His eyes met hers. Held. Dark. Hungry. Unblinking. Something passed between them—raw, electric lust—that she couldn't name but felt in her bones, in her tightening nipples, in the slow, pulsing wetness between her legs.

"I'm not a boy anymore, Ms. Chen."

The words detonated in the space between them—low, rough, laced with dark promise.

Her hand froze on his. Her breath stopped. Her entire world narrowed to six words and the way he was looking at her—like a man looking at a woman he intended to claim, not like her friend's son, not like anything safe or appropriate.

And God help her, something in her responded—her pussy clenched harder, a fresh rush of wetness flooding her panties, her clit throbbing in desperate rhythm with her heartbeat. Her nipples peaked painfully against her top, aching for touch, for his mouth, for anything.

She jerked her hand back like his skin had burned her. But her palm still tingled. Still remembered. Still craved.

"No," she whispered, voice trembling, trying to find equilibrium that had shattered the moment his words landed. "I suppose you're not."

The air had changed—thick, charged, humming with electricity that made every breath feel like foreplay, every heartbeat a throb between her legs.

He picked up his spoon again—gave her space to retreat. But the damage was done. The truth was out there now, hanging between them like smoke—thick with the scent of her arousal, the unspoken promise of what could happen if she stopped pretending.

She couldn't unsee it. Couldn't pretend she hadn't felt it. Couldn't lie to herself about the way her body had reacted—wet, aching, desperate—to one sentence and eye contact that had lasted three seconds too long.

They sat in silence that felt louder than screaming. She twisted her tea cup in circles, trying to ignore the way her thighs pressed together, trying to ease the relentless throb in her clit, failing completely.

"I haven't been sleeping," she said finally, desperate for safe conversation, voice still husky, betraying her.

She told him about the fear. About the nightmares. About her brain that wouldn't shut off.

And then he was standing. Moving around the island. Pulling her to her feet before she could protest, his hands warm and strong on her arms.

His arms came around her and she collapsed into them—her body melting against his, soft breasts crushing against hard chest, hips slotting perfectly as if they were made to fit.

The solid length of his cock pressed against her belly, the unmistakable heat of his arousal brushing her lower abdomen, making her gasp softly into his shirt.

This is okay, she told herself as tears came. This is appropriate. This is just comfort.

But he was so solid and giant big. So warm.

He was much taller that she had to tilt her head back to rest against his shoulder—exposing the curve of her throat, her pulse racing beneath thin skin.

And his arms around her felt nothing like safety. Felt like danger wrapped in warmth. Felt like possession.

One hand settled in her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, tugging gently; the other rubbed slow, deliberate circles on her lower back—dangerously low, fingertips brushing the swell of her ass through her thin pants.

She cried into his chest while his touch turned soothing into something else—intimate strokes that made her nipples ache harder, made her pussy clench and weep with fresh wetness.

"I'm so tired," she whispered against his shirt, and it sounded like confession. Like surrender. Like please.

"I know." His voice rumbled through his chest into hers—deep, rough, vibrating straight to her core. "But I'm here."

She pulled back to look at him—needing to see his face, needing to check if what she was feeling was real.

Huge mistake.

His face was inches away. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his darkened eyes, the perfect line of his mouth, lips slightly parted, breath warm against her skin. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, to smell the clean, masculine scent that made her clit throb harder.

Her hands rested on his chest—palms flat over hard muscle, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath, strong and steady and alive. Her fingers curled without permission, nails scraping lightly through his shirt, wanting more skin, wanting everything.

And then they were moving without permission—sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, one hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him fractionally closer as her body arched into his, breasts pressing harder, hips rolling slow and helpless against the growing hardness she could feel against her belly.

The line wasn't just crossed.

It was obliterated.

Sliding up from his chest to his shoulders again—her palms gliding slow and deliberate over the hard muscle beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of him seep into her skin like a drug. His neck—fingers tracing the strong column, brushing the pulse that beat steady and strong, the faint prickle of stubble sending sparks straight to her core.

Until she was cradling his face the way mothers do when checking for fever or expressing innocent love.

Except there was nothing innocent about this.

Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones—slow, reverent strokes over warm, smooth skin, tracing the sharp angles with a touch that lingered too long, too intimately.

Traced the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the faint roughness of emerging stubble rasp against her fingertips, the masculine texture making her pussy clench hard, a fresh rush of wetness soaking deeper into her panties.

And she watched herself do it like she was outside her body, watching a woman caress a man she craved, not the way she touched her son's friend—watching her own hands explore his beautiful face with raw, aching hunger.

"You're still so young," she whispered, but it came out wrong—breathless, husky, laced with regret and desperate want, like mourning the years that separated them while her body screamed to ignore them.

"Too fast." Her hands kept moving. Kept learning.

Kept exploring the angles of his face because she'd started and now she couldn't stop—fingers sliding along his jaw, brushing the corner of his mouth, feeling his warm breath against her skin. "You shouldn't have to comfort me like this."

But she didn't want him to stop. Didn't want to let go. Didn't want this moment to end even though every second of it was wrong—every second made her nipples throb harder against her tank top, made her clit pulse with need, made her soaked panties cling to her swollen folds.

His hands were still on her waist. Steady. Patient. Not pushing but not retreating either—fingers splayed wide, thumbs brushing slow circles just above the curve of her hips, the heat of his palms burning through her thin pants, making her ache to feel them lower, to feel them grip her ass and pull her against the hardness she could sense growing against her belly.

Her fingers traced his jawline now.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Learning every angle, every curve—the sharp cut of his jaw, the smooth, warm skin, the slight roughness where stubble was beginning, each touch sending jolts of heat straight to her core, her pussy weeping with fresh arousal.

This wasn't maternal. There was no pretending anymore. No lying to herself about what she was doing or why.

She was touching him because she wanted to. Because his face was beautiful and she wanted to know what it felt like under her hands, wanted to memorize it.

Because standing this close to him made her feel things she hadn't felt in years—made her body alive, wet, desperate—and she was too tired to fight it anymore.

Her thumb brushed over his lower lip—barely there, just a whisper of contact, feeling the soft, full warmth of it, testing, exploring, imagining how it would feel against her mouth, against her nipples, between her thighs.

The contact made her breath hitch, her pussy clench hard, wetness trickling down her inner thigh.

He didn't move. Didn't react. Just watched her with eyes that were too dark, too knowing—heavy-lidded, burning with restrained hunger.

Patient while she broke every rule she'd ever set for herself.

The air between them was electric now. Charged with raw, pulsing lust, thick enough to taste, making her nipples ache and her clit throb in desperate rhythm.

"This is inappropriate," she whispered, but her hands didn't stop moving—fingers still cradling his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks in slow, intimate circles.

"Probably."

"You're Tommy's best friend."

"I am."

"You're seventeen."

"Almost eighteen." He smiled slightly—slow, devastating, the curve of his lips making her core tighten. "But who's counting?"

"I'm old enough to be your mother."

"You're not, though." He took one step closer—bodies brushing now, the hard line of his arousal pressing firmly against her lower belly, making her gasp softly as heat flooded her pussy.

"You're Ms. Chen. Tommy's mother. Linda's friend. And a woman who's been taking care of everyone else so long she forgot someone should take care of her—should touch her, taste her, make her come until she forgets every rule."

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