John and Camil didn’t catch a wink after their wild night—sheets trashed, air heavy with bourbon and sweat, her back pressed tight to his chest, curled sideways in his arms, whispering soft like some lovesick couple.

  John’s big questions got answers, quick and clean. Find the mole in Hensley’s Haul? Not a chance—Camil didn’t know the crowd, except that Bryce once bragged about too many to track, half forgotten even himself.

  Just me, Mar, Tammy to trust then.

  Then the bombshell: Bryce’s Vitacore Pharma hookup—Charles Vanderbilt. John cracked up hard hearing it, what a small fucking world. That st name—gotta be Anthony’s old man.

  Camil turned her head to peek at his ughing face, fshing a hickey on her neck—red, fresh from his teeth. She didn’t get what’s so funny, but kept going anyway, “His wife’s Selina. I met her at some boring rich-ass party.” She rolled over, facing him, propping her head on one hand, “She’s a big shot too—runs your academy.”

  John’s brow shot up—then why am I still not expelled after what I did to Anthony?—but she cut in, “Thing is, she’s like me—husband’s never home. So she pours all her love into her precious Anthony, but word is he’s a rebel shit, hates her guts.”

  John’s grin went crooked, eyes glinting, “She into ‘Mommy’ stuff like you?” But she shoved him hard, “Fuck off, you horny pig.” He leaned in, voice low and thick, “Fine—I’ll stick to you then, just us.” Bullshit so thick she ughed till she choked, swatting him away. “You think I’d buy that crap?” She arched a brow—in this world, one-man-one-woman was just a fairy tale. “Besides, if you stick to me only, you’d fuck me dead—literally.” He burst into ughter, loose and loud, till her hand cracked his chest—whack—“Fuck off, pig!”

  They spilled their guts after that—her lonely rattle in this gold-pted trap, Old John’s wreck under Bryce’s boot. She got his hate; he got her empty ache. But her eyes narrowed, voice dipping, “So I’m just your tool to screw Bryce over?” John shook his head—nah, what a stupid question.

  “Tell me, how many more rounds do I have to fill you up again so you can drop that dumb idea?”

  Shocked by his reply, Camil shook her head, “You can’t be this filthy all the time.”

  “Oh, trust me—I can.” A line made them both crack up.

  After the ugh, his hand slid gentle down her back, eyes soft but dead serious, “Dumb question—me saying I really want you doesn’t count. What you think does.”

  They kept the exchange till the sun crept in. Before John was about to leave, he asked, “Hey, can you help me pick some fancy heels?—need them for a gift. Your eyes for fashion are certainly better than mine—I’ll pay of course.”

  “Who for?”

  “My mom—well, stepmom.”

  Camil’s eyes bulged, staring hard on his smirking face—we just fucked all night—then shrugged, “Not even surprised anymore.” She gave a thought about her swollen, flipped-out lips down there—puffy from their marathon—and sighed, “Fine, I can’t handle you myself anyway—got a stack of new ones. I’ll grab you a pair.”

  "Thanks, Mommy!" Yep, his mouth as filthy as always.

  After that, John hit the door, but then he spun back, talked with a rare serious in his voice, “Look, babe. If anything pops up, call me—I’ll be here, ASAP. Stay safe. And I’ve asked the big guy to help too—he’s got your back.” She smirked at his idea—you’re worrying over nothing, this is a jail, and it’s the world’s safest. But before she could say anything, he added, “That SubOnly pn we cooked up together? Keep it! I’m no investment manager, but the pn’s real, you’ll need it ter.”

  “What’s it for?”

  He shrugged, “Freedom ain’t free, babe.” Then he turned, waved zy, and went away.

  “Asshole,” she muttered, but a grin tugged her lips—not half bad, though.

  John went back home, pushed the door open and found Catherine in the thick of cleaning. She was bent over, scrubbing the floor, short purple hair—wavy, brushing just past her chin—swaying with each swipe. Today’s outfit was nothing fancy, just homey slouch: a loose gray sweatshirt, soft and baggy, paired with a pair of bck leggings that hung easy on her hips. No skin fshed—practical, cozy—but those curves didn’t give a damn about modesty. Her breasts up top—big, heavy—strained against the fabric, the dark red color of her bra peeking through the thin sweatshirt, a shadowy tease every time she stretched. Her ass, round and thick, jiggled faintly as she worked, leggings clinging just enough to outline every move. Sweat beaded on her neck, a few drops sliding down to dampen the colr, her breasts swaying with each scrub—flesh quivering, impossible to ignore.

