no attempt to cover what she didn’t want covered. She found him by the fridge, bare-chested again, tattoos visible this time—nothing big, just a black band around his forearm, a Latin phrase on his ribs, Veni Vidi Vixi.
He turned when he saw her.
And he stopped chewing.
“Damn,” he muttered, voice rough. “You come out dressed like that, you’re asking for round two before coffee.”
She walked past him, deliberately brushing her hip against his.
“You already had your round, didn’t you?” she said over her shoulder. “Wasn’t that enough?”
Justin stepped in close behind her. “You know it wasn’t.”
His hands hovered at her waist, not touching.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it all night,” he murmured. “Your legs shaking. The way you cried when you came. I had to jerk off twice just to sleep.”
Her breath caught.
He pressed his chest to her back, his cock thick and already hard against her ass.
“I didn’t finish,” he growled. “You left me fucking throbbing.”
Stephanie closed her eyes.
“Then finish.”
She felt his smile, hot against her neck.
He bent her over the counter.
Hands planted flat, tits against cold stone.
Her ass tight in those thin boyshorts, her pussy already slick and aching again.
He didn’t pull her panties down yet.
He just grabbed her hips, dry humped her with slow, steady thrusts until she was gasping, grinding back, his cock dragging between her cheeks, soaking the cotton.
She whimpered. He kissed the back of her neck.
“You ready to stop pretending this is wrong?” he breathed.
She whispered into the counter, voice hoarse.
“I don’t care anymore.”
Justin hooked his fingers under the waistband and peeled them down, baring her completely.
And this time, he was going to fuck her.
Her moan hadn’t stopped echoing off the kitchen tile when Justin thrust again—deeper, harder, driving his cock into her slick, spasming cunt until she cried out and slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. He didn’t slow. He couldn’t. Her pussy had gripped him so tight when she came he saw stars behind his eyes. His balls ached. His control frayed.
He wanted to ruin her.
And she fucking wanted it.
He slammed into her again, his cock sliding wet and loud through the heat of her, juices coating his thighs, dripping down hers. Her ass bounced with every slap of his hips, each impact sending another tremor through her limbs. She couldn’t hold herself up anymore—her torso sagged onto the counter, her legs barely holding, her nails clawing the stone as she gasped like she was drowning.
“God—Justin—fuck, slow down—”
He didn’t.
He bent over her back, lips at her ear. “You want slow?”
She whimpered.
His hand slid up her spine, fingers curling into her hair. He yanked her up—forced her to arch—and she groaned, half pain, half pleasure, her back pressed flush to his chest, tits out, mouth open. Her cunt tightened around him as he filled her again, this time dragging it out long, slow, all the way in.
She sobbed out a moan.
“Feel that?” he hissed. “That’s how deep I am. Every. Fucking. Inch.”
Stephanie’s hands clutched his wrists. Her pussy clenched with every word. She was soaked, wrecked, clinging to him now like he was the only thing holding her to earth.
He fucked her slow like that, deep and brutal, each thrust a statement. She wasn’t married today. She wasn’t his stepmother. She was a hole to fill, a fantasy he was making real one pulse at a time. And she wanted it. Her head dropped back on his shoulder, mouth open in surrender.
“I’m gonna come again,” she gasped. “Don’t—don’t stop—fuck—”
His hand slid down, found her clit, started rubbing fast little circles while he thrust harder again, losing control, panting into her neck, teeth grazing her skin.
“You’re mine,” he growled. “Say it.”
She choked out the words between moans.
“I’m yours—fuck, Justin, I’m yours—”
Her climax ripped through her with a scream, her pussy squeezing him like a fist, and that was all it took—he buried himself to the hilt and came with a growl, spurting inside her in hot, messy waves that made her shake harder.
They collapsed over the counter, still tangled together.
Sweat. Breath. The stench of sex hanging thick in the kitchen.
And his cum leaking from her like proof.
She stood under the showerhead with scalding water pounding her skin, but she didn’t feel clean.
Steam curled around her, fogging the mirror, filling the space with ghost-trails of the act she couldn’t undo. Her cunt throbbed—tender, stretched, leaking. Her nipples were still stiff, rubbed raw from the counter. Between her legs, his cum oozed thick and warm down the backs of her thighs, no matter how hard she scrubbed.
Stephanie stared at the tile. Her fingers trembled.
She’d let him fuck her.
Bent over her own kitchen counter.
No hesitation. No protection. Not a second thought.
And now, hours later, the guilt still hadn’t caught up to the heat.
Because she wanted him again.
