Jason stood rooted in the shadowed hallway, his pulse a relentless war drum thundering in his chest.
The image of Stella—naked, gagged with silk, her fingers buried in her dripping heat as depraved scenes of bondage and double penetration flickered across her face—burned into his soul.
It clung to him as he eased her door shut, as he drifted back to his room like a man possessed.
It haunted him as he lay beneath tangled sheets, his cock straining, veins pulsing with a need so fierce it bordered on pain.
But he didn't touch himself.
Couldn't.
Not when every nerve screamed that wanting her was a sin he couldn't unmake.
Sleep was a lost cause.
Dawn broke too soon, harsh and unforgiving, dragging him from bed with bloodshot eyes and a jaw tight enough to crack.
The kitchen hummed with life, oblivious to the chaos in his head.
Stella stood at the stove, her presence a quiet storm. Her hair hung in a loose braid, trailing down her back like a dark river, catching the morning light.
A thin tank top clung to her curves, no bra to hide the soft sway of her breasts, the faint outline of her nipples teasing through the fabric.
Her hips rolled lazily as she flipped pancakes, the motion hypnotic, her ass a lush curve in those damn yoga pants.
She glanced over her shoulder, her smile warm, innocent—as if she hadn't been writhing in ecstasy the night before, her moans muffled by a scarf as she chased release to the filthiest porn.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she purred, drizzling syrup onto a plate, her voice a velvet caress that coiled low in his gut.
Jason mumbled a reply, grabbing coffee to hide the tremor in his hands.
Words stuck in his throat, drowned by the screaming memory of her—sweat-slick, eyes half-lidded, spit glistening on her chin. He sat, silent, his mind a traitor.
College was torture.
Lectures dissolved into white noise, every professor's droning voice twisting into her moans. Every blink brought her back—legs spread, fingers plunging, body trembling on the edge. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
By midday, he bolted, abandoning class under a sky heavy with gray, the city's pulse matching his own—restless, jagged.
He wandered downtown, hoodie low, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
The air reeked of gasoline, stale coffee, and human sweat, but he barely registered it.
His world had narrowed to the ache in his chest, the heat in his veins.
Until he saw her.
Stella.
His heart seized.
There, at the bus stop, oblivious to the world. Headphones in, sunglasses perched on her nose, she stood like a vision from a wet dream.
Tight black jeans hugged her hips like a second skin, the denim stretched taut over the roundest, most sinful ass he'd ever seen.
A red crop top clung to her breasts, the deep scoop neckline offering a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, daring every passerby to stare.
One heel tapped the pavement, her calves flexing, her hair loose and tousled, kissed by the wind.
She wasn't his stepmom in that moment—she was a fantasy, a goddess who belonged on a neon-lit stage, not a grimy city sidewalk.
Jason ducked behind a street post, his breath shallow, his eyes locked on her. Shame burned, but it couldn't drown the hunger.
The bus hissed to a stop, doors rattling open. She stepped aboard, her hips swaying with effortless grace.
He didn't think.
He followed.
Slipping onto the bus just as the doors snapped shut, he kept to the back, gripping a rail to steady himself.
Stella stood near the middle, her body swaying with the bus's rhythm, each subtle shift a slow seduction.
Her phone screen flickered with music, but his eyes traced her hands—how they tugged her shirt down, exposing a sliver of smooth, golden skin.
His cock twitched, straining against his jeans, a traitor to his conscience.
His stepmother.
On a crowded bus.
Unaware.
Untouchable.
The bus lurched, and her hand shot out, grabbing a pole.
Her back arched, just enough to lift her shirt higher, baring the soft curve of her waist, the faint outline of a thong teasing through her jeans.
Jason's mouth went dry, his tongue flicking across his lips.
Shame clawed at him, a dull ache in his gut, but it couldn't stop his gaze—couldn't stop the way his body burned for her.
She didn't know he was there.
Didn't know her stepson was unraveling behind her, haunted by her every move.
Didn't know how desperately he wanted to close the distance, to press himself against her, to feel the heat of her skin.
And the worst part?
He prayed the bus would keep moving forever, trapping him in this torment, where he could watch her, want her, and drown in the delicious agony of it all.