I’d just stepped out of the shower, the steam still clinging to my skin, and wrapped a towel tightly around myself—maybe a little too tightly. It pushed my chest up more than I’d meant, but I didn’t think much of it. I was only walking down the hall to get dressed.
Then I heard it—someone shouting.
“You fucking bitch!”
I froze.
The voice had come from Marcus’s room. He was supposed to be getting ready for his Valentine’s date with Carla. I hesitated a second, then padded down the hall, my bare feet silent on the floor.
His door was half open. I pushed it gently. “Marcus? Hey… are you okay?”
He was standing in the middle of the room, phone clenched in one hand, the other hanging rigid by his side. His face was flushed a dark, angry red. Clothes were tossed haphazardly across the bed—shirts, jeans, a tie on the floor like he’d thrown it in disgust. His hair was a mess, like he’d been dragging his hands through it over and over. And he hadn’t even changed out of his joggers yet.
He didn’t speak right away. Just stared at the phone like he wanted to burn a hole through the screen with sheer force of will. His jaw was set tight. I could see the muscles twitching in his neck.
Then he looked up—slowly. His eyes were blazing, but beneath all that fury was something else. Hurt. Deep, gutted hurt.
“Okay?” he repeated, his voice rough and tight. Nothing like the usual teasing tone I was used to. He held up the phone and then let his arm drop with a frustrated laugh that sounded more like a growl. “No, I’m not fucking okay, Mum. Do you know what that… that bitch just did?”
He flung the phone onto the bed. It bounced once, then landed face down in a heap of t-shirts. He ran his hands through his hair again, gripping it like he needed to keep himself from losing it completely.
“She cancelled,” he said bitterly, turning towards me. “Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to pick her up. Fifteen. And not only that—she’s going with Kyle instead. Kyle! On Valentine’s Day!”
I brought a hand to my chest, instinctively. The towel shifted slightly, but I didn’t move. My stomach tightened at the look on his face—rage and betrayal, all wrapped into one.
“Oh, Marcus…” I murmured, stepping inside the room. The chill of the hallway still clung to my damp skin, making me hyper-aware of how little I was wearing, but I pushed the thought aside. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”
He let out a dry, humourless laugh. “Looks like I’m not getting any action tonight,” he muttered, then added, “Not that you care.”
I blinked. That part stung a little—not what he said, exactly, but the way he said it. He wasn’t normally like that with me. Blunt, sure, but not cruel. Still, he was hurting. I reminded myself of that. And yes, I understood what he meant… more than he probably realised. It had been years for me. Not that he needed to know that.
I stayed where I was, unsure what to do with my hands. My towel wasn’t doing much to keep the cold off now. But my son needed me. That was what mattered.
I took a slow breath and stepped further into the room, past the tie and the jeans crumpled on the floor.
“Marcus,” I said gently, keeping my voice low, calm. “Forget that last bit, okay? This isn’t about sex. This is about someone hurting you—someone you cared about. And it’s okay to be upset.”
He met my eyes again. The anger had started to ebb, replaced by something softer, more fragile. His shoulders sagged slightly, as if the fire had gone out of him.
“How could she do that to me?” he whispered, voice cracking. “We had plans. I got her that necklace she wanted, booked a dinner. I was gonna do everything right.”
He looked away, gaze flicking to the posters on his wall like they might have an answer. “Everyone else has someone.”
God, my heart. For all his height and confidence, he was still my boy. Still someone who wanted to be loved.
“Not everyone,” I said quietly, reaching out and resting a hand on his arm. His skin was warm beneath my fingers, his muscles tense, like he hadn’t relaxed all day. “And Carla… if she could throw you away like that, she’s not the one. She’s not worth the tears, love.”
He let out a half-laugh, part scoff, part sob. “Easy for you to say.”
I gave his arm a small squeeze. I didn’t say anything back. Not yet.
Because the truth was, it wasn’t easy. Not for me either.
He let out a half-laugh, part scoff, part sob. “Easy for you to say.”