She pressed her hand between her legs and winced. Sore. Swollen. Still sensitive from being filled and fucked like he didn’t care if she broke in half. Her breath hitched. She wanted it again. Wanted to feel him shove her down, grab her by the hips, slide that thick cock back inside and claim what he’d already ruined.
She hated herself.
And she didn’t care.
He was in her bed.
Like it was nothing.
Like he belonged there.
T-shirt discarded. Sweatpants pulled down. Laying across the blankets, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just come in her hours ago.
Stephanie stepped into the doorway in a robe, damp hair clinging to her shoulders, and he looked up.
His eyes darkened instantly.
“You showered.”
“I needed to.”
“Didn’t work.”
She didn’t answer.
He set the phone aside. Sat up. Let her see his cock twitch as he shifted under the sheets.
“I can still smell you,” he said, low. “Still taste you.”
Stephanie’s breath hitched.
She crossed her arms. “This doesn’t happen again.”
He stood.
Walked toward her.
“No?”
“No,” she repeated, though her voice wavered.
He stopped in front of her.
His hand slid up the robe, fingers teasing the inside of her thigh.
“You’re still wet.”
“I’m clean—”
“Not from water.”
She shivered.
His palm cupped her cunt through the robe. Slow pressure.
“You can’t say no anymore,” he whispered. “Not when your body says yes every time I look at you.”
Her lips parted. Her hips tilted into his touch.
“This is wrong.”
“I don’t care.”
His other hand untied the robe. It fell open.
She didn’t stop it.
Didn’t close it.
Didn’t even flinch when he dropped to his knees again and buried his face between her legs for the second time that day.
She just moaned.
And let him make her come all over his mouth.
Again.
Chapter 5 – No Turning Back
The mirror had fogged up hours ago, but her reflection still haunted it.
Stephanie stood in her bedroom with nothing but a towel clinging to damp skin, her legs bare, thighs tacky with sweat and slick. The scent of him lingered in her sheets, on her skin, inside her—musky, male, defiling. Her pussy ached, used and empty, still twitching from the last time he’d filled her. Her robe lay crumpled on the floor. So did the line she swore she’d never cross.
She should have run.
Should’ve screamed.
Should’ve stopped it before he bent her over the kitchen counter and pumped his cum into her like she was a teenage hole in some porno fantasy.
Instead she begged for more.
She pressed two fingers between her thighs. Still tender. Still slick. She didn’t need to touch her clit—just grazing her slit made her knees go soft. Her body was a traitor. A dripping, hungry, well-fucked traitor.
And then she heard it.
The door creaking open.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t have to.
Justin stepped in, shirtless, sweats slung dangerously low. His hair a mess, lips parted, that same look in his eyes he’d had since the moment he first caught her watching him—like he already owned her.
“You said it was the last time,” he said, voice low, rough. “So why are your legs shaking again?”
She didn’t answer.
He walked closer.
“Why are your nipples hard just from hearing my voice?”
Still no answer.
He stopped in front of her.
“So you’re gonna pretend now?” He stepped closer. “After you let me come inside you like your pussy was mine?”
Her breath hitched. Her towel slipped.
“You’re not in control anymore, Stephanie.”
She finally looked up.
“You think you’re in control?”
His hand lashed out, grabbing the towel, yanking it down. It fell. Her bare body lit up with goosebumps as the air hit her soaked cunt and stiff nipples.
He stepped into her space. Cock thickening under his pants.
“You were shaking on my cock,” he growled. “You fucking milked it. You begged me not to stop.”
Her lips trembled. Her thighs pressed tight.
He reached down. Ran his fingers up her slit. Found her wet.
Of course he did.
“You say no,” he said, sliding one finger inside her. “But your pussy keeps saying please.”
Stephanie gasped. Her body arched.
“Say it again,” he whispered. “Say it was the last time.”
She didn’t.
He shoved a second finger in, hard.
Her cry caught in her throat.
“You can’t,” he said. “Because it wasn’t. Because this”—he curled his fingers inside her—“is mine now.”
And when she came around his fingers without a word, clenching and twitching and moaning through gritted teeth, he smiled.
Not sweet. Not kind.
Like a man who’d taken what he wanted.
And knew she’d never take it back.
She didn’t stop him.
She didn’t even pretend.
When Justin shoved his fingers back inside her—wet, thick, curling deep—Stephanie’s cunt clenched like it was thanking him. She let out a moan, low and desperate, her hips grinding against his palm. Her body had stopped pretending hours ago.
Her mind was catching up.
Justin stood between her thighs, bare chest glistening with sweat, eyes locked to hers like a wolf daring its prey to run. His cock bulged under his sweats, head pushing against the fabric, wet with need.
