Her hands fell away like he'd slapped her. She stepped back, wrapped her arms around herself—trying to hold in the tremor, trying to ignore the way her soaked panties clung to her swollen folds, the way her clit pulsed with every heartbeat.

"Ms. Chen," he said quietly, voice low and velvet—a warning wrapped in silk, promising pleasure and ruin.

"You have beautiful eyes," she whispered, desperate deflection, her gaze dropping to his mouth, lingering on his lips as her own parted on a shaky breath. "I mean—you have kind eyes. Dangerous eyes. Both."

"Both," he agreed, voice dropping deeper, eyes darkening as they traced her face, her throat, the stiff peaks of her nipples straining against her top.

The word hung between them. Confirmation. Acknowledgment that they both knew this was lust—raw, forbidden, unstoppable.

"I should let go of you," she said, voice trembling.

"You should."

But she didn't move. Didn't step away. Just stood there with her arms wrapped around herself, heart hammering, pussy aching, body screaming for the touch she'd just denied.

The air left her lungs. Because he'd said it. Put words to something she'd been feeling—the desperate, soaking need for him.

"You should go," she whispered, but her eyes stayed locked on his, dark with want.

"Should I?"

"Yes." But she didn't move toward the door. Couldn't. Just stood there, thighs pressed together to ease the throb, failing. "This is—I don't know what this is."

"It's honest." He stayed where he was, but his gaze felt like hands on her skin—stroking, claiming. "For once, someone's being honest with you instead of careful—honest about wanting to spread you open on this counter and bury my face in your pussy until you scream."

"Honest." She laughed—sharp, almost hysterical, the sound breaking into a soft moan she couldn't swallow. "You think this is honest? You standing in my kitchen—in my son's kitchen—looking at me like—" She couldn't finish.

Couldn't say it because saying it would make it real.

"Like what?" His voice was soft. Dangerous. A low growl that made her clit pulse.

"Like—" Her voice broke. Her nipples throbbed painfully, her pussy clenched hard, wetness trickling down her thigh. "Like I'm not old enough to be your mother. Like the age difference doesn't matter. Like there aren't a thousand reasons this is wrong."

"Are there?" He stepped closer again—close enough that his heat enveloped her, his arousal brushing her belly. "Or are those just rules someone else made that you've been following without asking if they actually apply to you—without asking how good it would feel to break them, to let me make you come until you forget every single one?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Because she didn't have an answer that wasn't a lie—didn't have words that could hide the way her body was betraying her, nipples stiff and aching against her tank top, pussy throbbing with a slow, insistent heat that made her thighs press together in helpless need.

"You know what I think?" He took another step closer, deliberate, the air between them thickening until it felt like velvet brushing her skin.

She pressed back against the counter behind her—trapped, her ass meeting the cold granite edge, but the shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the sudden rush of wetness flooding her panties.

Trapped but not scared. Something else entirely—breathless, desperate, alive.

"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Defensive now. Fighting. But her voice came out husky, trembling at the edges, her chest rising faster, breasts straining against thin fabric with every shallow inhale.

"I think you've been following rules your whole life. Been the good woman. The good mother. The one who sacrifices and smiles and never asks for anything back."

Another step. Close enough now that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact—close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to smell the clean, masculine scent of him that made her clit pulse hard.

"And I think you're exhausted. Not just from the shooting. From pretending you don't feel things you're not supposed to feel—from pretending your pussy isn't soaking wet right now because the boy you watched grow up is standing here looking at you like he wants to spread you open on this counter and lick you until you scream your pussy creams."

"Peter—"

"I'm not going to touch you," he said quietly, stopping just outside the space that would make this irreversible—but close enough that his breath brushed her lips, close enough that she could feel the hard line of his arousal brushing her lower belly through their clothes, making her gasp softly.

"Not unless you ask. Not unless you tell me that's what you want instead of what you think you should want."

Her breath was coming too fast now. Shallow. Uneven. Her fingers gripped the counter behind her hard enough to make her knuckles white, nails digging into granite as she fought the urge to reach for him, to pull him closer, to grind against the heat she could feel radiating from him.

Her pussy clenched hard, a fresh wave of wetness soaking through her panties, trickling slow and warm down her inner thigh.

"I don't—" The lie died in her throat. Started again, weaker. "This is insane."

"Most good things are."

"You sound like a fortune cookie written by someone's midlife crisis."

He laughed—genuine, surprised, the sound low and rough, vibrating straight to her core—and for a moment something in her chest loosened because this at least was familiar.

Was safe. Was them.

Except it wasn't.

Because his eyes were still dark with raw intent, pupils blown wide, and her body was still responding—nipples throbbing painfully, clit pulsing in desperate rhythm, pussy weeping with need she couldn't deny.

"What are you doing, Peter?" she asked, voice small, scared—but laced with hunger. "What is this?"

"Giving you a choice." He held her gaze like he was daring her to look away, voice dropping to a velvet growl that made her thighs clench. "You can tell me to leave. I'll go. We'll pretend this conversation never happened. Or…"

"Or what?"

"Or you can be honest. About what you actually want—about how badly you want my hands on your body, my mouth between your legs, my cock buried deep inside the pussy that's dripping for me right now."

The silence stretched. Her chest rose and fell with frantic breaths, breasts heaving, nipples stiff peaks straining against her top. She could feel her pulse in her throat. Could feel the aching heat pooling low in her belly, her soaked panties clinging to swollen folds, clit throbbing with every heartbeat.

"I can't," she finally whispered—voice breaking, body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Both." She closed her eyes because looking at him made it worse—made her want to beg, to spread her legs and let him take everything. "Definitely both."

"Okay." She heard him step back. Felt the space open between them like loss—like cold air rushing over heated skin. "Then I'll go."

His footsteps moved toward the door.

"Wait."

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