I didn’t answer straight away. My fingers stayed lightly on his arm, the warmth of his skin grounding me. I was still damp from the shower, the towel clinging uncomfortably to my back. But for some reason, I didn’t want to move. Not yet.
“It’s not as easy as you think,” I said after a beat, my voice softer now, almost distant. “I haven’t been on a date in years, Marcus. Not since… well, not since your dad.”
He turned toward me, surprised. “Really?”
I smiled faintly. “Really. No grand romance. No texts. No awkward Valentine’s dinners or hurried kisses in the car. Just… me. And whatever Netflix can offer.”
He let out a dry chuckle, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little. “So we’re both pathetic, then?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself. I had a lovely bath and a glass of chardonnay lined up.”
“Wow, Mum. Living the dream.”
We both laughed then—low and slightly shaky, but real. The moment hung there between us, oddly tender. He looked older than he had even an hour ago. Less boy, more man. I noticed it in the way he carried himself now, the quiet ache behind his humour.
“Do you want me to stay in?” I asked gently. “We could do something together. Watch something dumb. Order takeaway. You don’t have to sit in here alone, not tonight.”
He paused, like he was weighing whether it would make him feel worse or better. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be cool.”
I smiled and started to turn toward the door. “Alright, I’ll throw something on—”
“You don’t have to,” he interrupted, a little too quickly.
I turned back. He was looking at me again, eyes flicking briefly down to where my towel dipped low over my chest before snapping back to my face. There was a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes, then something else. Something a little complicated.
My breath caught just slightly.
He looked away again, pretending to busy himself picking up the tie from the floor. “I mean… it’s not like I care what you wear. You look… fine.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, heart giving a small, confusing thump. “Well, I do care. I’m freezing.”
That made him grin. “Fair.”
I lingered a second longer in the doorway than I meant to. The towel shifted again slightly as I moved, and I adjusted it without thinking, aware of his glance even though he was pretending not to look.
There was nothing between us. Of course not. He was my son.
But in that moment, there was something hovering—a shared loneliness, maybe. A rawness. A deep awareness of each other as people, not just mother and son. Two people who’d both been let down by love, sitting in the quiet spaces of what should have been a better night.
“Five minutes,” I said quietly. “Pick a film. Nothing depressing.”
He nodded without looking at me, still half-smiling.
As I stepped out into the hallway, I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding.
I took my time in the bedroom, not rushing, not exactly sure why.
The drawer stuck slightly as I opened it, the old runners catching. I pulled out the soft lilac nightie I hadn’t worn in months. It wasn’t anything scandalous—spaghetti straps, a low scooped neckline trimmed with lace, and a hem that stopped mid-thigh. But it made me feel… like a woman again. Not just someone’s mother.
I slid it on slowly, letting the cool silk slip over my skin. My hair was still damp, clinging in places. I padded to the mirror, checking the fit, adjusting the neckline slightly. It showed just enough. More than I usually would in front of Marcus—but this wasn’t a usual night.
The house was quiet as I stepped back out. I paused in the hallway, listening for movement, a rustle, his voice. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the television and the low murmur of voices from whatever film he’d picked.
When I walked into the lounge, he was curled into the corner of the sofa, hoodie off now, just a fitted black t-shirt hugging his frame. He looked up, and for a second his expression faltered.
He didn’t speak, didn’t make a joke or comment. But his eyes lingered.
I walked past him to the kitchen, the hem of the nightie brushing softly against my thighs as I moved, and I could feel the cool air across the tops of my breasts. I took out the wine—something red, rich—and poured two glasses. Not really something you give a teenager, but Marcus was nineteen, and tonight called for small comforts.
“Wine?” I asked, holding it up.
He smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t say no.”
When I sat beside him, close but not too close, I could feel the warmth of his arm near mine. He took the wine and sipped it like he was pretending to be grown, and I laughed quietly under my breath.
“What?” he asked.
“You always make that face. Like you’re trying to like it.”
“I do like it,” he lied.