  John clocked her and flipped on his good-son act fast—dropped his bag, darted over, and snatched the mop from her grip. “Lemme get that, Mom,” he said, all eager, already swiping the floor like it was his life’s mission.

  Catherine straightened up, brushing her hands on her leggings, unfazed by his hustle. Lately, John had been all over her with this helpful crap—she didn’t mind at all, less work for her after all—but his recent constant te nights were unusual as hell. Back in the day, she wouldn’t even know if he came back home or not; he was a stray cat, and she didn’t really care. Now, though, he’d been cozying up, acting like he wanted to be a part of this patched-together family—her family. It bugged her enough to feel like she had to say something.

  She crossed her arms, eyeing him sharp. “You’re out all night tely—not that I care—but you better not stir up trouble out there and drag it back home.”

  John, mid-mop, smirked inside—gotcha. He’d been pying her perfect son, all sweet and doting, but then gone for days. The sudden switch threw her off, flipped her head around, just as he pnned. His little game was sinking in, slow and slick, right where he wanted her.

  No way he’d cough up the real story though—tailing the Calhans, let alone st night’s screwing Camil till the walls rattled. Instead, he fshed a clean, innocent grin—eyes wide like a damn puppy—and pivoted fast, “Hey, Mom, you see that shoebox by the door? That’s for you—been working nights to save up for those shoes.” He nodded toward the porch, where he’d left the sleek bck box Camil picked—fancy as hell, all hers.

  What John said didn’t matter much to Catherine—the shoes did. They sat in the box, untouched, but the fat Jimmy Choo logo screamed money—those stilettos ran at least two grand a pair, easy.

  Her thoughts tripped over themselves. He’d do this for me? But why? She frowned, turning to him, voice tight. “Why the heels?”

  He shrugged, fshing that innocent, careful grin—like he was scared to fuck it up. “Mom, you said st time you don’t get to walk around in heels all day—I figured you meant you missed it, maybe wanted to. Just a guess.” His eyes stayed wide, pure as a kid’s, pying it safe.

  He’s catching my hints now? Catherine’s head spun—this John was a damn stranger. Old John didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything in this house. She gnced back at the Jimmy Choo box, its glossy bck edge taunting her. Logic kicked in, though—she couldn’t take it.

  “Thanks, uh, John,” she said, still awkward with his name, “but these are too pricey. I can’t keep ‘em—return them.”

  Return? With those eyes glued to the box?

  Lips of a dy, lies so shady.

  John stepped over, snagging the box with a casual swoop, popping the lid. “Mom, just take a look first, huh?” He held out the heels—bck, sleek, lethal curves glinting under the light—his face all wide-eyed and sweet. Inside, though, he smirked—she’d crumble once she saw them up close, no chance she’d say no.

  Catherine’s gut twisted—she wanted those damn shoes. She’d whined to Chloe, the family’s breadwinner, about getting a pair for herself like this, and Chloe always shot her down—not a necessary expense, Mom. But her own closet full of heels? Work props, all for the gig, keeping up her appearances in front of her employees.

  But if I take these, what’s next with him?

  John read her like a book—her wrestle was pin as day. She didn’t trust him not to cash in this favor ter, ask for something she’d hate to give. No way he’d say he wanted nothing back—that’s basically screaming I wanna fuck you even though I’m just a log out loud. So he had to toss her a decoy, hide the real game. Plus, he needed this chat done quick—leave the shoes here, no instant “return it” bullshit. Once they stayed, she’d try them on—game over, they’d be hers.

  He rubbed his head, pulling a tired look, voice soft. “Mom, I worked te st night—beat as hell. Gonna crash for a bit. Can you make me some spaghetti bolognese for dinner tonight? Been craving it. These shoes—we can figure it out ter.” He didn’t wait for her—spun and shuffled towards his room, shoulders slouched like he’d earned a nap.

