The kitchen smelled like ginger and star anise—warm, fragrant steam curling through the air like a mother's unspoken worry made tangible—but underneath it lingered something sharper, something electric that had nothing to do with broth.

Ms. Chen moved through the sleek, modern space like she was trying to tame it with tradition. Stainless steel gleamed coldly under recessed lights, sharp edges rejecting the soft domesticity of simmering soup.

But she kept stirring anyway, her hips swaying slightly under the thin cotton of her lounge pants, the fabric clinging to the generous curve of her ass with every subtle shift of weight.

Peter sat at the island, watching her with quiet intensity. She was very carefully not looking at him for too long.

She'd felt it the moment he'd taken off his helmet in the driveway—a jolt low in her belly, heat flooding her core as her gaze traced the sharp line of his jaw, the broad stretch of his shoulders, the way his shirt pulled tight across his chest. He wasn't the lanky kid anymore.

He was… something else entirely. Something that made her thighs press together involuntarily, a slow throb starting between them as forbidden images flashed unbidden through her mind.

The air between them was thick, heavy with unspoken tension, the kind that made her skin prickle and her nipples tighten against the soft fabric of her tank top.

'Stop it,' she told herself. 'He's seventeen. Tommy's best friend. Linda's son.'

But her hands still trembled when she ladled the rich broth into a bowl, her pulse fluttering in her throat as she carried it over, hyper-aware of the way his eyes followed her movements.

She reached out before thinking—palm pressing to his forehead, fingers sliding into the warmth of his hairline. Checking for fever. That's all this was.

His skin was hot—smooth, flawless, radiating masculine warmth that sank straight into her hand, making her breath catch.

Her thumb moved without permission, stroking slowly across his temple, tracing the strong bone structure, feeling the faint prickle of stubble along his jaw when her fingers drifted lower.

"You feel warm," she whispered, voice coming out breathier than intended, husky with the sudden rush of heat pooling low in her belly.

"I'm fine, Ms. Chen."

But she wasn't. Her nipples ached against her tank top, stiff and sensitive, and between her thighs a slow, treacherous wetness had begun to gather.

Because her hand was still on him, thumb caressing his skin in small, lingering circles, and the feel of him—solid, alive, undeniably male—was making her body respond in ways it absolutely shouldn't.

She pulled back like she'd been burned, but her hands betrayed her again—moving to his shoulders under the pretense of checking for injuries. Clinical. Maternal. Safe.

Except her fingers registered everything: the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the broad, powerful line of his shoulders that flexed subtly under her touch.

The heat of his body seeped through the fabric, warming her palms as she squeezed gently, tracing down the thick swell of his biceps, feeling them tense and release beneath her exploration. Her breath grew shallow, chest rising faster, the soft weight of her breasts shifting with each inhale.

She told herself to stop. Told herself this had gone on long enough.

But her hands kept moving—down his arms, palms gliding over firm forearms, fingers circling his wrists, marveling at how her grip couldn't quite close around them anymore.

The strength in his hands, the way his beautiful veins stood out slightly under warm skin—it sent a fresh pulse of heat straight to her core, her pussy clenching involuntarily, wetness soaking into the thin cotton between her legs.

"See?" His voice was lower now—rough, deeper, vibrating through her like a touch. "All parts present and accounted for."

She looked up and met his eyes—dark, knowing, patient, like he was fully aware of every second her hands had lingered, every tremor she couldn't hide.

The air crackled—thick with lust, with the forbidden weight of her desire for the boy—no, the man—who had once been just her son's friend.

She jerked her hands away, clasping them tightly to stop herself from reaching again. "You're too thin. Linda needs to feed you more."

A lie. He was anything but thin—she'd just felt the hard evidence of muscle and strength under her palms.

But she needed normal words, needed distance.

"Mom feeds me plenty." The corner of his mouth curved—a slow, devastating smile that made her clit throb. "I think this is just my metabolism."

Mom. Linda. Her friend. Who trusted her. Who would be devastated.

