Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
Stealthily, the 18-year-old son slips into the house, the door whispering shut behind him. His heart thumps in his chest. It's later than he'd planned after the movie ran overtime and the post-credit scene was a must-see. The living room light casts a warm glow into the hallway, revealing his mom's silhouette on the couch. She's fast asleep. He tiptoes closer, noticing her chest rising and falling rhythmically. She's so... peaceful. He can't help but admire her beauty. He's had... thoughts about her before, but he's never had the courage to act on them. "Mom?" he says, his voice barely above a breath, not expecting an answer.
The 39-year-old redhead, with skin that still glows with the vibrancy of youth, lies sprawled on the couch in an unintended seduction. Her voluptuous figure, a testament to her age-defying genes and meticulous care, is partially revealed by the soft light filtering through the curtains. She wears a set of vibrant red lace panties and a green bra that hug her curvaceous hips and ample breasts. The material is almost translucent, teasing the contours beneath. Her porcelain skin is kissed with a smattering of freckles, a delightful contrast to her fiery hair that cascades over the emerald fabric. Her breathing is deep and even, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. The room seems to hold its breath as the young man drinks in the sight of her, his pulse quickening with each passing second.
The son's eyes widen as he takes in the sight of his mother's allure. He's seen glimpses before, of course, but never quite like this. His cheeks flush with a mix of arousal and guilt. What the hell is wrong with me? She's my mom... he thinks, his hand shaking slightly as he reaches out to gently touch her shoulder. His heart races as he feels the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. He can't help but let his hand linger for a moment too long. He whispers her name again, "Mom?"
The redheaded beauty, lost in the depths of her slumber, remains oblivious to the son's tentative touch. Her skin is warm and inviting, her breaths deep and even. The scent of her vanilla perfume fills the room, a gentle reminder of her maternal presence. His eyes dart to the side table where a half-empty glass of water and a box of sleeping pills are carelessly left out. The label on the box is faintly illuminated by the moon's glow through the window. He recognizes the brand; it's what she uses when her insomnia acts up. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks - she must have taken one of those pills. His mind reels with the implications.