Vanessa Begs at the Kitchen Sink for Stepmom

I stepped through the back door on Friday afternoon and the house smelled like lemons and warm skin. The place was too quiet. Dad and Chloe had left that morning for their annual father-daughter camping trip upstate, something they’d done every year since I was twelve. That left only Vanessa.

She was at the sink.

The thin yellow sundress clung to her like it had given up trying to behave. The fabric stretched tight across the heavy swell of her breasts and ended high on her thighs, the hem fluttering against smooth, tanned skin every time she shifted her weight. Forty-one years old and she still looked like every filthy daydream I’d tried to kill since the day my father married her.

I set my duffel down. “Hey.”

Vanessa glanced over her shoulder. Her dark hair was piled loosely on top of her head, a few damp strands stuck to the back of her neck. The look she gave me was the same one she’d been giving me for years—half welcome, half warning. Her full lips parted, then pressed together again.

“Jake. You’re early.” Her voice had that low, smoky quality that always went straight to my cock. “I thought you weren’t getting in until tonight.”

“Last class got canceled.” I walked toward her, telling myself I was only going for a glass of water. The kitchen felt smaller than I remembered. Every step brought me closer to the soft curve of her ass, the way the dress rode up just enough to show the crease where thigh met cheek.

She reached for another plate, and the motion made her breasts sway heavily inside the dress. No bra. Jesus. The thin cotton was nearly translucent where it clung to the sweat between her tits. I stopped right behind her, close enough that my belt buckle brushed the small of her back.

“Excuse me,” I murmured, reaching past her for a glass. My forearm grazed the side of one breast. She didn’t flinch. If anything, she leaned into the contact for half a second before catching herself.

The air between us crackled.