The kitchen was a golden sanctuary at 8:17 a.m., sunlight pouring through the bay window in thick, liquid streams, viscous, molten, dust motes drifting like slow-motion fireflies caught in amber light, each particle glowing, twirling, settling on the oak table, the granite counters, the curve of Linda's shoulder, catching in the fine hairs on her arms, glinting like tiny diamonds.

The air was warm, heavy, layered with butter melting in the pan, cinnamon spicing the pancake batter, coffee brewing in the French press, dark, rich, steaming, bacon fat popping in the cast-iron skillet, sizzling, spitting tiny droplets that hissed on the stove, smoke curling in thin, fragrant wisps.

And her—Linda's scent clinging to every corner, sweet, milky, musky, divine, vanilla, salt, sex, sweat, blood—thick, heady, impossible to wash away, lingering in the steam from the shower, coating the back of my throat like honey, sticking to my tongue, nostrils flaring with every breath.

Pans sizzled on the stove, bacon crackling like tiny fireworks, curling at the edges, fat rendering into golden pools, bubbling, spitting, eggs fluffy in the cast-iron skillet, yolks trembling as she stirred.

Whites setting in delicate lace, pancakes golden on the griddle, bubbling at the edges, syrup warming in a small pot, sticky, sweet, bubbling slowly, maple scent rising in sweet clouds.

Linda stood at the counter, back to me, hair loose, still damp from the shower, dark waves cascading down her spine like liquid midnight, curls clinging to the nape of her neck, wet strands sticking to her skin, glistening in the sunlight, water droplets beading on the ends, dripping slowly down her back, trailing between her shoulder blades.

She wore my T-shirt—bare, soft, faded from years of washing, too big, hanging off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone, hem brushing the tops of her thighs, fabric clinging to the swell of her ass, no bra, nipples dark, faintly visible under the cotton.

Still leaking tiny wet spots that darkened the fabric in slow, spreading circles, milk pearling at the tips, dripping occasionally with a soft plink onto the counter, leaving tiny white pools.

Her bare legs were smooth, still flushed from the shower, skin pink, calves flexing as she shifted her weight, toes curling against the cool tile, nails painted a soft pink, chipped at the edges, arches high, heels slightly lifted.

She hummed under her breath—soft, shy, off-key, a lullaby from my childhood, voice trembling, flipping a pancake with a trembling wrist, spatula scraping the griddle with a nervous squeak, batter hissing as it hit the hot surface, edges crisping, butter foaming around it.

Her shoulders were tensed, spine straight, breath shallow, chest rising and falling in quick, nervous puffs, ribs expanding under the T-shirt, pulse visible at the base of her throat—she knew I was watching, felt my gaze like heat on her skin, goosebumps rising on her arms.

I leaned in the doorway, shirtless, sweatpants low on my hips, drawstring loose, fabric clinging to the curve of my ass, towel-dried hair wild, curls damp at the ends, water droplets still beading on my collarbone, trailing down the grooves of my pecs, abs, pooling in the V of my hips, glistening in the sunlight, catching the light like liquid mercury.

Linda's scent clung to my skin—milk, sex, sweat, salt, blood—thick, heady, impossible to wash away, coating my tongue, my throat, my soul, nostrils flaring with every breath, taste of her still lingering on my lips.

I watched her reflection in the window—eyes wide, pupils blown, lips parted, cheeks flushed crimson, breath fogging the glass in tiny, rapid puffs, nostrils flaring, tongue darting out to wet her lips. She couldn't stop looking.

Not just at my face. Not at my eyes. My whole body.

Her gaze traveled—slow, hungry, shy, devouring, unblinking—down my chest, lingering on the scratches, fingers twitching like she wanted to trace them, heal them, worship them, nails light on my skin, feeling the heat, the pulse.

Down the grooves of my abs, following the water droplets still trailing, pooling in the V of my hips, disappearing under the sweatpants, fabric stretched over the bulge, still half-hard, outline clear, veins pulsing, head pressing against the cotton, pre-cum darkening the fabric in a small, wet spot.

Lower.

Eyes widening, lips parting, breath catching in her throat as she stared, cheeks burning, hands gripping the counter white-knuckled, knuckles pale, nails digging into the granite.

"Hi, Mom," I said, voice low, teasing, warm, rumbling in my chest, vibrating through the air, echoing off the cabinets.