"Eat." She retreated to the opposite side of the island, putting cold granite between them, but it didn't help—the phantom warmth of his skin still burned on her palms, and she could feel her own arousal now, a slow slickness between her thighs that made her shift uncomfortably.

He ate slowly. She watched—unable to stop herself—watching his throat work as he swallowed, the strong column of his neck flexing; watching his lips close around the spoon, the way his tongue darted out to catch a stray drop.

Heat coiled tighter in her belly, her pussy aching with a need she hadn't felt in years, nipples stiff and sensitive against her top.

'This is wrong. So wrong.'

But her body wasn't listening. Her body was alive with want—wet, pulsing, desperate—for the beautiful, dangerous young man sitting in her kitchen, looking at her like he could see every filthy thought running through her mind.

"This is incredible," he said, voice low, eyes locked on hers.

The compliment landed heavy, loaded.

"My mother's recipe," she managed, gripping her tea cup harder to hide the tremor. "I used to make it for Tommy when he was sick. Or sad. Or… whenever."

"He's lucky to have you."

The words hung between them—simple on the surface, but laced with something darker, something that made her breath catch and her core clench again.

She was in very real danger of doing something unforgivable.

And the worst part was, some traitorous part of her desperately wanted to.

Warmer. More intimate. Like he was saying something beneath the words that she wasn't supposed to hear but heard anyway—a low, velvet promise that slid straight between her thighs and made her clit throb with sudden, treacherous heat.

She looked up despite herself and found him still watching her with those eyes—too knowing, too aware, dark and heavy-lidded, stripping her bare with a single glance.

"I don't know about that," she said, trying to rebuild the walls that kept crumbling, her voice thinner than she wanted, breath catching as she felt the slow pulse of arousal bloom low in her belly. "Some days I think I failed him."

They talked. About Tommy. About Mia. About loyalty and failure and motherhood. Safe topics. Appropriate conversations.

But underneath it all, the tension kept building—thick, suffocating, sexual—like pressure in a sealed container, like something that couldn't be contained forever.

Every word felt loaded, every pause heavy with the scent of her own growing wetness, the way her nipples ached against her tank top, stiff and sensitive, begging for friction she refused to give them.

She found herself leaning forward as they spoke, elbows on the island, breasts pressing against the edge of the granite, the cool surface teasing her hardened nipples through the thin fabric.

Her hands moved restlessly—fingers brushing her throat, tracing the heated skin above her collarbone, then circling the rim of her tea cup in slow, unconscious strokes that mirrored what she suddenly, desperately wanted those same fingers to do between her legs.

And he watched. Always watching. Patient and still and present in a way that made her feel seen—desired—in ways she hadn't felt in years.

"You and Tommy," she heard herself say, voice softer than intended, "both such good boys. Both so devoted to your mothers."

The words came out automatically. She reached across the island without thinking—her hand settling over his, palm to warm skin, fingers curling lightly around his larger ones.

But the second her skin met his, everything changed.

It wasn't maternal.

The truth crashed through her with devastating clarity. This touch—her thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over his knuckles, tracing the strong bones and warm texture of his hand—wasn't how she touched Tommy.

Wasn't how she touched anyone.

This was intimate. Possessive. Sexual.

The contact sent liquid heat racing up her arm, pooling hot and wet between her thighs, her pussy clenching hard enough that she felt the first slick rush of arousal soak into her panties.

Her thumb moved again—another slow circle, learning the shape of him, feeling the faint roughness of his skin, the way his pulse beat steady and strong beneath her touch. Not comfort. Exploration. Need.

"Linda's lucky to have you," she finished, but her voice had gone soft. Breathless. Intimate. Husky with the sudden, overwhelming want that made her nipples throb and her clit ache.

And her hand was still there. Still touching. Still feeling things she shouldn't feel—the forbidden thrill of touching the boy who had grown into a man who made her body weep with desire.

She should pull away. She knew that.

But seconds ticked by and her hand stayed exactly where it was, fingers tightening slightly, pressing harder, as if letting go would break something irreversible.

She felt the shift happen—felt the moment this stopped being accidental and became a deliberate choice.

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