Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
A Seat at the Table
Dominic
Oliver came in the kitchen at a gallop that would have failed every inpatient safety lecture.
J followed, pretending they were above excitement even as they took the seat that put them closest to the drumstick pile.
I thought of what I had seen Teyonah do tons of times during dinner, when I watched them from the backyard. “Hands?”
They made a show of groaning and went to wash them.
Ha! I’m really getting the hang of this.
When they came back, we ate.
Oliver narrated the geometry of his chicken bone.
J announced in a tone of tragic indignity that decimals were the worst thing that ever existed.
I listened, talked when needed, and watched the hallway for the moment when the office light would finally wink out.
Halfway through dinner, it did.
Here she comes.
My heart warmed.
“Oh my God!” She came in, barefoot, curls a little messy.
I grinned.
“Dominic, this smells so good. I can’t believe you cooked.” She slid into her chair and looked at the plates like she’d just remembered she was allowed to be hungry.
“I don’t cook much so I thought it would be fun.”
“I told you I was going to order pizza.”
“No way. We like chicken.”
J munched on his drumstick. “This is delicious.”
Oliver bobbed his head.
My heart warmed and relief rushed in. “I’m glad you all like it. I just. . .threw something together.”
“This looks like a high-end meal. You did more than that.” She started piling her plate. “Thank you so much. I owe you.”
I frowned. “You don’t.”
“Well. . .I want to cook for you this week.”
My heart ached some more. “No. You can thank me in other ways.”
She widened her eyes.
I chuckled, happy that the boys didn’t catch that.
Yet in my mind, I fucked her hard.
Violently.
Desperately.
Right there.
Bent over the kitchen table.
Her body trembling beneath mine.
I would tangle my fingers in those wild curls, yanking her head back until our eyes met, forcing her to acknowledge who was splitting her pussy open.
Who was making her drip down her thighs.
My brutal thrusts.
Her ragged gasps she couldn't suppress.
Her begging.
The sound of our bodies meeting would drown out the chatter of forks on plates, her gasps muffled only by the hand I'd clamp over her mouth to keep her quiet.
Fuck yeah.
I shifted in my seat, willing my body to behave.
But the image persisted—evolved.
Her wrists pinned above her head, her back arched as I took my time, making her feel every inch of my fat cock.
Watching her be my filthy little whore.
My bad, slutty Mommy.
Watching her come apart piece by piece, knowing I was the one doing it to her.
Knowing she'd let me over and over.
The way she'd look up at me with those wide eyes, pupils blown dark with need.
The way her pussy would tighten around me when I finally let her cum, when I finally gave her what she'd been begging for.
It was a twisted, carnal fantasy that set my veins on fire and had my heart racing at the dinner table.
Fuck, I wanted that.
Wanted her.
Wanted to own every sound she made, every tremor, every gasping breath.
"Dominic?" Her voice snapped me back.
I blinked, finding her watching me with a slight smile and her head tilted. "You okay? You looked like you zoned out for a second."
"Yeah." I cleared my throat, reaching for my water. "Just thinking."
"About?"
You. Naked. Pussy spread apart. Ruined.
"How good this chicken turned out," I said smoothly.
J snorted. "You're complimenting your own cooking?"
"Someone has to."
Teyonah laughed, and the sound went straight through me.
I watched her take another bite, watched her lips close around her fork, and had to look away before my thoughts spiraled again.
Later. I'll have her later. First, I make sure she sucks my cock.
That image hit me too.
Teyonah on her knees before me, right there on the kitchen floor. Those full lips wrapped around my cock, taking me deep into her mouth.
I'd fist my hand in her curls, guiding her head’s rhythm, watching her eyes water as she struggled to take all of me.
"No. No. Don’t stop. Be good, Mommy. That's it, baby," I'd murmur. "Just like that. Show me what that pretty mouth can do."
She would look up at me with those wide, dark brown eyes and I would lose my fucking mind.
She was so experienced.
I already knew she would blow my mind and do things that I’ve only seen porn stars do.
The way her tongue would work along my shaft, the way she would hollow her cheeks, the way the obscene wet sounds would fill the quiet house.
I'd make her work for it.
Make her prove how badly she wanted cum to spill into her mouth.
And when I finally came, I'd pull back just enough to watch her swallow every drop, her lips swollen and glistening, her breath coming in pants.
"Dominic?" Her voice snapped me back once again. “Did you hear me?”
I blinked and then grinned. “No. What did you say?”
“I was wondering if you’ve ever cooked this dish before?”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “Honestly, this may be the third or fourth time I’ve ever cooked in my life. The other times have been with my chef.”
J popped their eyes open. “A chef?”
I nodded. “She wanted me to learn how to make a few simple meals before I went off to college. That was long ago. This chicken dish was one of them.”
Oliver blinked. “You had a chef when you were a kid, Dom?”
“Sure did.”
Oliver turned to Teyonah. “Mommy, can we have a chef too?”
“Uh. . .no, baby.” She laughed, and the sound went straight through me.
We will, Oliver. Don’t worry about that. Let’s just get your mommy on board first.
Dinner turned into something better than I ever could’ve planned.
