Best friend's Mom: Part 2

I found her in the living room.

The only light came from a single lamp in the corner, casting everything in warm amber. Elena stood by the small bar cart near the window, pouring something darker than the wine into two short glasses. She didn’t look surprised when I appeared in the doorway.

“You followed,” she said.

“You told me not to take too long.”

A quiet hum of approval left her. She held one glass out. When I stepped closer to take it, she didn’t move back. The space between us stayed narrow on purpose.

Our fingers brushed again as I accepted the glass. This time she let the contact linger, the side of her hand resting against mine for an extra second before she released it.

“Whiskey,” she said. “Figured wine wasn’t going to cut it anymore.”

I took a sip. The burn was sharp and welcome. Elena watched my throat work, then lifted her own glass and drank without breaking eye contact.

She set hers down on the cart and shifted her weight. The movement brought her hip against mine—light, almost casual. The kind of touch that could still be brushed off as accidental if either of us wanted to pretend.

Neither of us pretended.

I felt the soft press of her body through the thin fabric of her shorts. Heat flared low in my stomach. My cock, already half-interested from the kitchen, hardened further against the front of my sweatpants. There was no way she missed it.

Elena’s gaze dropped, lingered, then rose slowly back to my face.

“You’re still staring,” she murmured.

“Hard not to when you’re standing this close.”

She gave a small, breathless laugh. Then she “reached” past me for the whiskey bottle again, even though both glasses were still full. The motion pressed her breasts against my chest for a clear, deliberate second. I felt the softness of her through the tank top, the faint point of a nipple. My free hand twitched at my side.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were faintly flushed.

“That didn’t feel accidental,” I said.

“No,” she agreed softly. “It didn’t.”

The air between us tightened. Upstairs, the house stayed silent. Jake’s door remained closed. The only sounds were the quiet tick of the wall clock and our breathing.

Elena took another slow sip of whiskey, watching me over the rim. Then she set the glass down and stepped fully into my space. One of her hands came to rest on my stomach, fingers spreading over the fabric of my T-shirt. She didn’t push or pull. She just left it there, feeling the rise and fall of my breathing.

“You’ve thought about this,” she said. Not a question this time.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

I could have lied. Softened it. Instead I told the truth.

“Longer than I should have.”

Her eyes darkened. The hand on my stomach slid lower, stopping just above the waistband of my sweatpants. Her thumb brushed the skin there in a slow, absent stroke that felt anything but absent.

“You’re my son’s best friend,” she said, voice quiet. “I shouldn’t be touching you like this.”

“But you are.”

“I am.”

She let her hand drop another inch. The heel of her palm grazed the hard ridge of my cock through the soft fabric. A rough breath left me. Elena’s lips parted at the sound. She did it again, firmer this time, rubbing once along the length of me like she was testing the shape.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

Her mouth curved.

She pulled her hand away just long enough to pick up her glass again, but she didn’t step back. Instead she stayed close enough that every small movement kept her body brushing mine—hip, breast, the soft inside of her thigh against my leg. Each contact felt intentional now. No more pretending.

“Drink,” she said.

I did. The whiskey burned less this time. Or maybe I just didn’t notice.

Elena finished her own glass in two swallows and set it aside. Then both of her hands came to rest on my waist, thumbs slipping under the hem of my T-shirt to touch bare skin. The contact was warm and electric. She looked up at me, close enough that I could feel her breath against my mouth.

“Last chance to go back to the couch and pretend this never happened,” she whispered.

I answered by closing the distance and kissing her.

It wasn’t gentle. She made a small sound against my lips and opened for me immediately, tongue sliding against mine, one hand fisting in the front of my shirt. I backed her against the bar cart. A glass rattled. Neither of us cared. My hands found her hips, then the soft curve of her ass, pulling her harder against the ache in my cock.

Elena broke the kiss just long enough to speak against my mouth.

“Not here. Counter’s better.”

The words sent a fresh surge of heat through me. She took my hand and led me back toward the kitchen, bare feet silent on the floor, the hem of her shorts riding up with every step. I followed, pulse pounding, already knowing there was no version of this night that ended with either of us walking away clean.

In the kitchen she turned to face me again, eyes dark, lips slightly swollen from the kiss. She reached for the waistband of my sweatpants and tugged me closer until my body pinned hers lightly against the edge of the counter.

“Still sure?” she asked one last time.

I looked at her—Jake’s mother, the woman who had known me since I was a teenager, currently pressed against her own kitchen counter with my cock hard against her stomach—and nodded once.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure.”

Elena’s smile was slow and hungry.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I am too.”