The power came back at 3:42 p.m.
Lights flickered, the fridge hummed, the AC kicked on with a cough. Elena was on the couch, legs across Alex's lap, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her ankle. The sudden brightness made them both blink.
"Guess the world's back," he said.
She didn't move.
They'd spent the day in a haze (napping, touching, tasting). The sheets in the dryer were still warm; the ones on her bed were ruined. She'd stripped them while he showered, then joined him under the spray. He'd washed her hair, slow and reverent, then bent her over and taken her from behind until the water ran cold again.
Now, the real world pressed in.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table (Mark).
Alex's jaw tightened. "Ignore it."
"I can't."
She reached for it, heart in her throat.
Video call.
She swiped accept before she could think.
Mark's face filled the screen (hotel room behind him, tie loosened, hair mussed from travel).
"Hey, babe." His voice crackled with jet lag. "Power's back?"
"Just now." She angled the phone so only her face showed. Alex stayed out of frame, but his hand slid higher on her thigh, possessive.
"You look flushed," Mark said. "Everything okay?"
"Hot in here." She bit her lip as Alex's fingers brushed the edge of her shorts. "How's Tokyo?"
"Busy. Meetings ran late. I—" He yawned. "Miss you."
Alex's thumb slipped under the fabric, found her bare. She clenched around nothing.
"I miss you too," she lied, voice steady.
Mark rambled (about sushi, a client who drank too much sake, the humidity). Elena nodded in all the right places while Alex circled her clit with maddening patience.
"You sure you're okay?" Mark asked. "You're breathing funny."
"Allergies," she gasped. Alex pressed harder.
Mark frowned. "Take something. Hey, is Alex around? Wanted to say hi."
Alex's eyes met hers (dark, challenging). He mouthed: tell him.
She swallowed. "He's… in the basement. Laundry."
"Tell him I said hey. Gotta crash. Love you."
"Love you too."
The call ended.
Alex's hand withdrew. He stood, pulled her up by the wrist.
"Basement," he said.
They descended the stairs. The dryer hummed, half-finished. He killed the cycle, opened the door, pulled out a warm sheet.
"Sit," he ordered.
She perched on the edge. He knelt, pushed her knees apart.
"Tell me what he said."
"That he misses me."
Alex licked a stripe up her center. "And?"
"That he loves me."
He sucked her clit, gentle. "Who do you belong to?"
"You," she whimpered.
"Louder."
"You, baby. Only you."
He stood, shoved his shorts down. His cock sprang free (thick, flushed, bigger than Mark had ever been). He rubbed the head through her folds.
"Say it again."
"I'm yours."
He thrust in, one smooth stroke, filling her completely. She cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.
The dryer rocked beneath them.
"Feel that?" he growled, hips snapping. "That's what he can't give you."
She nodded, frantic. "Yes—God—yes."
He fucked her slow, deep, relentless (every inch dragging against her walls, stretching her in ways Mark never could).
"Tell me the difference," he panted.
"You're bigger," she gasped. "Thicker. You last—fuck—you last so long—"
He groaned, pace faltering. "And?"
"You see me. You want me. Not just—oh God—not just my body."
He kissed her, filthy and sweet. "Never just your body."
She came hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out. He followed with a broken sound, spilling deep, hips jerking.
After, he stayed inside her, forehead to hers.
"I hate lying to him," she whispered.
"I hate sharing you."
She cupped his face. "You're not. Not really."
He pulled out slowly, watched his cum drip from her. "Prove it."
She slid to her knees, took him in her mouth (soft now, but still heavy). Cleaned him with her tongue, slow and thorough.
When she looked up, his eyes were wet.
"I love you," he said. "So fucking much it hurts."
"I know, baby." She stood, kissed him (tasting them both). "I know."
Upstairs, her phone buzzed again (text from Mark: landed safe, talk tomorrow).
Alex deleted it without asking
They left the sheet in the dryer, warm and forgotten
The bedroom smelled of rain-soaked earth and the lavender candle Elena had lit an hour ago.
Its flame wavered on the dresser, throwing gold across the walls and the slow rise of Alex's chest as he stood at the foot of the bed.
They had not spoken since the basement.
Words felt too small for what thrummed between them.
She wore the blue nightgown he'd dreamed of (silk, short, the one that clung to her hips and left the tops of her thighs bare). He wore nothing. Candlelight licked over every line of him: the sharp cut of his hipbones, the heavy weight of his cock already half-hard, the tremor in his hands as he waited for permission.
Elena stepped forward.
"Sit," she said again, softer than in the laundry room
He obeyed, the mattress dipping under his weight. She stood between his knees, reached for the hem of the nightgown.
"Let me," he whispered.
His fingers brushed her thighs as he lifted the silk inch by inch, exposing her skin to the cool air and his reverent gaze. When the fabric cleared her head, he let it fall to the floor like a curtain closing on the rest of the world.
She was naked beneath.
No stretch marks hidden, no softness apologized for. Just her (forty-one, flushed, aching).
Alex's breath stuttered.
"Mom…"
"Elena," she corrected gently. "Tonight, I'm Elena."
He repeated it like a vow.
"Elena."
She climbed onto the bed, pushed him back until he lay flat. Straddled his hips. His cock pressed hot against her belly, leaving a slick trail.
"Hands above your head," she said.
He obeyed instantly, wrists crossed, muscles flexing. She traced them with her fingertips, down the inside of his forearms, over the faint veins, to the hollow of his throat.
"I'm going to take my time," she told him. "You'll let me."
"Yes."