She froze, spatula mid-air, pancake sliding off the griddle with a soft plop, syrup dripping from the edge, sticky on the counter. "P-Peter…"

Her voice was small, shy and so fucking cute like she was a teenager again--fuck I wanted to fuck her right now--cracking, nothing like the woman who'd screamed my name in the shower an hour ago, begging for my seed, crying "my son" as she came, pussy gushing on the marble, milk spraying the glass.

I crossed the kitchen, bare feet on cool tile, slow, deliberate, every step echoing in the quiet, muscles shifting under my skin, sunlight catching the water droplets, making them sparkle, casting tiny rainbows on the floor.

Stopped behind her, hands sliding around her waist, palms flat on her bare stomach, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, feeling the warmth, the softness, the tremor in her skin, the milk still leaking, wet, sticky under my fingers, pulse racing under my palms.

Chin on her shoulder, breath warm against her ear, lips brushing the shell, tongue flicking the lobe, tasting salt, vanilla, her.

"Smells good," I murmured, voice velvet, teasing, breath hot, goosebumps rising on her neck. "Almost as good as you did this morning. When you were screaming my name. Begging for my cock. Cumming on my tongue. Your motherly pussy milk spraying my chest."

She gasped, soft, spatula clattering to the counter, hands flying to cover her face, fingers trembling, nails digging into her cheeks, breath hitching. "Peter—stop—someone could—"

"No one's here," I laughed, nipping her earlobe, tongue flicking the sensitive spot, feeling her shiver, goosebumps rising on her arms, spine arching. "Just us. Like always. Like forever."

She peeked through her fingers, eyes wide, still pink, voice a whisper, breath hitching, tears threatening. "I… I can't believe we… in the… I said… things…"

"You said 'fuck your mother'," I teased, hands sliding under the T-shirt, palms gliding up her ribs, thumbs brushing the swell of her breasts, feeling the weight, the warmth, the milk still leaking, wet, sticky, dripping onto my wrists.

"And then screamed 'breed me'. And 'my son's cock'. Loudly. While I had you bent over, ass up, pussy gushing on the floor, milk spraying the glass."

She whimpered, burying her face in her hands again, body trembling, thighs pressing together under the T-shirt, wetness glistening on her inner thighs, dripping onto the counter. "Oh God… I'm a terrible mother…"

"You're a perfect mother," I said, kissing the side of her neck, slow, soft, tongue tracing the pulse, tasting salt, vanilla, her, feeling the flutter under my lips, the heat of her skin. "Perfect at feeding me. Perfect at fucking me. Perfect at blushing like a virgin after."

She peeked again, eyes glassy, lips parted, breath hitching, tears spilling down her cheeks, salty on her lips. "You're awful."

"You love it."

A tiny smile, shy, sweet, hers, lips trembling, tears glistening. "Maybe…"

I turned her around, gently, hands on her hips, lifted her onto the counter, pushing the pancakes aside, syrup bottle tipping, sticky gold spilling across the granite, running in slow rivers, pooling under her thighs.

Her legs parted instinctively, T-shirt riding up, bare pussy glistening—still swollen, still wet, lips pink, clit peeking, juices glistening in the sunlight, dripping onto the counter, scent rising—sweet, musky, hers.

I stepped between her thighs, hands on her hips, thumbs stroking the stretch marks like holy relics, feeling the softness, the warmth, the history, the love, the pulse under my fingers.

She couldn't take her eyes off me. Not my face. Not my eyes. My body.

Her gaze traveled—slow, hungry, shy, devouring, unblinking—down my chest, lingering on the scratches, fingers twitching like she wanted to trace them, heal them, worship them, nails light on my skin, feeling the heat, the pulse, the scars.

Down the grooves of my abs, following the water droplets still trailing, pooling in the V of my hips, disappearing under the sweatpants, fabric stretched over the bulge, still half-hard, outline clear, veins pulsing, head pressing against the cotton, pre-cum darkening the fabric in a small, wet spot, scent rising—musky, male, mine.

Lower. Eyes widening, lips parting, breath catching in her throat as she stared, cheeks burning, hands gripping the counter white-knuckled, knuckles pale, nails digging into the granite, tears spilling.

"Peter…" she whispered, voice trembling, hands hovering, not daring to touch, fingers shaking, tears dripping onto her T-shirt.

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