Darkroom Fuck With Stepmom

The champagne flutes clinked like distant bells under the crystal chandeliers of the old estate ballroom, light fracturing across marble floors polished to a wet sheen. I adjusted the strap of my camera bag and watched my stepsister twirl in her white silk gown, laughing into her new husband's neck. The whole place smelled of gardenias, melted candle wax, and the faint metallic tang of money that had soaked into these walls for generations. I was twenty-eight, the hired family photographer for the night even though blood—or the lack of it—made me family enough. My real job was capturing the smiles. My real distraction was standing three tables away in a dress the color of wet midnight.

Vanessa.

Forty-two and somehow more dangerous than she had been the day my father married her twelve years ago. The years had only sharpened her. Blonde hair twisted up with loose strands kissing the nape of her neck, lips painted a soft berry that made me think of biting. The dress clung to the full curve of her hips and the heavy sway of her breasts every time she turned to accept another congratulation. I had spent half the reception framing shots that somehow always included the line of her spine or the way her thigh flashed when she crossed her legs. Stolen glances. Years of them. She knew. I knew she knew.

Ryan appeared at my elbow like a bad habit, two fingers of scotch already sweating in his glass. Twenty-six, cocky grin, the same sharp jaw our shared father had given both of us even if only one of us carried the blood. “Little brother still playing peeping Tom with the long lens?” He clapped my shoulder hard enough to jostle the camera. “Mom looks fucking edible tonight, doesn’t she? Dad’s already half in the bag. Somebody’s getting lucky later.”

I forced a laugh that tasted like ash. “Keep it classy, Ry.”

“Classy is for the speeches.” He leaned closer, breath warm with liquor. “You’ve been staring at her tits since the ceremony. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Hell, half the groomsmen have. She’s got that stepmom magic—makes every guy in the room feel twelve and hard at the same time.”

I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up. Instead I lifted the camera and caught Vanessa mid-laugh, head thrown back, throat exposed. The shutter clicked. When I lowered it she was looking straight at me across the crowded floor, eyes dark and knowing. She raised her own glass in a tiny private toast, then crooked one elegant finger.

I crossed to her through the press of tuxedos and perfume. Up close the scent of her was worse—expensive jasmine and warm skin. She touched my forearm, fingers lingering.

“Jake. You’ve been working too hard. The pictures can wait.” Her voice was low, private, the same velvet she used when she used to tuck me in after Dad worked late. “I have a roll of film from the private family brunch this morning. Just us. No guests. I want them developed tonight, properly, the old way. The estate still has that darkroom in the east wing basement. After everyone thins out… would you?”