I came home because the lease on my apartment ended and the new place wasn’t ready for three weeks. Mom said the guest room was fine. She’d been living alone in the house since Dad moved out six months ago, the divorce papers already filed. The place felt different the moment I walked in. Quieter. The air smelled like her perfume and the lemon cleaner she always used on the kitchen counters.
She met me at the door in a thin tank top and yoga pants. Mid-forties, still tight in the places that mattered. Dark hair pulled up, a few strands loose around her face. She hugged me longer than usual, her body soft against mine, and I felt the edge of her breast press into my chest. She stepped back smiling, but her eyes looked tired.
“Long day?” I asked, setting my bag down.
“Court stuff. Your father wants the house. He can have the rest of it.” She laughed once, short and dry. “Wine?”
We drank in the kitchen. She told me about the mediation sessions, how he kept bringing up old arguments just to drag things out. Her voice got lower when she said she hadn’t been touched in almost a year. Not really. She caught herself, flushed, and changed the subject to the leak under the sink. I fixed it while she stood close, handing me tools. When I turned my head her stomach was right there, the soft curve above the waistband of her pants. I stayed longer under the cabinet than I needed to.
That night I couldn’t sleep. The house was too quiet. I walked past her door on the way to the bathroom and heard her moving. The light under the door was on. I stopped. Through the thin gap I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed in a short nightshirt, one hand between her legs, the other braced behind her. Her head was tipped back. I watched the slow roll of her hips for a full minute before I stepped away. My cock was hard enough that it ached against the front of my shorts.
The next morning she was in the kitchen in the same nightshirt and nothing else. The hem stopped high on her thighs. She reached for a mug on the top shelf and the shirt rode up. I saw the lower curve of her ass and the thin strip of fabric between her legs. She turned, caught me looking, and didn’t pull the shirt down.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
She poured coffee. When she handed me the cup our fingers touched. She left her hand there longer than she had to. I set the cup down, stepped in, and put both hands on her waist. She didn’t move away. Her skin was warm under the thin cotton. I slid my palms lower until my thumbs rested on the soft swell of her hips.
“Mom.”
“Don’t,” she said, but her voice was quiet and she was already leaning into me. “We can’t.”
I kissed the side of her neck. She made a small sound and her hand came up to the back of my head. I walked her back against the counter. The nightshirt bunched between us. I felt the heat of her through the fabric when I pressed my thigh between her legs. She was wet. The thin material darkened where she rocked against me once, then again.
“I heard you last night,” I said against her ear. “I watched you.”
Her breath caught. She turned her face into my shoulder. “You shouldn’t have.”
I reached under the shirt and pushed her panties aside. Two fingers slid into her easily. She was soaked and swollen. She gripped the edge of the counter and pushed down onto my hand. I curled my fingers and she moaned, low and rough. I worked her slow at first, then faster when her hips started chasing it. She came standing up, thighs shaking, one hand fisted in my shirt. When she finished she stayed there breathing hard, my fingers still inside her.
I pulled them out and brought them to my mouth. She watched me taste her. Her eyes were dark.
“Take me upstairs,” she said.
In her bedroom she pulled the nightshirt off and stood there naked. Full breasts, soft stomach, wide hips. I stripped and she looked at my cock, hard and already leaking. She reached out and wrapped her hand around it, stroking once from base to tip. Then she dropped to her knees on the carpet and took me into her mouth.
She wasn’t gentle. She sucked me deep, one hand working the shaft, the other cupping my balls. I held her hair and fucked her mouth until spit ran down her chin. When I got close I pulled her off and pushed her onto the bed on her back. She spread her legs without being asked. I climbed between them, lined up, and pushed in slow. She was tight and hot and so wet I sank all the way on the first thrust.
“Fuck,” she gasped. “You feel bigger than—”
She cut herself off. I started moving, long strokes that made the bed knock against the wall. She pulled her knees up and I went deeper. Her hands were on my ass, urging me harder. I fucked her until she came again, cunt clenching around me, then I rolled her onto her stomach and took her from behind. She pushed back onto every thrust, face buried in the pillow, moaning my name. I came deep inside her, hips grinding while she milked the last of it out of me.
We stayed like that for a while. I was still inside her when she spoke.
“This can’t happen again.”
I kissed the back of her neck. “Okay.”
It happened again that night. And the next morning. And every day after that for the three weeks I stayed.
She started leaving the door open when she changed. I’d walk past and see her bare from the waist down, bent over the dresser looking for something. One afternoon I came home from the gym and found her on the couch in just a T-shirt, legs open, fingers between them. She didn’t stop when she saw me. She watched me watch her until she came, then she crooked a finger and I went to her. She pushed me down and straddled my face, grinding until she came a second time on my tongue before she turned around and sank down on my cock.
We stopped pretending it was a one-time thing. She would text me from work: Need you when I get home. I’d be waiting naked on her bed. She’d walk in, strip in the doorway, and ride me until her thighs shook. Sometimes she wanted it slow, face to face, kissing while I moved inside her. Other times she wanted me to hold her down and fuck her hard enough that the headboard left marks on the wall.
One night after the lawyer called with another delay, she cried in the shower. I got in with her. She turned around, pressed her back to my chest, and guided my cock between her legs. I fucked her under the water while she braced her hands on the tile, the sound of her wet skin and the slap of my hips loud in the small room. Afterward she stayed in my arms and said, quiet, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re getting fucked the way you need,” I told her. “That’s all.”
She turned in my arms and kissed me. We didn’t talk about it again after that.
The last week I was there she started waking me up with her mouth. I’d open my eyes to her hair spread across my stomach, her lips stretched around me. She’d suck until I was close, then climb on and ride me until we both came. One morning she stayed on top after, still full of me, and said, “When you leave I’m going to miss this.”
“Then come visit,” I said. “Or I’ll come back.”
She smiled, slow, and rolled her hips once. “Maybe both.”
On the day I left she walked me to the car in the tank top and yoga pants again. She kissed me in the driveway, long and open-mouthed, one hand sliding down to squeeze my cock through my jeans. A neighbor was watering plants across the street. Mom didn’t care.
“Drive safe,” she said. Her voice was steady. Her eyes weren’t.
I got in the car. In the rearview mirror she stood on the porch until I turned the corner. My phone buzzed before I hit the highway.
Already wet thinking about next time. Don’t take too long.
I pulled over at the first rest stop and jerked off in the bathroom stall to the memory of her bent over the kitchen counter that first morning, nightshirt up, panties shoved aside, coming on my fingers while she tried not to make noise. Then I got back on the road and drove toward the new apartment with her taste still on my tongue and the knowledge that I’d be back in her bed the first weekend I could manage it.
The divorce went through two months later. She kept the house. The first night she had the place to herself again she called me at midnight. I was in the car twenty minutes later. She opened the door in nothing but the short nightshirt, already wet, and pulled me inside by the front of my shirt.
We didn’t make it upstairs that time either.