I smiled and looked at the screen. Some old action film he must’ve picked for nostalgia. Something from when he was a kid.
We sat like that for a while, sipping, watching. Not talking much. The quiet started to feel comforting. Easy.
Then I felt it—his arm brushing mine. A tiny touch, probably nothing, but he didn’t move it. And I didn’t either.
I glanced over. He was looking at the screen, lips slightly parted, brows furrowed like he was trying to concentrate. But his eyes darted, just once, downwards. To the dip of my neckline.
And then quickly back up again.
He noticed that I noticed.
“Sorry,” he said, too fast. “Didn’t mean to—”
“It’s alright,” I said, gently. “I know.”
He nodded, not looking at me, but the tension shifted slightly. Not heavier. Just… different. Charged in a way that wasn’t wrong, but wasn’t familiar either.
I finished the last of my wine and leaned back into the cushions, the thin fabric of my nightie catching slightly at the side of his t-shirt. We didn’t say anything more for a long time. But the silence between us wasn’t empty.
It was full. With something neither of us could quite name.
The film flickered on, scenes of explosions and one-liners playing out in the dark room, but neither of us was watching anymore.
My glass was empty. His too. But I hadn’t moved. I sat close enough that our arms touched now, not just brushed. And that light touch had turned into something firmer, more constant. Like gravity pulling skin to skin. I could feel his warmth through the nightie. The curve of his bicep where it pressed gently into mine.
I could also feel his breathing—slower than before, but deeper. Not relaxed. Not fully.
He shifted slightly, as if trying to get more comfortable, and in doing so, his thigh nudged against mine. It stayed there. I didn’t pull away. My heart gave a small, uncertain beat.
I glanced at him.
He wasn’t watching the film. He was watching me—head slightly tilted, mouth half open. Not in a deliberate way, not some smirk or line, just a kind of confused, almost vulnerable stillness. Like he wasn’t sure how we’d gotten here either.
“You alright?” I asked, my voice a touch quieter than I’d meant.
He blinked like I’d pulled him from a dream. “Yeah. Yeah, just…” He looked away for a second, then back. “You look… nice. Different.”
I laughed gently, partly from nerves. “You’ve seen me in worse.”
“Yeah, but…” His voice trailed off. He ran a hand through his hair again. “I dunno. You look really good tonight.”
There was a pause.
I didn’t respond. Not at first. Because there was something in the way he said it—soft, tentative, not teasing. It wasn’t the kind of comment a son should make. Not if he meant it like that.
And I wasn’t sure he hadn’t.
My chest rose and fell slowly beneath the nightie, the lace edging shifting slightly with every breath. I could feel the fabric pull across me. I could feel his gaze flick downward again before he caught himself.
“You don’t have to say that,” I murmured.
“But I’m not lying,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to stare earlier. I just… you looked really beautiful. I wasn’t expecting it. And I guess I didn’t realise I’d… notice.”
That word—notice—landed strangely between us.
We weren’t touching anywhere new, and yet everything felt more connected. His knee stayed pressed to mine. Our arms still rested side by side. It was nothing. And yet not.
“I guess we’ve both been alone a bit too long,” I said, trying to make light of it.
He smiled, but it was sadder this time. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Another silence. But this one wasn’t empty either. It had a weight to it. My heart was beating louder than the film. I didn’t know what would happen if we stayed like this. I didn’t know what I wanted to happen.
Then his hand shifted slightly, just the edge of it brushing against my thigh. Bare skin. Just barely. Not deliberate—at least I hoped not—but it stayed there. Neither of us moved.
The moment stretched, trembled.
I turned my head. So did he. Our faces close now, close enough that I could feel the soft heat of his breath.
“Marcus…” I said softly.
He swallowed. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came out. Just that look again—wide, uncertain, wanting.
I stood up.
Not quickly. Not harshly. Just enough to let the moment release its grip.
“I should probably head to bed,” I said, smoothing down the hem of my nightie. My voice was steady, but my hands weren’t.
He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”
But his eyes didn’t leave mine. Not right away. And mine didn’t leave his.