“Say you don’t want this,” he growled, fingers still knuckle-deep in her. “Lie to me.”
Stephanie trembled. Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
He smirked.
“That’s what I thought.”
He yanked his fingers free, slick trailing between them, then shoved her back against the dresser. She barely caught herself—hands flat on the wood, legs spread, tits out and bouncing as he peeled his sweats down and his cock slapped up, thick, angry, already dripping.
“Gonna fuck you like you belong to me,” he muttered.
“I already do,” she whispered.
He slammed into her in one brutal thrust, and she screamed. Not just from the stretch—but from finally being filled again, like her body had been waiting, empty and aching. Her cunt swallowed him whole, her walls sucking him deeper with each pulse.
“Fucking tight,” he grunted. “Greedy little pussy’s been starving, hasn’t it?”
She cried out, drool spilling from her open mouth as he rammed her hips into the dresser, fucking her like he wanted to leave her ruined. The wood creaked. Her breasts bounced with each thrust. Her orgasm climbed so fast it scared her.
“You wanted this all along,” he growled. “Watching me in that towel. Thinking about my cock when you fingered yourself after dinner. Say it.”
“I thought about it,” she choked. “I wanted it—I wanted you to fuck me, Justin, please—”
He pulled her upright by the hair, bit her neck, slammed in harder.
“Louder.”
“I wanted you to ruin me!”
He reached around, rubbed her clit fast and rough, and her pussy spasmed on him, clamping down so hard it milked a growl from his throat. She came hard, again, again—legs shaking, body jerking, tits bouncing as she moaned through the thickest orgasm of her life.
And still he didn’t stop.
He grabbed her thighs, hoisted her up onto the dresser, shoved her down flat and started pounding her even deeper—balls slapping, juices flying, his cock so slick it sounded obscene every time he sank in.
“You’re mine,” he snarled.
“Yes—yes, fuck—I’m yours!”
“Say it louder.”
“I’m yours, Justin—fuck, your cock owns me—”
He came with a violent thrust and a guttural roar, buried to the base, shooting thick ropes of cum deep inside her. She felt it fill her, hot and heavy, leaking out before he even pulled back. Her body collapsed, twitching, breathless.
He stayed inside her, twitching.
Breathing hard.
Holding her open.
Claimed.
He stayed inside her.
Still hard.
Still twitching.
Stephanie lay splayed across the dresser, her thighs spread, her cunt stretched wide around the thick cock that had just emptied another load into her. Cum leaked down the crease of her ass, pooled on the polished wood beneath her. She was dripping, wrecked, soaked in sweat and his scent and her own sin.
And she didn’t care anymore.
Justin watched her—chest heaving, hands still gripping her hips like handles, cock still buried to the base. She hadn’t tried to push him away. Hadn’t said a word. Her mouth hung open, lips swollen from the moaning, her eyes dazed.
He pulled out slow. Her pussy clenched, twitching like it didn’t want to let go. His cum spilled out in thick trails, clinging to her folds.
“You’re not putting clothes on,” he said, voice hoarse.
She didn’t move.
“I want you like this. Naked. Used. Full of me.”
Still nothing.
He stepped back, admiring the ruin of her. His ruin.
“You’re not his wife anymore.”
She laughed. Low. Broken. Free.
“No,” she said. “I’m yours now.”
She sat up, cum running down her thighs, reached for him again. Not timid. Not ashamed. Her hand wrapped around his cock, still thick, still slick with her. She licked her lips.
“Lie down.”
His eyes flared. “You wanna go again?”
She climbed onto the bed. On her knees. Hair a mess. Nipples hard. Cum streaking her thighs.
“I’m not done being yours,” she said. “I want to ride it. I want to feel it stretch me open while I look you in the eye.”
He dropped onto the mattress, cock twitching hard in anticipation.
She straddled him, lined him up, and sank down—slow, deep, sighing like she’d missed him inside her for years instead of minutes.
Justin groaned, hands gripping her thighs, watching her ride him with raw hunger in her eyes. No hesitation. No guilt. Just skin on skin, lips parted, pussy clenching around his cock like it belonged there.
Because it did.
They didn’t slow. Didn’t speak.
He watched her bounce, her tits slapping, her moans growing louder as she came again—hard, uncontrollable, her nails digging into his chest.
And when he came too—again—his hands wrapped around her waist, holding her there, locked inside her while his cum spilled deep for the third time that day.
Stephanie collapsed on top of him.
He kissed her neck.
And they both knew—there was no going back.
Not after this.
Not when she came just from feeling his cum drip down her leg.
She was his now.
Forever.