Her mother's lover

SCARLETT

I barely slept after last night.

His shadow in my doorway lingered even after he was gone, the image burned into my eyelids. The way he stood there, watching me as if I belonged to him already. The curve of his smile before he disappeared into the dark.

I couldn't stop replaying it, over and over, until my body ached with hunger and extreme urges. I didn't know how to quiet.

By morning, I'd convinced myself I had imagined it. Maybe it had been the moonlight, maybe my exhausted brain. Maybe I had dreamed him into the doorway because I wanted him there so badly.

But when I walked into the kitchen and saw him leaning against the counter, shirtless again, his cock proudly visible under his pants, tattoos alive under the light, coffee steaming in his hand. He looked at me like he knew.

Like it hadn't been a dream at all.

I forced myself to move past him, to pour cereal into a bowl, to pretend the heat between us wasn't suffocating.

But when I reached for the milk, his arm brushed mine. Just a touch. Just skin against skin.

It felt like fire.

I froze, staring at the carton in my hand. He didn't move away. His arm lingered against mine, warm, deliberate.

"Morning," he said, his voice low, almost amused.

I swallowed. "Morning."

The milk nearly spilled when I poured it. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He chuckled softly, the sound curling into my chest. "Careful, Scarlett."

The way he said my name wasn't just a word. It was a warning. A dare.

I fled the kitchen before I could do something reckless, but the heat stayed, a wildfire under my skin.

All day, I thought about that touch. About the way his arm pressed against mine, casual to anyone else, but to me it was everything.

And the more I thought about it, the more dangerous ideas bloomed in my head.

If he wanted to play this game, I could play too.

That evening, I came to dinner in a dress I hadn't worn since college-a short, tight thing that hugged my hips and barely covered my thighs. My mother complimented it without suspicion, beaming like she thought I had dressed up just for her.

But when his gaze slid over me, slow and heavy, his jaw tightening I knew exactly who I had dressed for. I am a goal chaser, I said slowly in my mind.

I crossed my legs at the table, the hem of the dress rising indecently high. His eyes flicked down. Just for a second. But I caught it.

And I smiled into my glass of wine.

The night stretched long. My mother chatted endlessly, oblivious. He laughed at her stories, but his eyes kept finding me across the table.

Every glance felt like a secret kiss. Every brush of his gaze over my bare skin was a touch no one else could see.

By the time dinner was over, I was shaking with need. My hole was already giggling.

I slipped away first, retreating to the living room. The television hummed in the background, but I wasn't watching. I was waiting.

And he came.

Of course he came. What a dream come true I said slowly.

He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching me with that same dark curve of his lips.

"You trying to kill me?" he asked softly, his eyes flicking down to my dress.

My pulse jumped. "What do you mean?"

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until the air thickened between us. His gaze never left mine.

"You know exactly what I mean."

The heat in his voice made my breath catch.

Before I could reply, my mother called his name from the kitchen. He straightened instantly, his expression smoothing into something casual.

But as he walked past me, his hand brushed my bare thigh. Just a touch. My hormones started over reacting.The wetness of my tiny hole could fill a cup.

He didn't look back.

But I knew.

His had touched me on purpose.

That night, I couldn't keep still. My body buzzed with the memory of his hand on my thigh, the heat of his stare, the hunger in his voice. I imagine his huge body on mine, his huge cock stroking me uncontrollable, his hands beating my ass all through the night but all were just mere imagination.

I paced my room until midnight, then sat on the edge of my bed, torn between shame and desire.

And then I heard it the creak of footsteps in the hall.

My heart stuttered.

The door opened slowly.

And there he was.

He didn't speak. He just closed the door behind him, locking it with a soft click.

My breath came in shallow gasps, my hands trembling in my lap.

He moved closer, each step measured, his eyes never leaving mine.

When he stopped in front of me, the silence was unbearable.

And then he reached out, his hand sliding over my breast, cheek, down to my neck, thumb pressing lightly against my pulse.

"You're playing with fire, Scarlett," he whispered.

I leaned into his touch, my lips parting. "Then let it burn."

His thumb lingered at my throat, pressing just enough for me to feel the steady hammer of my pulse against his skin.

I should have pulled back. I should have reminded myself who he was, what he meant to my mother, how wrong this was. But I didn't.

I tilted my chin up instead, offering my throat, daring him.

His eyes darkened, his breath deepening as his hand slid higher, fingers brushing the line of my jaw.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he murmured, his voice low, dangerous, laced with something that made my insides twist.

"Yes, I do," I whispered. My own voice startled me-it was hungry, raw, desperate.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding as though he were at war with himself. He leaned closer, so close I felt the heat of his body, the faint brush of his lips near my ear.

"You're just a girl," he said.

"I'm not a girl," I shot back, my words trembling but sharp. "Not anymore."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged. His hand slid lower, over my collarbone, stopping just at the edge of my tank top strap. His fingers traced the line of it, slow, teasing, and my breath caught.

I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me.

Instead, he froze. His hand clenched once, then withdrew as if I had burned him.

His eyes locked onto mine, wild, conflicted.

"This never happened," he rasped, voice hoarse.

And before I could protest, before I could beg, he was gone-slipping out of my room, the lock clicking softly back into place.

I sat there in the dark, my skin still tingling where he had touched me, my body shaking with the need he had left behind.

This never happened.

But it had. And I knew, deep down, it would happen again I said.