One pulse. One flick of Lust Presence and she'd forget Tommy ever existed. She'd drop right here on the marble, mouth open, throat begging, lace ripped aside so I could slam balls-deep into the pussy she'd shaved and soaked for another man. She'd come screaming my name while he snored upstairs, clueless.

Cucking my best friend would take three seconds flat. She was already dripping for it. Already leaning in. Already mine if I breathed wrong.

I wanted it so bad my vision tunneled, teeth grinding, balls drawn up tight and aching.

And I crushed the thought like a cigarette under my heel.

Not Mia. Not Tommy's girl. Not the one line burned into my soul with acid and blood, no matter how hard my cock screamed, no matter how sweetly her pulse fluttered under my grip when I finally, barely, stepped back.

Some sins you don't commit. Some friendships are worth more than the hottest, wettest, most willing cunt in the world.

His girlfriend was sacred territory. Untouchable. End of discussion. Full stop.

Even when she's standing two feet away, nipples hard, pussy dripping, eyes begging you to ruin everything.

"Tommy's lucky," she whispered, breath ghosting my jaw, tits pressed harder, nipples drilling holes through my shirt. "We both are."

For one heartbeat the world shrank to the heat rolling off her skin, the scent of her cunt thick enough to taste, the way her thighs clenched like she was already milking something that wasn't there.

I dragged my gaze off her like it was glued to her tits, forced it anywhere else: the stupid abstract painting worth more than my old car, the recessed lighting carving shadows across the ceiling, the city glittering like spilled diamonds through the windows, even the fucking fiddle-leaf fig in the corner that probably had its own therapist.

Anything except the way that lace clung to her pussy lips, anything except how her nipples strained against silk, anything except the thought of those plush lips stretched around my cock, drool dripping down my shaft while Tommy snored upstairs.

Stop. Fucking stop.

"I should go," I rasped, throat raw, cock so hard it felt like it might split the seam of my jeans.

"You're driving back to yours?"

"Mom's place. It's close. Been crashing there more."

Something soft flickered across her face, understanding, maybe even envy. "That's sweet. Miss home?"

"Something like that."

She walked me to the door, every step a slow-motion torture. The lace pants rode higher with each sway, the seam now buried between slick folds, a darker wet line betraying how turned-on she was. Her scent trailed behind her, vanilla and cunt, thick enough to taste. My pulse hammered in my cock, precome leaking steadily now, soaking the inside of my boxer-briefs.

I expected Ms. Chen waiting in the foyer, arms crossed, ready to scold her grown son like he was still sixteen. But the house was a tomb except for Mia's bare feet on marble and Tommy's distant snores.

"Your mom's not here?"

"She's still at her condo. Tommy begs her to move in, but she's stubborn. Says she doesn't want to 'impose.'" Mia rolled her eyes, fond. "You know how moms are. Can't just let their kids take care of them."

"Yeah," I muttered, throat tight. "I know exactly how that is."

We lingered in the doorway, that dangerous pause where goodbye should've happened ten seconds ago. The city lights painted silver across her collarbones, her nipples still diamond-hard, begging to be rolled between my teeth.

"Drive safe, Peter." Her voice dropped, husky. "Thanks for… everything. For being his friend. For bringing him home. For," her eyes flicked down to the obscene ridge in my jeans and back up, a smile ghosting her lips, "all of it."

"Anytime."

I escaped before the Taboo Aura could snap its leash.

The Phantom growled to life, tires spitting gravel as I peeled out. Tommy's glass-and-steel fortress shrank in the rearview, bold, cold, lonely.

Three minutes later the gates to Mom's estate parted like they'd been waiting for me all night. Warm floodlights spilled across manicured lawns, old money wrapped in ivy and jasmine. The Lambo, the McLaren, the Rovers, all lined up like loyal dogs.

Inside, the house breathed quiet. Real quiet. The kind that only happens when people finally feel safe enough to sleep deeply.

10:47 PM. Mom wouldn't be off shift until midnight, home after one.