  At the door, he stopped, then half-turned, a flicker of his usual mischievous grin breaking through. “Oh, Mom—if you really don’t want them, give them to Sis. Tell her you bought them for her—show her you are not a stingy fuck like her, always yapping excuses and not to gift a damn thing.” He ducked inside, door clicking shut, gone.

  Catherine blinked, then covered her mouth with a hand, muffling a ugh that bubbled up sharp. This John—calling Chloe a stingy fuck? Kid’s got a mouth.

  John was really tired—sleeping all the way through past six—a dead lump under the sheets. And a soft knock rattled the door—Catherine’s voice slipped in, “Uh, John, dinner’s ready. Made that spaghetti bolognese you wanted. Chloe’s not back—so just the two of us, come eat.” First time she’d ever called him down like this; first time for a lot of shit tely.

  “Got it, Mom—I’m coming!” John sprang off the bed, shaking off sleep, tugging his shirt straight, a grin splitting his face. Him and his stepmom, alone at the table? Old John would’ve ughed that off as a fever dream. Progress, huh, he thought, already at the dining room by the time the idea settled.

  Catherine sat there, waiting, still in that big gray sweatshirt, elbow propped on the table, head resting in her hand. Her tits—those fat, heavy mounds—literally spilled onto the table, glowing under the mplight, the deep red bra underneath winking through the fabric like a tease.

  Holy shit, John thought, fighting to keep his eyes off them—but they darted anyway, flicking up and down. She caught it, of course—boys will be boys, even logs—and didn’t hate it that much. Old John’s leers used to turn her stomach; this John, though, was starting to feel… different. Sharp, sure, but thoughtful too.

  Still, she had to py her part, as a stepmom. “Ahem,” she coughed, loud enough to snap him out of it.

  John pulled his eyes back, yanking a chair out fast, “Sorry, Mom—got distracted.” Straight-up admitting he’d been scoping her chest, without any shame.

  What the fuck? He just admitted? she thought, brow creasing slight. She shook her head, murmured in her mind, Just don’t say anything next time, John.

  But John actually wanted that signal out there—cranking up the “danger” vibe between them. Why? For a stay-at-home type like her, “danger” was the spice her dull days begged for. Keep it in her safe zone, and she’d crave it slow—hooked, step by step.

  He pushed further, voice dipping innocent, “Mom, I’ve been feeling weird tely—can’t focus. I, uh… found myself keep staring at girls, especially, uh… certain parts.” He pyed it pure, like some clueless kid hitting puberty, begging Mom for answers. But he was a grown-ass log—acting like he didn’t know why women got him hot would tank the act. So he leaned in, “I, uh, think maybe I’m not a log—but I’m scared to check.”

  Catherine’s focus was “why’s he even telling me this?”, but then his “scared” line clicked—he needed some encouragement, some support. Her voice softened, “Why not, John? Worth a check, right?”

  He sighed, heavy and real, “Cause I’ve made peace with being a happy log.” A little droop in his shoulders sold it— “Don’t wanna hope, then watch it crash.” So raw, so damn sad.

  Pity tugged at her—years of ignoring his rough road, writing him off as a shut-in who didn’t care about this family. Now he was trying, cracking that shell, and guilt nibbled at her for all the times she’d looked away.

  John clocked her sorry look—his “not a log” bait had nded. But that's it.

  Guilt could bridge gaps, sure—but to sex? Fat chance. And even if it did, where’s the thrill in a pity fuck?

  Now He had pnted this “danger” vibe as intended, and it’s time to move on from this pity shit. It's just an excuse and distraction anyway. “Anyway, forget that—Mom, this spaghetti bolognese is so delicious. Thanks!”

  She snapped out of it, fshing a polite smile, “Gd you like it. And thanks for the shoes.” But her mind lingered—what’s he been through?

  They ate, trading small talk ‘til ptes cleared, and John acted like the heavy stuff never happened—jumped up, grabbed the dishes, started scrubbing. Catherine got shooed to the side, plopped down to rest, soaking in the rare breather. This… it’s not bad, she thought, a flicker of fun sneaking in.

  John, still hot on it, swooped over once the kitchen gleamed, “Mom, all done. Since you worked round the house all day. Must be exhausted, right? Lemme give you a massage—back, feet, whatever.”

