23. Chapter 23 #2
“What do you want to do on Sunday?” I ask gently.
There’s a pause. A shaky inhale. “Bronx wants to go to the park.”
“Okay. We’ll do that.” I nod, picturing her skinny arms hugging that old stuffed polar bear I got her for her fifth birthday. “And what about you?”
“I don’t know…” She sounds so tired. So small.
“That’s your homework,” I say. “You think of what you want to do, and we’ll do it. But for now, I need you to sleep. It’s late.”
“I love you, Boss.”
“I love you more. Tell Bronx I love him. I’ll see you Sunday.”
I end the call and just stand there, staring at the sink.
I know what I have to do next. It’s not even a choice anymore.
I tiptoe to Jake’s door, listening for a sound from his room—anything to stop me. The soft snore on the other side is like a death knell.
I sigh.
Then I head for the master bedroom.
Outside her door, I pause, heart pounding. “Do it for Cassie and Bronx,” I whisper, then knock softly.
The door opens almost immediately.
“Boston,” Mrs. Davis says, surprise flickering in her voice before it melts into something sultry. “I didn’t think you’d show. But I’m glad you did.”
She steps back, gesturing me in. The door clicks shut behind me.
Then she turns the lock.
Nausea rolls through me.
“I take it you’re here to accept my offer?”
I can’t force the word out, so I just nod.
Mrs. Davis smiles and closes the small distance between us, tugging at the sash of her silk robe, never breaking eye contact. The fabric slides off her, pooling at her feet.
She’s naked now, but I keep my eyes on her face.
“God, you’re beautiful…” she purrs, her gaze dragging down my body.
Her fingers slip beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing over my stomach like she’s cataloging me. “I’ve wanted this since Jake brought you home.” She giggles. “Okay, let’s be honest, I’ve wanted you for years. And now look at you. All grown up. Tall. Broad. You filled out like a dream, Boston.”
She begins to undress me, exploring my body as she goes. When her hand dips into the waistband of my jeans and boxers, my eyes slam shut.
Don’t think.
Just get through this.
She lowers herself in front of me, pulling my pants down with her.
The moments come in fragments after that, as does her voice.
“—drain you, baby.”
“—you taste.”
Her mouth is on me—tongue licking, lips sucking.
I think I might puke.
I breathe, push through the revulsion rising in my throat, and summon what I need to get hard. I don’t think I ever realized how psychological sex is until right now.
She rolls a condom on me and lays on the bed. “Ready?”
No.
“I’m going to take such good care of you, Boss.”
Her voice keeps going—low, aroused, needy—but I’m not listening.
I climb onto the bed, moving like I’m underwater. She opens her legs and beckons me between them.
I shut my eyes as I press into her, feeling her body yield around me. It’s nauseatingly real.
A sick twist of finality coils in my chest with the realization that the line I never imagined crossing is already behind me.
There’s no walking this back.
It’s done.
My body works as if on autopilot—moving, thrusting, speeding up, slowing down—taking my cues entirely from Mrs. Davis.
But in my head, I’m not really here.
I’m somewhere warm and clean and safe.
I think about soft laughter. About sunlight catching in auburn hair. About the faint, sweet scent of strawberries.
Skye.
I let her replace this moment. I have to.
I move faster. Harder. Mechanically. Just trying to finish.
Mrs. Davis cries out when she comes, arching into me. I seal my mouth over hers, desperate to shut her up before she wakes Jake, before this whole thing turns from unbearable to catastrophic. Her moans are muffled, her nails digging into my skin like she wants to brand herself into me.
But I don’t react. I don’t let myself feel anything beyond the bare minimum needed to finish this.
I focus on that—on it being over.
It takes everything I have, but I finally push myself over the edge, thinking of soft, pale skin beneath me and ocean blue eyes staring straight into my soul, mouth curved into the most beautiful smile.
When it’s done, everything in me… drops, silence replacing the moans.
My body stills, empty and used up.
I pull away and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. My boxers are on the floor, and my fingers itch to put them back on, but I don’t move. I don’t think I can.
Behind me, Mrs. Davis shifts. A moment later, I feel her breasts press against my back as her hands reach around and slide the used condom off me. She rises—still naked—and walks to the bathroom. The trash can lid clanks softly before she returns a moment later.
She crosses to the walk-in closet but doesn’t bother with clothes.
Instead, she comes back holding a crisp stack of five hundred-dollar bills and sets them on the nightstand, fanning them out demonstratively.
“God, you’re exquisite,” she breathes, sliding into her bed behind me. She runs a hand down my back, then leans in and presses her lips to my shoulder. “Come lie down with me. Just for a little while.”
I don’t fight it when she tugs at my arm, guiding me back under the covers beside her.
She settles against me, her head on my shoulder, one leg draped over mine. Her fingers trace lazy circles on my chest, like she’s drawing a map of a place I don’t want to be.
“You have no idea how good you are in bed,” she whispers.
I say nothing.
I just wait, counting her breaths until they slow and deepen. I give it another ten minutes—just to be sure—then peel out of her bed. I’m noiseless as I pull on my boxers, gather the rest of my clothes, and collect the cash from the nightstand.
Only once I’m out of her room and back in the guest bathroom—the door locked behind me—do I allow myself to breathe.
I turn on the shower, then look at myself in the mirror, only to look away immediately. I already know what I’ll see. Something empty. Something wrong. Something dirty.
I can’t believe I just fucked my best friend’s mom. In her marriage bed. For cash.
I stand there, white-knuckling the counter as I stare at the money.
I hate what I did.
But I did it for Cassie and Bronx.
Finally, I step under the scalding water and let it burn. I stay long enough for my skin to wrinkle, long enough to feel like I might scrub the night off me, even though I know I won’t be able to. What I just did isn’t something I’ll be able to wash away with soap and water.