I moved through the rooms like a ghost.

Charlotte first, curled under a mountain of blankets in the room we'd painted soft blue for her. Tablet on the nightstand, stylus still in her lax fingers. She'd fallen asleep studying again. I eased the device away, tucked the blanket under her chin, brushed a curl off her forehead. She sighed in her sleep, burrowed deeper. Safe.

The twins next. Sarah and Emma tangled together like they'd been since the womb. Sarah's book had slipped to the floor; Emma's phone was still glowing against her cheek. I pried it free, plugged both devices in, pulled the duvet over bare shoulders and cold feet. Emma mumbled something, rolled over, and flung an arm across her sister. Home.

My people. My responsibility. My everything.

I stood in the hallway a long time, palm pressed to the wall, letting the silence settle into my bones.

Cock still aching. Mia's scent still clinging to my skin. Tommy's trust still intact.

Some nights you win by walking away.

Tonight was one of them.

That realization hit every time—the sheer contrast between who we'd been and who we were now. From struggling to make rent to living in a mansion. From worrying about groceries to having more money than we could spend.

I made my way downstairs to the living room—the main one, with the massive sectional and the view of the backyard and the fireplace that probably cost more than our old apartment's yearly rent.

Settled into the couch, feeling leather that was somehow both supportive and yielding, and just... sat.

Waiting.

For what, exactly? For Mom to come home. For the presence that made this place feel like home instead of just expensive house. For the woman who'd raised me, who'd sacrificed everything for us, who I'd somehow become obsessed with protecting and providing for and just... being near.

And I didn't know why.

Couldn't explain this pull that kept bringing me back here instead of staying at my penthouse, instead of being with my women who'd definitely appreciate the attention, instead of anywhere else I could be.

Something about this place. About Mom. About the life we'd built from nothing.

Maybe it was gratitude—wanting to make sure she was okay, that she knew she didn't have to work anymore, that I could take care of everything now.

Maybe it was guilt—for all the years she'd struggled alone, for every missed meal she'd skipped so we could eat, for every sacrifice she'd made that I couldn't repay.

Maybe it was something else entirely. Something I wasn't ready to examine too closely.

The house settled around me—that specific sound of a building at rest, wood and foundation making tiny adjustments, the distant hum of HVAC keeping everything climate-controlled.

I pulled out my phone—the iPhone I barely used, preferring the quantum phone ARIA integrated with—and stared at the screen.

Reyna's number was in there now. ARIA had already added it, set that reminder, probably created entire profile on her based on available data.

But I wasn't thinking about Reyna.

I was thinking about Mom. About why I kept finding excuses to come back here. About why the thought of her coming home from her shift made me feel... something. Relief? Anticipation? Something warmer and more complicated than simple familial affection?

"Master," ARIA's voice whispered through my earpiece, quiet enough not to wake anyone. "Your heart rate is elevated and you're demonstrating signs of complex emotional processing. Would you like to discuss what's causing this preoccupation with your mother's residence?"

"No."

"That's avoidance behavior."

"That's called 'not wanting therapy from my AI assistant at 11 PM.'"

"Fair enough. But for the record, attachment to maternal figures after periods of extreme life change is psychologically normal. Seeking stability and familiar comfort during transformation is adaptive behavior, not concerning."

"Thanks, Dr. ARIA."

"You're welcome. Also, your mother's shift ends in seventy-three minutes. She'll likely arrive home in approximately ninety-four minutes accounting for drive time and her tendency to check on patients one final time before leaving."

"You track her schedule?"

"I track everything relevant to your wellbeing. Your mother's safety and happiness directly impacts your emotional state, therefore it falls within my operational parameters."

I should've found that creepy. Instead, it felt... caring. In ARIA's weird, overprotective-AI way.

I settled deeper into the couch, letting the house's quiet wrap around me, and waited.

For Mom to come home.

For the most important woman in my life to walk through that door and make this mansion feel like more than just expensive real estate.

For reasons I still couldn't fully explain—and maybe wasn't ready to.

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