Forbidden Release

The basement gym held the heat like a closed fist. Rubber mats stuck to the soles of Desmond's bare feet, the mirrors threw back every ugly overhead light, and the heavy bag still swung on its chain with Gwen bent over it, silk robe in a pale heap on the floor, his cock buried in her to the root.

Desmond was twenty-six. He consulted for tech firms that paid him to walk into other people's messes and leave with a number. None of that composure was in the room with him now. Sweat ran down his chest and into the waistband of the shorts he'd shoved to his thighs. His hands were locked on the hips of the woman who had raised nobody and married his father when Desmond was already twenty, already out of the house, already a man with his own lease. She had never been his mother. She had been Sullivan's wife, forty-one, elegant in listing photos, pearls and a calm voice that sold houses to people who wanted to believe a kitchen could fix a life.

She was not elegant now.

"Don't you stop," Gwen said. Her voice cracked on it. "Desmond. Don't you dare stop."

He didn't. He drew back until the head of his cock tugged at her entrance and drove in again, and the bag knocked the support post with a dull thud. She made a sound he had imagined for five years and never let himself finish in his head. Not before twenty-one. He was strict with himself about that, even in the dark. The want had started the night of his twenty-first birthday, when he came back for dinner in a suit that actually fit and she looked at him across Sullivan's table like the floor had opened. Five years of gym hours timed so he wouldn't meet her on the stairs. Five years of her hand on his shoulder a second too long. Five years of both of them being good.

Sullivan was forty-four, oblivious, and on a plane path to Singapore for three months. The house above them was too big and too quiet. Gwen had come down the stairs in a robe that wouldn't stay closed and told him, shaking, that she was done being good.

Desmond had said yes. He was saying it again with his body, hips snapping, the wet sound of her pussy taking him loud in the low room.

"Harder," she said. She braced her forearms on the bag and pushed back to meet him. "Fuck me harder. I've wanted this since you were twenty-one and I hated myself for it and I still want it. Use me. Claim every hole before he comes home. I don't care how filthy it is. I asked you. I'm asking you."

He growled and folded over her back, mouth at her ear. "You think I haven't wanted to ruin my father's wife? Years. Every time you crossed the kitchen in those pants. Every time you said my name like it was safe." He wrapped her hair around his fist and yanked her head back. Her throat worked. She nodded, frantic, yes. His other hand came down on her ass, a sharp crack that jumped in the mirror, and she sobbed out a laugh that was all relief.

"Again."

He slapped the other cheek, watched the print rise, and fucked her through it, deep, mean, the angle grinding. "This isn't a mistake we're going to apologize for in the morning. This is the start. Three months. Every night I want. Your mouth. Your cunt. Your ass when I decide you've earned it. You sneak, you lie, you keep your pretty realtor face on for the neighbors, and down here you take what I give you."

"Yes." She was moaning like she had forgotten the house had windows. "Yes, stepson, yes, God, harder, I'm your whore, I've been your whore in my head since that birthday, just fuck me—"

The word landed in him like a match. Stepson. He should have hated it. He drove into her harder instead, the taboo of it slick and bright, her cunt gripping him every time he bottomed out. She was dripping down his balls. The bag creaked. In the mirror he watched his own face, young and wrecked, and hers, mouth open, forty-one and begging the man who shared a last name with her husband only on paper.

"You feel that?" he said. "That's me deciding. You came down here and begged. I'm the one who said yes. Remember it."

"I will. I'll remember all of it. Don't pull out. Not yet. Or do. I don't care. I want all of you. I want to taste what you just had in me."

He pulled out. The loss of her heat made him curse. She whimpered at the emptiness and he spun her by the hair, not cruel, not gentle, and she went with it, eyes blown, lips already parted. He didn't have to force anything. He put a hand on her shoulder and she dropped to the mat on her knees like she'd been waiting for the order since the robe hit the floor.

"You want it," he said.

"I want it." She looked up at him, mascara already a rumor under her eyes, and opened her mouth. "Give me my stepson's cock. Make me slobber on it. I need to."

He fed it to her. She took the head first, tongue flat, tasting herself, groaning like the flavor was the point. Then she sank, sloppy, spit spilling over her chin onto her bare tits, one hand braced on his thigh and the other shoved between her legs. He heard the wet work of her fingers in her pussy while she deepthroated him, gagging once, pulling off in a string of spit, going back down because she wanted to, not because he held her there. He held her hair. He let her set the depth until she looked up and nodded, and then he used her mouth in short thrusts, careful of her teeth, filthy with the sounds.

"Look at you," he said. "Sullivan's wife on her knees in the gym, fingering herself while she chokes on me. You like being this?"

She pulled off, chin shining. "I love being this. I've been so proper for so long I could scream. Fuck my throat. Then put me on the wall. I want to see it."

He let her suck him until his thighs shook and the urge to finish down her throat almost won. Almost. He hauled her up by the arms. She came willingly, laughing once, breathless, and he walked her backward into the mirrored wall. The glass was cold on her shoulder blades. He hooked her thigh, then the other, and she locked her ankles behind his back, forty-one years of yoga and sheer stubbornness keeping her up while he lined himself up and pushed back into her cunt in one long stroke.