“Goodnight, love,” I said gently.
“’Night, Mum,” he replied, and there was something quiet in it. Something almost like regret.
I turned and walked down the hall, my bare feet making soft sounds against the floor, heart thudding in my chest.
In the silence of my room, I stood for a long moment before climbing into bed.
The house was still. Too still.
I lay on my side, facing the wall, the thin sheets twisted around my legs. The nightie clung to my skin in places, the cool air from the hallway drifting through the gap under the door. I should’ve been asleep. I’d tried—closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, buried my thoughts.
But my body wouldn’t settle.
I kept replaying it—his eyes, the way his voice had gone soft, the warmth of his knee against mine. That tiny accidental touch on my thigh. And the way he’d looked at me, like I wasn’t just his mum, like I was… something else for a moment. Someone he’d noticed.
A gentle knock broke the silence. Not loud. Just two soft taps.
I sat up slowly, heart rising in my chest. “Yes?”
“Mum… it’s me.”
His voice, hushed. Careful.
I hesitated, then crossed the room and opened the door.
Marcus stood there in the dim glow of the hallway light, barefoot, still in that black tee and joggers. His hair was a little flatter now, like he’d been lying down but couldn’t stay still. He looked tired—but also restless. Like something had been gnawing at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep. My head’s all over the place.”
I stepped back. “Come in, then.”
He entered quietly, glancing around the room like he hadn’t been in here in years, even though he probably had. I closed the door behind him.
He sat down on the edge of my bed, not right in the middle, not too close. I sat beside him, knees barely brushing. The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It just waited.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said eventually, voice low. “I shouldn’t feel like this… like I’m this messed up over some girl who clearly didn’t care. But it’s not just that.”
I looked at him, my head tilted. “What do you mean?”
He swallowed hard, stared at his hands. “It’s like… I keep noticing everything lately. Things I didn’t before. People. Feelings. You.”
That last word caught. Hung there.
I didn’t speak. My breath was caught between ribs.
He shook his head, clearly struggling. “You were always just Mum. I mean, not just. You were everything. But tonight, you were… different. You walked in like…” He broke off. “And I shouldn’t be saying this, I know I shouldn’t, but I keep thinking about how lonely we both are. And how weird it is that I only noticed it now. Not just yours. Mine too.”
I reached out gently, touched his hand. It was warm, tense.
“Marcus, we’re allowed to feel lonely,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean we’re broken. It just means we’re… human. Wanting something doesn’t make you bad.”
He looked at me then. Full on. No dodging.
“You looked beautiful tonight, Mum. I can’t unsee that. And I don’t want to feel like I’ve done something wrong for noticing.”
My heart was thudding. I was painfully aware of the thin strap of the nightie slipping slightly down my shoulder, the way my legs were curled beneath me, the closeness of our bodies in the quiet.
“I’m still your mother,” I whispered. But the words didn’t carry judgment. They carried… uncertainty.
“I know,” he said, just as quietly. “But for a moment, it didn’t feel like that was all you were.”
His hand turned beneath mine. Our palms touched, fingers ghosting together—not gripping. Just resting.
I didn’t pull away.
And he didn’t move.
The air between us held its breath.
But we didn’t kiss. We didn’t do anything. Just sat there, suspended in that strange, silent ache. Two people more exposed emotionally than physically, knowing something had shifted, but unsure what to do with it.
Eventually, I squeezed his hand, gently.
“You should try to sleep,” I said softly. “Come lie down. Just sleep.”
He looked at me, searching for something in my face. Then nodded.
He slid into the bed, careful, like he didn’t want to startle the moment. I pulled back the covers up over us and we lay there, side by side. His shoulder against mine. Neither of us moving. Just quiet.
He closed his eyes.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
The silence of the room was thick, like a blanket. The only sound was the occasional creak of the house settling and the soft, slow rhythm of Marcus’s breathing beside me.
He’d shifted slightly, his arm brushing against mine again as we lay there. Just that light, warm contact, nothing more. But my skin felt aware of it, my body attuned to every inch of space between us—and every point where there wasn’t space at all.