  “Uh, okay… shoulders, then,” she said, hesitant but in. First time she’d given him a clear pass—didn’t know if it was right, but that “not a log” bit sparked a tiny, electric thrill. Dangerous, but just enough, she told herself—it’s only shoulders.

  John slid behind her, real close—his breath steady on her neck as she sat stiff on the couch. Her gray sweatshirt hung loose, but up this near, it didn’t hide anything. His hands hit her shoulders—strong, warm, digging in, thumbs rolling hard over the tight spots. “Ohh,” she moaned soft, slipping out before she could stop it, head tipping a bit, purple hair falling to bare that sweaty neck.

  He peeked down—her tits spilled heavy under the shirt, the deep red bra strap slipping a touch off one shoulder. Didn’t even notice that, she thought, brushing it off—barely a slip. His fingers pressed deeper, sliding along her colrbone, nudging that strap further till one of her tits popped free a little—big, round, jiggling with every squeeze.

  “Mmm—John, easy,” she gasped, voice wobbly, half pushing back, half melting. It’s just shoulders, she told herself, even as the strap drooped more, dangling now, and she felt too damn good to care.

  “No good, Mom?” he teased, voice still all pure and innocent, thumbs digging into her shoulder bdes—her breasts bounced again, right under his nose, sweatshirt tugging up to fsh deep, trembling cleavage. Her scent hit him—sweet body heat, a sharp tang of sweat—smming his brain, making his cock twitch hard in his pants. “Ahh—too much,” she whined, squirming, but her body sank into his hand, soft and needy.

  He got bolder—hands kneading her shoulders, fingers slipping just under the shirt’s edge, grazing the tops of her breasts—warm, full, shaking with every press. Her neck prickled now, his breath turning hot and fast, tickling her skin ‘til she shivered hard. “Ohh—wait, stop… no, don’t,” she moaned loud, breath hitching, too sharp, too wild.

  “Anything wrong, Mom?” John asked, voice dripping with worry, but eyes glinting sly. Catherine’s face burned red—shit, too much, she thought, panicked. He hadn’t done anything crazy, just rubbed her shoulders, but her body screamed like he had. She couldn’t let him see that. She replied quick, “N-no, nothing. You pressed too hard—kinda hurt.”

  “That’s my bad—lighter now, Mom,” he said, all soft and sweet, then dug back in, hands easing up but still firm. That itch cwed up her spine again—his hot breath bsting her neck, driving her nuts, her skin buzzing like it’d catch fire. His cock stiffened more, rock-hard now, as her musk—sweat, soap, raw heat—smmed his head, fogging him up.

  “Feeling good, Mom?” he growled low, thumbs rolling down where her breasts met her back, making them quake hard—big, heavy tremors that shook her whole frame. Her scent—sweat, soap, raw—spiked his pulse, his grip tightening just a bit. That quake yanked her red bra strap even lower, sliding it halfway down her arm, and her nipples rubbed against the slipped ce—soft, full, scraping the rough edge. The friction hit her hard—tingly, numb, a hot buzz that made her nipples perk up, stiff and sharp. From behind, John caught it—a faint outline poking through the sweatshirt, teasing his eyes, his breath catching as her musk kept smming his head.

  “Mmm—not bad,” she groaned, giving up, head lolling back against his chest, a long, shaky “ahhh” spilling out. The strap couldn’t slip any further down now—just shoulders, just shoulders, she chanted, but her tits spilled further, hot and heavy, and she didn’t fix it—too hooked. “Keep going,” she mumbled, voice thick, all in. He smirked, hands slick with her heat, her smell—damn, it was wrecking him, his cock rock-hard, throbbing, barely contained.

  Then the front door clicked—keys jangling loud. Chloe’s voice cut through, “Mom, I’m home!” Catherine snapped straight, “Stop—now,” she hissed low, shoving his hands off fast—her strap still dangled loose, face bzing red. John pulled back, fshing a sly grin, “Night, Mom,” and darted to his room like a shadow. She stumbled to hers, heart pounding, smming the door—then she froze.

  Something was off—way off. Her breath caught as she shifted, feeling it—a hot, wet flood soaking through her leggings, dripping down her thighs. Fuck, she thought, gut twisting, I’m drenched.