She came back carrying a glass of water in one hand and a fresh pour of red wine in the other. She'd topped hers up on the way—a tiny domestic confession that screamed she'd already decided, consciously or not, that dealing with the god-like teenager in her living room was going to require backup.
She handed him the water, then sank onto the low couch across from him before tucking her bare feet underneath her, she settled in with that effortless, liquid grace only women who live alone perfect—completely at home in her own space, completely at home in her own smoking-hot body.
The cream silk blouse shifted as she moved, the neckline dipping open another teasing fraction, giving the soft lamplight a fresh excuse to play across the warm valley between her heavy breasts.
She took a slow sip of wine and studied him over the rim of the glass, gray eyes sparkling with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
