It was my stepson’s 21st birthday, and the house was packed with drunk twenty-somethings, loud music, and too many bottles lying around. I played hostess in a fitted dress that made me feel like trouble — and I knew I looked it.
His friend, Jay, had been watching me all night. One of those gym-hardened boys with tattoos peeking out from under his tee, all cocky charm and hungry eyes. He flirted hard, and I let it simmer — a brush of his hand here, a whisper in my ear there.
Later, while everyone was busy inside, I stepped out to the garage for a breather. Jay followed, acting like it was coincidence, but we both knew better. One look, and I dropped to my knees right there between the tool bench and the beer cooler, his jeans undone in seconds. I wrapped my lips around him, taking my time — slow, teasing, sloppy.
When he couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed me, spun me around, and I hiked one leg up onto a dusty old box so he could take me from behind. I moaned through gritted teeth, biting my knuckle to stay quiet while he pounded me like he owned me.
He stayed the night, “loitering” on the couch like nothing happened. But just before sunrise, I came downstairs in just a robe. He was still up, and we locked eyes. No words. I straddled him instantly, our mouths crashing together. His cock was hard in seconds, and my lips were around it again before he even caught his breath.
Then he laid me back, pulled the robe open, and went down on me like he’d been fantasising about it for weeks. Tongue, fingers — he was so good I nearly screamed. I climbed on top of him, wet and aching, and rode him slow, milking every inch, until we both finished in a mess of sweat and whispered curses.
He left before anyone woke up. But I still get wet remembering the look he gave me as he walked out the door — like he knew he’d be back for more.