Midnight Snack With Stepmom

The house was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Vanessa padded barefoot across the cool tile floor of the kitchen at 1:17 a.m., the hem of her thin silk robe whispering against her thick thighs. The robe—emerald green, bought on a whim two summers ago—clung to her full, heavy breasts and the soft curve of her belly before flaring over wide hips. At forty-two she had long stopped pretending her body was anything but lush and ripe. Her husband, Mark, had been gone for nine days on another “business trip,” and the ache between her legs had grown louder than the growl in her stomach.

She wanted something sweet. Chocolate. Ice cream. Anything to fill the empty, restless feeling that had been gnawing at her for weeks. She opened the freezer door, letting the cold air wash over her flushed skin, and bent slightly to peer inside. The silk rode up the backs of her thighs. A shiver rolled through her—not entirely from the cold.

A soft sound behind her made her freeze.

Ryan stood at the opposite end of the open peninsula, one hand still gripping the refrigerator door he had just closed. Shirtless. Low-slung gray sweatpants. The dim under-cabinet lighting painted every ridge of his nineteen-year-old abdomen in warm gold and deep shadow. A carton of milk dangled forgotten in his other hand. His eyes—dark, hungry, unmistakably locked on the way the robe had ridden up—slowly traveled up the length of her body until they met hers.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft click of the freezer door as Vanessa let it swing shut.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, her voice huskier than she intended.

Ryan’s throat worked. “Something like that.” His gaze dropped again, this time openly tracing the deep valley between her breasts where the robe had loosened. “You?”

Vanessa felt heat bloom low in her belly. She had caught him staring before—quick, guilty glances when she wore yoga pants or bent over in the garden. She had told herself it was nothing. Normal teenage hormones. But tonight the air felt charged, electric, as though years of stolen looks and bitten-back words had finally snapped the wire holding them back.

“I was craving something sweet,” she murmured, leaning one hip against the counter. The movement caused the robe to part another inch, revealing the inner swell of one breast and the soft underside of the other. “Turns out the kitchen’s already occupied.”

Ryan set the milk down with a dull clunk. He didn’t step closer, but the way his shoulders tensed told her he wanted to. “I’ve been occupying this kitchen a lot lately. Around the same time every night. Hoping maybe…” He trailed off, jaw tight.

“Hoping maybe what, Ryan?” Vanessa’s pulse hammered in her throat. She knew she should pull the robe closed. She should laugh, tease him about raiding the fridge, and go back to bed. Instead she let the silk slip another deliberate inch, baring the stiff peak of one nipple to the cool air.