"Oh—" Her head hit the mirror. "Oh, fuck, Desmond, there, stay there."

He stayed, buried, and then he didn't stay. He fucked her standing, the mirrors multiplying them into a crowd of the same sin: his ass flexing, her heels digging into him, her tits bouncing, her mouth open against his. She kissed him like she was trying to climb inside his teeth. He kissed her back and tasted spit and her own pussy and didn't care. Every thrust shoved a small broken sound out of her. Her nails raked his shoulders. She was heavy and perfect in his arms, not a fantasy, a woman who sold houses and did her own taxes and had chosen this.

"You're going to come on my cock before I move you," he said.

"I'm close. Talk to me. Tell me what we are."

"We're a secret that's going to wreck the dinner table if we're stupid." He fucked up into her, grinding her clit against him. "And tonight we're stupid. Come."

She came with her face in his neck, shaking, cunt fluttering around him in pulses he felt in his spine. He held her through it, still hard, still inside, kissing her temple because the rawness had a soft place in it and he wasn't interested in pretending it didn't. When she could breathe she laughed against his skin.

"Weight bench," she said. "I want you over me. I want your hand on my throat if you can do it light. I'll tap your wrist if it's too much. I want to feel owned and I want to be able to say stop."

"You say stop, I stop."

"I know. That's why I can ask."

He carried her the three steps because he could, because she clung and trusted the hold, and laid her on the bench. The vinyl was cracked and smelled like his sweat from a thousand ordinary workouts. Nothing about this was ordinary. He pushed her knees up and out and sank back into her missionary, the angle deep enough that her eyes rolled and her hand flew to his wrist, not to stop him, to pull his palm to her throat.

He set it there, light, a collar more than a squeeze. She could talk. She did.

"Yes. Like that. Look at me while you fuck me. I want the man, not the idea."

He looked. Gwen under him, hair stuck to her cheek, mouth swollen, the respectable stepmother gone and the woman left, taking every stroke and asking for more with her hips. He pounded her, the bench creaking, his balls slapping her ass, his hand steady on her throat so she felt the weight and never the choke. She didn't tap. She scratched his ribs and told him she was his, told him to ruin her, told him Sullivan had never fucked her like this and she was glad, glad, glad.

"You keep saying his name," Desmond said, and drove in harder.

"Because it makes it worse. Better. Because I married him and I'm choosing you on his equipment in his house. Because I want you to know I'm not confused." She clenched around him. "I'm not drunk. I'm not asleep. I walked down those stairs to get fucked by my stepson and I am getting exactly what I begged for."

He almost lost it. He pulled out instead, flipped her with hands that shook, and bent her over the bench the way he'd had her over the bag, ass up, cheek to the vinyl, one of her hands reaching back to spread herself.

"In me," she said. "Finish in me. I want the first one. I want to drip on this floor and know it's yours. Creampie your father's wife, Desmond. Do it. I'm yours. Say it when you do."

"You're mine." He slammed back in, the welcome of her so wet he saw stars, and fucked her like the three months had already started and the clock was a dare. "You're mine. This cunt is mine until he lands. This mouth. This—" He slapped her ass again and she screamed yes into the bench. "You're going to take every load I have and you're going to thank me."

"Thank you—fuck—thank you, harder, I'm coming again, don't stop, flood me, I'm yours, I'm yours—"

She came screaming it, the word his breaking apart, and he followed her over, hips jammed flush, cock pulsing as he pumped her full. The first taboo creampie of the trip, hot and thick, and he stayed buried while he emptied, groaning into her shoulder, one hand still gentle at her throat until he remembered and lifted it to stroke her hair instead. She shook under him and reached back to hold his hip, keeping him deep, milking the last of it with little rolls of her ass.

They stayed like that until the bag stopped swinging and the only sound was their breath and the tick of the house.

He eased out. Cum followed, a slow white spill over her pussy and down her thigh onto the mat. She made a small, ruined noise and didn't close her legs. Desmond dropped to his knees behind her and watched it, chest heaving, the sight hitting him harder than the orgasm had. His. For now. For ninety nights if they didn't crack.

Gwen turned over on the bench, spent, thighs glistening, and pulled him up by the jaw. She kissed him possessive and slow, tongue lazy, like she was signing something.

"I'm going to sneak into your bed every night he's gone," she whispered. "Not just the gym. Your room. My mouth on you before you're fully awake, if you want that, and I'll ask first. I'll ride you while the house is dark. I'll take you in the shower. This affair isn't the explosion. This is the door. We keep the secret or we burn the family down, and I am not ready to burn it. I am ready to be filthy for you until the morning he comes home. You understand me?"

"I understand you." He kissed her again, tasting salt. "Every night. You knock. I open."

She smiled against his mouth, soft and dangerous, the realtor calm sliding back over the wreckage like a coat. For a second he thought the reversal was only that she had been the desperate one and now she was holding the leash.

Then she put her lips to his ear.

"I didn't wait for your father to leave," she whispered. "I sent him."