Her Best Friend's Mother Begs for More

Mia padded barefoot down the carpeted stairs of Lauren's house, the late-hour quiet broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator. The movie night had stretched past two in the morning, empty pizza boxes still scattered in the den, and Lauren had crashed hard in her bedroom upstairs, snoring softly with one arm flung over her face. Mia's throat felt dry from the salty snacks, so she slipped toward the kitchen in just her thin tank top and boy-short panties, the cool air conditioning tightening her nipples against the fabric.

The kitchen light was already on. Vanessa stood at the counter, backlit by the under-cabinet glow, pouring herself a glass of white wine. She wore nothing but a short silk robe the color of champagne, loosely knotted so that it gaped open over her full breasts and the dark triangle of trimmed hair between her thighs. At forty-two she looked nothing like a tired suburban mom; her body was toned from Pilates, skin smooth and golden, dark hair tumbling in loose waves past her shoulders. She turned at the sound of Mia's bare feet and smiled slowly, eyes dragging down the younger woman's bare legs.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Vanessa's voice was low, husky with wine and something thicker. She set the glass down and leaned back against the island, the robe slipping further open. One hard nipple peeked free. "Lauren's out cold. Jake's still upstairs, I think. Just us."

Mia's mouth went dry for a different reason. She had always thought Lauren's mom was hot—those long legs, the way her ass filled a pair of yoga pants—but tonight Vanessa's gaze felt like hands. "Just wanted water," Mia managed, moving to the fridge. When she turned back, Vanessa had closed the distance.