I turned onto my side, slowly, carefully, facing away from him. The hem of my nightie rode up a little at the back as I moved. I felt the air slip across the backs of my thighs. I didn’t pull it down.
A few minutes passed. Maybe more. Then I felt him stir behind me. He shifted onto his side too, mirroring me. His breath tickled the back of my neck—closer now. I didn’t know if he was asleep or hovering in that space between.
Then I felt it. His hand—tentative, unsure—resting gently on my waist.
Not gripping. Not pushing. Just… there.
I froze, breath caught in my throat. But I didn’t move away. His hand stayed where it was, fingers barely curved around the dip of my side. It was warm, trembling faintly. I closed my eyes.
He wasn’t trying anything. He wasn’t saying a word. But something about the way he touched me—just to feel close, just to feel comfort—sent a low hum through my chest.
Then, even softer, I heard him.
“I didn’t mean to ruin this,” he whispered, almost inaudible. “I just didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I murmured.
His fingers tightened slightly, as if in response. Then his forehead pressed gently between my shoulder blades, and I felt the slow, steady exhale against my skin.
I let him stay there.
I let the moment stay as it was. No more. No less.
Because the ache in both of us was real. And right now, this was the only place it could soften.
Time slipped.
I wasn’t sure if I’d fallen asleep or simply drifted into that place just beneath it. The room felt like it was floating—weightless and warm, filled with our quiet breathing and the faint pulse of shared heat under the sheets.
Marcus hadn’t moved much. His hand still rested lightly at my waist, but I could feel the subtle twitch of his fingers now and then, like he was dreaming.
Then I felt something more.
His body pressed closer—not with urgency, not aggressively—just a slow, unconscious slide forward. His chest met my back, the shape of him aligning against me naturally, the way two tired bodies do when they’ve shared warmth too long.
I felt the firm shape of him—his chest rising and falling against my shoulder blades, the softness of his breath near my ear. Then, gently, his arm curved around me. Not possessively. Just drawn in. Like gravity. Like instinct.
And then came the smallest thing.
His nose brushing the back of my neck. A soft, unthinking gesture. Then lips—barely parted—rested there. Not a kiss. Not really. Just skin to skin. Still. Warm.
A second passed. Then two.
I didn’t breathe.
I didn’t speak.
Because I wasn’t sure if he was awake. If I was. If this was real or some hazy spillover of longing and heartbreak, loneliness and comfort, all blurring in the dark.
But I didn’t move away.
His arm pulled just slightly tighter, drawing me in so my back fit into the curve of him, his forehead pressing into the side of my head like he needed it there. I could feel the beat of his heart in his chest, slow and steady against my spine.
Then a whisper—soft and broken, not meant to be heard:
“You feel so good…”
My lips parted. A breath escaped.
But I still didn’t move.
I didn’t know if I was dreaming. I didn’t want to know.
The room was still dark, though the faintest hint of grey was beginning to press against the curtains. That fragile time before dawn—when nothing feels quite real, but everything feels possible.
I wasn’t asleep.
Not fully.
And neither was he.
His arm still circled my waist, his chest pressed against my back, his breath warm and steady. That alone was enough to keep my body taut, aware of every heartbeat, every shared breath.
Then he shifted.
Just slightly.
His leg moved forward, sliding between mine without force, without thought. It wasn’t intentional—at least not consciously—but the inside of his thigh came to rest against the soft back of mine. Skin to skin. His knee nestled in gently, naturally, until we were locked there. Held.
I stilled.
My body reacted—subtle but real. My breath caught, my thighs tightened. The silk of my nightie bunched higher from the movement, baring more of me to the air. Or to him.
And his hand—still resting at my waist—drifted slightly.
Just a few centimetres lower.
It wasn’t groping. Not deliberate. But it brushed along the curve of my hip, fingers splaying across my lower stomach, dangerously near that soft place just below. He was warm. So warm. The weight of his palm there sent a quiet throb through me—shocking and gentle at once.