She kissed him (slow, drugging, tasting every corner of his mouth). Then lower: jaw, neck, the small scar beneath his collarbone. She lingered on each nipple, tongue flicking until he arched with a broken sound.
When she reached his cock, she didn't take him in her mouth. Not yet.
She kissed the head, licked the bead of precum, then traced every vein with the flat of her tongue. His hips jerked; she pressed them down.
"Still," she murmured. "Let Mommy learn you."
He whimpered at the word.
She explored him for what felt like hours (base to tip, the soft skin behind his balls, the sensitive spot just beneath the crown that made him curse). When he was trembling, thighs shaking, she finally sank down, taking him to the root in one slow glide.
They both stilled.
He filled her perfectly (thick, pulsing, hers). She could feel every throb, every heartbeat.
"Look at me," she said.
His eyes opened, glassy with need.
She began to move.
Not fast. Not yet. Just a slow roll of her hips, rising until only the head remained, then sinking back down. Again. Again. A rhythm older than language.
"Feel how wet I am for you?" she whispered. "Only you."
"Fuck—Mom—Elena—"
She leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest, and kissed him through the next thrust. His hands stayed above his head, knuckles white.
"Good boy," she praised. "So good for me."
Minutes blurred. Sweat beaded between her breasts; he licked it away. She rode him through one crest, then another, clenching around him until he sobbed her name.
When she felt him swell, close, she slowed.
"Not yet."
She slid off, ignoring his desperate whine, and
turned. Straddled him reverse, guiding him back inside. The new angle dragged the head of his cock against her front wall; she moaned, loud and shameless.
His hands finally broke free, gripping her hips.
"Please," he begged. "Let me—"
"Touch me."
He did (one hand sliding to cup her breast, the other finding her clit). She rode him harder now, the bed creaking, headboard tapping the wall in a steady beat.
"Come with me," she gasped.
He thrust up, once, twice (deep, perfect). She shattered, pussy fluttering around him, and he followed with a guttural cry, hips stuttering as he spilled inside her in long, hot pulses.
She collapsed forward, cheek to his thigh, his cock still twitching within her. Aftershocks rippled through
them both.
When she could move, she turned, crawled up his body, and kissed him soft and slow.
"My perfect boy," she whispered against his lips. "My everything."
He wrapped his arms around her, held her like he'd never let go.
Outside, the candle burned lower.
Inside, they stayed joined, breathing each other in, until the flame guttered out and the room fell into darkness.
They didn't leave the bed for thirty-six hours.
Time dissolved into a haze of skin and breath and whispered I love yous.
The candle had burned itself out; sunlight took its place, sliding across the sheets in slow golden bars.
Elena woke first, cheek against Alex's chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.
His cock was half-hard against her thigh (morning, youth, him).
She traced a lazy circle around his nipple and felt him stir.
"Morning," he mumbled, voice gravel-rough.
"Afternoon, actually."
He smiled without opening his eyes. "Good."
She kissed the hollow of his throat, tasted salt.
They'd showered sometime after midnight (her on her knees in the steam, his hands fisted in her wet hair), then tumbled back to bed still dripping.
Now she slid lower, nosing along the trail of dark hair beneath his navel.
He inhaled sharply when her lips brushed the head of his cock.
"Mom…"
"Elena," she reminded, then took him in.
Slow.
Worshipful.
She saved every drop of precum, traced every vein with her tongue, until he was fully hard and trembling.
When she pulled off, he groaned in protest.
"Want to be inside you," he said.
She straddled him, guided him home.
They moved like they'd done this a thousand times (hips rolling, hands linked, eyes locked).
He lasted longer this time (minutes, not seconds), learning her rhythm, the angle that made her gasp.
After, they dozed again.
Hunger finally dragged them downstairs.
The kitchen clock read 4:17 p.m. (Thursday).
Mark would call tonight.
Alex ignored the thought.
He lifted Elena onto the island, pushed her robe open, and ate her on the granite countertop until her thighs shook and she came with a muffled cry against her own wrist.
They ate cold pizza standing up, feeding each other bites between kisses.
Sauce on her chin; he licked it off.
Back in bed, he asked for the photos.
She hesitated, then handed him her phone.
He scrolled through the hidden album she'd never shown anyone (candid shots of him: asleep on the couch, laughing at the grill, shirtless after mowing the lawn).
"I have one too," he admitted, cheeks pink.
He showed her: hundreds of her (folding laundry, reading on the porch, bending over the oven in that sundress).
Instead of shame, heat flared low in her belly.
"Touch yourself," she said. "To your favorite."
He chose one (her asleep on his childhood bed, mouth soft, one strap fallen).
She watched him stroke himself, slow and reverent, eyes never leaving the screen.
When he came, it was with her name on his lips and her fingers tangled in his hair.
Night fell.
They fucked against the bedroom door, her back to the wood, his hands under her ass.
Then on the floor, carpet burning her knees.
Then slow and sweet in the bed again, face-to-face, her ankle hooked over his shoulder.
Each time he lasted longer.
Each time she marked him (hickeys blooming across his chest like medals).
At 2:13 a.m., her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Mark.
Alex reached over her, silenced it, then rolled her beneath him.
"Let him wait," he murmured against her breast.
She arched into his mouth. "Yes."
They didn't sleep until dawn.
When they finally drifted off, tangled and sticky and sated, the sheets smelled of sex and lavender and them.
Outside, the world spun on.
Inside, thirty-six hours had carved a new universe (one where guilt was a distant echo and love was a language spoken only in touch).