Her mother's lover

SCARLETT

The morning sunlight burned through my curtains like an accusation.

I lay tangled in my sheets, my body still humming with the memory of last night-his bare chest, the dripping water tracing his tattoos, the towel barely clinging to his hips. The sound of my name in his voice.

I tried to shake it off, but guilt pressed on me like a weight.

He wasn't just a stranger anymore. He wasn't just some man I could admire in silence and forget. He was hers.

My mother's lover.

That thought should have disgusted me enough to bury everything I felt. But the moment I walked into the kitchen and saw him standing there, shirtless, sipping coffee like he owned the place, I knew disgust had no power over desire.

The mug dwarfed in his tattooed hand, steam curling around his face as he looked out the window. His gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, waistband dipping just enough to make my pulse spike.

I froze in the doorway, clutching my glass of water, praying he wouldn't notice the way my eyes devoured his gray sweatpants, especially his cock that was extremely visible despite him being on sweatpants. I could see the huge vein that ran down his 14inch cock. Though I haven't tasted it, I could estimate it. Almost the size of my hands gods I couldn't help but imagine that giant cock in my little hole.

He turned then, slow, deliberate. Our eyes met.

"Morning," he said, voice still rough with sleep.

I nodded too quickly, heat flushing my face. "Morning."

He smiled lazy, crooked, the kind of smile that hinted at secrets. Then he lifted the mug again, taking a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.

I fled before my knees gave out.

That should have been enough warning. Enough to keep me locked in my room until he left for work, or until I could convince myself that what I felt was nothing but grief twisting into obsession.

But obsession doesn't listen to reason.

By noon, I found myself pressed against my bedroom window, blinds tilted just enough to see the backyard.

And there he was.

He had stripped off his shirt, sweat gleaming across his chest as he split logs with an axe. Each swing sent muscles flexing in his arms, tattoos rippling across hard flesh, trousers hanging low enough to tease me. His body glistened under the sun, powerful and raw, every movement deliberate and sure.

I told myself to look away.

I didn't.

Instead, my thighs pressed together, my breath catching with every swing. My hand slid under my tank top without permission, fingertips brushing my stomach, clit*ris at the same time.

The back door slammed open.

I jumped, heart pounding. My mother's laugh floated into the yard, high and sweet. She called his name, and he turned, axe resting on his shoulder, sweat dripping down his chest.

I ducked from the window, face burning, my body screaming in protest at being denied.

The sound of her giggles wrapped around my throat like a rope. I hated her in that moment. Hated the way she could touch him openly, laugh with him, have him inside her whenever she wanted.

And all I had were stolen glances through glass.

That night, I couldn't help myself.

I crept out of my room long after the house had gone quiet. My bare feet padded softly across the hardwood floor as I moved down the hall. I told myself I was just getting water.

But I stopped outside their door.

It was closed, but the faint sound of her laugh slipped through the cracks and a sound of extremely hot sex. I could hear the sound of him pounding her in a stylish rhythm.

I should have left.

Instead, I pressed my palm to the door, leaning closer, straining to hear.

There was a shift inside, the creak of the bed, the sound of sheets rustling. My breath caught.

And then-her moan.

Sharp, broken, needy.

My knees buckled.

I staggered back, hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape. My chest heaved, shame and arousal tangling in a violent knot inside me.

I ran back to my room, heart pounding, body aching with a hunger I didn't know how to satisfy.

That night, I touched myself in the dark, imagining it was his hands choking around my neck and giving me a hot doggy, his lips, and his voice whispering my name instead of hers. The guilt was poison, but the release was fire, leaving me trembling and restless, unsatisfied even when it was over.

The next day, he caught me staring.

I was sprawled on the couch, pretending to read, when he walked into the living room shirtless again, a towel draped over his shoulder. I tried not to look. Tried to bury my nose in the book.

But my eyes betrayed me.

I watched the way droplets of water traced down his chest. The way his hand ruffled through damp hair.

And then his gaze snapped to mine.

I froze.

A smirk tugged at his lips, slow and knowing. He didn't speak, didn't call me out, just let the silence stretch until my skin burned and my thighs pressed together without my permission.

Then he turned away, as if I were nothing more than background noise.

But I knew better.

He'd seen.

He knew.

That evening, I lingered at the dinner table longer than I should have, waiting for him to look at me again. He didn't. Not once. He laughed at my mother's jokes, poured her wine, brushed his hand over hers.

Every smile he gave her sliced me open.

By the time dishes were cleared, jealousy burned hotter than the food in my stomach.

I excused myself early, retreating to my room, pacing like a caged animal.

It wasn't fair.

Why should she get him? She hadn't even waited to mourn my father. She hadn't cared how it looked, how it tore me apart. She didn't deserve him.

But I... I couldn't stop wanting him.

And wanting him was destroying me.

That night, I dreamed of him. His body pressed against mine, tattoos sliding under my fingers, his lips claiming me with the roughness of someone who knew he shouldn't but didn't care.

I woke with a cry caught in my throat, sheets tangled around my legs, sweat coating my skin.

And when I turned my head, the shadow in my doorway made me freeze.

He stood there, silent, leaning against the frame. His face was hidden in the dark, but I felt his eyes on me.

Watching.

Waiting.

My breath hitched, chest heaving as I clutched the sheets to my body.

He didn't move.

He just stood there.

And then he smiled, slow, deliberate, before turning and walking away.

Leaving me shaking, burning, and desperate for more.