He exhaled in his sleep. Or maybe it wasn’t sleep at all.
Then I felt it—his body’s response. A firmness pressing against the curve of my lower back. Subtle, then more distinct. Hesitant. Then undeniably there.
My body stiffened for a beat… but I didn’t move.
Because something inside me—a quiet, aching part—wanted to be held. To be felt. To be wanted, even if it was wrong. Even if it was only comfort mistaken for closeness. Even if it was fleeting.
I breathed in slowly, deeply.
He shifted again, gently, like he was adjusting without meaning to—but his hand didn’t leave my skin. It stayed low. Familiar. As if he’d always touched me there. As if this wasn’t new.
A sound escaped his throat. Not a word. Just something caught between a sigh and a murmur. And then:
“…Mum…”
It was barely a whisper. The sound of it trembled against my skin, like a name spoken in a dream you didn’t want to wake from.
I didn’t move right away. My body felt pinned—not by force, but by something deeper. The weight of what we were, what we weren’t supposed to be. And yet… how easily we fit.
His hand was still resting low on my stomach, just above the lace hem of the nightie. I could feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin silk. Every nerve beneath them had come alive. I wasn’t breathing normally. Neither was he.
Then his hand moved again—slow, tentative.
Not downward.
But inward.
His palm flattened more fully against my belly, his fingers spreading slightly, almost protective. His nose brushed the curve of my shoulder, lips feathering near the strap of the nightie.
“I didn’t mean…” he began, voice husky with sleep and something else. “I wasn’t thinking. It just… happened.”
I turned then.
Slowly. Carefully.
Our bodies shifted, now face to face beneath the dim light filtering through the window. My hand came up and rested lightly on his chest, fingers grazing the cotton of his t-shirt, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.
“Marcus,” I said quietly, my voice barely a murmur. “This is dangerous.”
“I know,” he said, eyes locked on mine.
He didn’t look away. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t playing. His eyes were wide, raw, almost afraid. And yet there was something else there too. Wanting. Needing. Not just for comfort. For something that scared us both.
“But I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, a little more firmly now. “Not just tonight. Before. It’s like I’ve been walking around not seeing anything until I saw you again—like this. And I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t stop.”
His hand slid up, slowly, until it brushed the edge of my ribcage beneath the nightie, then stopped. No pressure. Just the warmth of his skin against mine, his thumb resting in the curve beneath my breast.
I didn’t stop him.
“I should tell you to go back to your room,” I said, but the words had no real weight.
“Do you want me to?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else. His hand stayed where it was. Mine drifted upwards, brushing against the side of his neck, fingers in his hair. He closed his eyes briefly at the touch—like it soothed something.
“Mum…” he said again, but this time it wasn’t confusion or fear. It was reverence.
His breath mingled with mine, soft and unsteady, a rhythm that wasn’t quite matched to the thudding in my chest. Our faces were close—so close I could see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the tension in his brow, the vulnerability carved into the corners of his mouth.
He didn’t lean in first.
I did.
Barely.
My lips brushed his. A tremble more than a touch. A second of madness, or mercy, or maybe something that had been waiting—quiet and buried—for longer than either of us dared admit.
He didn’t pull away.
He kissed me back.
Gently at first, with a kind of stunned hesitation. His lips were warm, soft, tasting faintly of wine and something sweeter—something his. The kiss deepened just a breath more, a tilt of heads, the press of mouths that weren’t frantic, but deeply, achingly present.
He let out a soft sound—half sigh, half shudder—and his hand, still resting at the edge of my ribs, moved upward slightly, his fingers skimming the swell of my breast through the nightie. He didn’t grab. He didn’t grope. He just held, reverently, as if afraid he might wake up and lose this.
My own hand slid along his jaw, thumb tracing the line just beneath his cheekbone. I didn’t realise I was shaking until I felt the tremble in his lips too. We were both trembling.
When the kiss finally broke, it was slow, like neither of us really meant to end it. His forehead leaned gently against mine, and we just breathed there, our bodies still tangled in silence.