Teyonah laughed with us, actually laughed—head tilted back, shoulders unburdened for once.
Oliver kept trying to balance his second chicken bone on his fork like it was part of a circus act, while J rolled their eyes but couldn’t stop smiling either.
I’d thought the chicken might be too dry, but they devoured it like I’d pulled it straight out of a Michelin kitchen.
The whole table glowed under the lamplight—warm food, warm voices, the kind of hum that stitched itself into your bones and stayed.
My chest ached, the good kind.
I’d spent years chasing excellence with classes, professors, exams, but this felt like the first success that really mattered.
I’d never had nights like this growing up.
My older parents were both surgeons—brilliant, respected, always on call, always vanishing into the sterile brightness of hospitals that ate their hours whole.
Dinner in our house wasn’t roasted chicken and laughter.
It was a nanny setting plates in front of me, a chef stirring soups or elaborate dishes I never remembered the names of.
Everything was polished, efficient, and impersonal.
I’d sat at our long dining table that echoed with silverware but never with warmth.
If I scraped my knee, it was a bandage from the house staff, not a parent’s kiss.
If I brought home an A, it was handed to the maid to stick on the fridge that nobody looked at later.
Sitting here, with Teyonah and her kids, I realized what had been missing all those years. This wasn’t just dinner. This was family—messy, loud, imperfect, and alive.
The kind of medicine no hospital could ever prescribe.
Then Oliver spotted something half-tucked in Teyonah’s purse on the chair beside her. He leaned sideways, squinting. “Mommy, what’s that book. . .the. . .Pool Boy?”
Her fork froze mid-air. Her eyes widened before narrowing into a look of instant damage control. “Oh, that book? This is for my book club. It’s just about a boy that likes pools. That’s all.”
Oliver gasped like she’d just confessed state secrets. “Wow! I like pools too! Can you read it to us for bedtime tonight, Mommy?”
J nodded. “Yeah. That will be fun. I bet he swims fast.”
Teyonah nearly choked on her rice. “Oh no.”
I raised my eyebrows.
She shook her head so fast her curls bounced. “We’ll read something else.”
The way she said it—rushed, guilty, almost scandalized—told me everything. That book wasn’t about pool filters or lifeguard training.
No.
That book was smut.
Pure, filthy, mom-hiding-it-in-her-purse smut.
Mmmm. Very naughty Mommy.
And fuck if I didn’t want to know every single position hidden in those pages. My mind flashed instantly to her stretched out on her bed, reading by lamplight, biting her lip at some dirty line and shifting her thighs together.
If The Pool Boy was half as hot as the title promised, I wanted her to read it out loud—to me, not the kids—and then let me put her in every filthy scenario she tried to downplay.
My cock jerked in my pants.
Thank God no one could see it.
I smiled into my plate, catching her quick nervous glance at me. She knew I’d caught the slip, knew I’d filed it away like a diagnosis I fully intended to follow up on.
Her blush only confirmed it.
Dinner carried on, laughter spilling, plates emptied, and for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be full in every sense—stomach, heart, soul, cock aching under the table for a woman who read dirty books and raised brilliant kids.
God help me, I was already planning how to make her my patient, my obsession, my love story.
I will never let them go. Never.
After dinner, Teyonah took the kids upstairs and began their evening routine.
We still hadn’t had much time to talk about what we were and how this all would work out. I just knew that I would be in her bed tonight.
I would just have to wait for the kids to go to bed before sneaking back upstairs.
So to give myself something to do, I cleaned up and loaded the dishwasher.
Once done, I wiped down the stovetop and shut off the jazz.
Betty would be shocked and then laughing at me right now.
My nanny had done all the cleaning up after me.
Never did I have to wipe a thing.
When I heard Teyonah finally reading the bedtime story, I tidied the counters, stacked Tupperware with unnecessary satisfaction, and put the leftover chicken into a glass container like it was a heart we might need to revive tomorrow.
So close to being inside her.
The sink stopped dripping.
My chest felt steady and full.
And then. . .all of a sudden the fucking doorbell rang.
Huh?
I checked the time.
9:00 pm. What the fuck?
The air in my chest changed pressure.
I dried my hands on a towel, set it down, and walked to the door.
It’s too late for anybody to be showing up.
I opened the door.
NO!! WHAT THE FUCK?!!
Scott stood there in a suit the color of money, crisp enough to suggest power but pulling just a little too tight around the middle.
Papers sagged in his hand.
He was forty-nine, and it showed on his hairline that thinned on the edges and had been combed in careful lines that couldn’t hide the shine of his scalp.
For a man who made the higher side of six figures, he clearly didn’t know how to carry it well. A bit sloppy in the details: shirt collars slightly wilted by the end of the day, cufflinks chosen more for flash than taste, shoes shined just enough to pass.
Not suave.
Not refined.
But not ugly either.
He was a man who had coasted for years on the privilege of being “good enough” and the confidence to make everyone else believe it.
And right now, standing there, Scott looked less like a husband who had been lost and more like a creditor who had come to collect a great debt.
I should fucking kill him for showing up so late.
He parted his mouth in shock and took me in—barefoot, sleeves rolled, happiness I hadn’t had time to hide. “Who the hell are you?”