“Mum…” he whispered again, voice cracking slightly.
I didn’t hush him. I didn’t scold him. I just let the moment exist.
“I know,” I said, closing my eyes. “I know.”
Because whatever this was—it was fragile. And complicated. And completely real.
We stayed there, face to face in the half-light, lips still tingling, hearts still racing, knowing everything had changed, and unsure if we wanted to undo it.
We stayed there, lying close in the stillness, our foreheads touching, our breaths brushing softly between us. No one moved. Not really. Just the occasional shift of fingertips, the slight rise and fall of chests not quite synchronised.
Then his hand moved again.
Slow. Deliberate.
It slid from the curve of my breast back down to my waist, then further—to the dip of my hip, where the hem of the nightie began. He didn’t lift it. He didn’t push. He just rested his hand there, warm and steady, like he was learning the shape of me through the dark.
“Are you alright?” he whispered.
I opened my eyes. He was staring at me again, his gaze clearer than before, almost like he was bracing for regret. But there wasn’t any. Not in me.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “Are you?”
He nodded, slow. “I just… I don’t want to stop touching you. I’ve never felt this kind of calm before.”
His thumb began tracing tiny circles along my hipbone, almost absentmindedly. My breath hitched.
He leaned in again. The kiss was softer this time, slower, with a sort of reverence that made my throat tighten. His hand moved up again, this time under the fabric of the nightie, bare skin on bare skin now. My stomach tensed slightly at the contact, but not from fear. From need. The ache of being noticed, held, known.
“I don’t know what this means,” he whispered against my lips.
“Neither do I,” I admitted. My fingers threaded gently into his hair. “But maybe we don’t have to decide tonight.”
He nodded again, then nestled into me—his hand under the nightie now, splayed across my back, pulling me in. Not for sex. Not for release. Just to feel. To be closer. To hold.
We kissed again, longer this time, and I felt the heat rising between us—not just physical, but emotional. Crashing into something deeper than either of us expected. I felt is hard length pressing against my stomach.
We kissed again, longer this time, and I felt the heat rising between us—not just physical, but emotional. Crashing into something deeper than either of us expected. I felt is hard length pressing against my stomach. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my knickers, tugging them down slowly. I lifted my hips to help him, the silk sliding over my skin until they were off completely. He tossed them aside, his hand immediately returning to my bare hip.
His hand slid up my thigh, fingers tracing the soft skin. He cupped my mound gently, his touch sending shivers through me. I gasped softly as he began to stroke my folds, feeling how wet I already was.
“Fuck, Mum,” he groaned, “you’re so wet for me.” His fingers delved deeper, parting my lips to find my clit. He circled it slowly, teasingly, making me squirm with pleasure. I could feel his hard cock pressing urgently against my hip, straining against his boxers.
“Please,” I whimpered, spreading my legs wider in invitation. He needed no further encouragement. He pushed two fingers inside me, pumping them slowly as his thumb continued to rub circles around my clit.
“That’s it,” he murmured hoarsely, “let me make you feel good. Or do you want me to put my dick inside you,” His other hand came up to tug down the strap of my nightie, exposing one breast.
His mouth descended on my nipple, sucking and licking eagerly. The dual sensations of his fingers pumping in and out of my pussy and his mouth on my breast had me writhing with pleasure. I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him against me.
“Yes,” I gasped, “I want your cock. I want you to fuck me.” I reached down to tug at his boxers urgently. He lifted his hips to help me push them down, freeing his erection. It sprang up, long and thick and leaking pre-cum. He pulled back to look at me, eyes dark with desire.
“Are you sure?” he asked gruffly. “There’s no going back from this.”
“Yes,” I breathed, spreading my legs wider. “Fuck me, Marcus.”
With a growl, he positioned himself between my thighs. The head of his cock nudged against my entrance, teasing me with its heat.
Marcus’s eyes locked onto mine as he slowly pushed his hips forward, the thick head of his cock spreading my wet folds. I gasped as he entered me, inch by inch, stretching me around his girth. Hewas so big, bigger than I’d imagined, and the sensation of being filled by him was overwhelming.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his face contorting with pleasure as he sank deeper. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.” I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him on. “More,” I panted. “Give me more. Please baby, please.”
He began to move then, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in. The bed creaked beneath us as he set a steady rhythm, each thrust driving him deeper into my core. I clung to him, my nails digging into his back as waves of pleasure crashed over me.
“Yes,” I cried out, meeting his thrusts eagerly. “Harder!”
“Unngh… ahh mum, love that mole on your tits.” he said as he thrust his cock into me and reaching down to my tits.
“Ahh baby… your such a… naughty boy, you can such them but don’t slow down baby.” I moaned loudly as he didn’t slow down.
His ass lifting up and down as his dick pumped into my minge as he was fucking me hard. I put my hand around him and squeezed his arse. Fuck, my boy was really having sex with me.
“Fuck, Marcus,” I gasped, arching up into his thrusts as he was really going at it, really fucking my pussy.
“Mum, you’re so beautiful like this… so wanton… so fucking sexy,” he groaned, his hips snapping against mine as he fucked me harder. “Beautiful tits, beautiful fanny mum ahhh fuck.”
“Marcus,” I breathed, my voice husky with desire. “We should… slow down a bit. I… ahhh fuck ah yeah… I just… don’t want… you to cum to quickly.”
“Don’t worry, Mum,” he panted, “I’ll make it last. I want to savour this, to be inside you as long as I can. I won’t stop until I see your pussy squirt and soak my cock. Is that ok Mum.” He pulled back slightly, then pushed back in, his cock sliding in and out of my soaked pussy with a wet, sucking sound. I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist, meeting each of his thrusts with my own.
“Fuck, Mum,” He groaned deeply from his throat, his hips snapping against mine as he fucked me harder, faster.
His thrusts became more urgent, his breathing heavier. “Mum… I’m getting close. Your pussy feels so good, so tight and wet. I don’t know how long I can hold back.” He leaned down and captured my lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into my mouth as he continued to pound into me. I moaned into the kiss, my own orgasm building rapidly.
“Don’t hold back,” I gasped when we broke apart. “Cum for me, Marcus. Cum inside your mum’s pussy.” Those words seemed to push him over the edge. With a loud groan, he slammed into me one last time and stayed there, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep inside me. I felt his hot seed filling me up, coating my insides with his cum.
“Fuck…fuck… Mum…” he panted, collapsing on top of me as the last spurts of his orgasm subsided. “Sorry, I normally last longer. It was more intense knowing it was you I was fucking. Shit sorry, I really wanted to make you squirt.”
He rolled off me, lying on his back beside me, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. I turned onto my side, facing him, and traced my fingers lightly over his sweat-slicked chest.
“It’s okay,” I murmured. “That was amazing. You didn’t disappoint.” I leaned in and kissed him softly, lingeringly. He smiled against my lips, then pulled back to look at me.
“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “I want to make you feel good, Mum. Always.” His hand found mine, our fingers intertwining as we lay there in the aftermath of our passion. The room was silent except for our breathing slowly returning to normal. After a moment, he spoke again. “Can I stay with you tonight?” His voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Just hold you? No more sex… unless you want it.” He added quickly, squeezing my hand.
I smiled softly, my heart swelling with a mix of affection and something deeper, something I wasn’t quite ready to name. “Of course you can stay,” I murmured, shifting closer to him and resting my head on his chest. “I want you to stay.”
His arms wrapped around me, holding me close as we drifted off to sleep. The room was quiet, the only sound our gentle breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets. I felt safe and content in his embrace, my body still tingling from our lovemaking. As the night wore on, I slowly drifted back into consciousness.
The room was still dark, but I could sense that dawn was approaching. Marcus’s arm was still draped over me, his hand resting possessively on my hip. I lay there for a moment, enjoying the feeling of his warm body pressed against mine.