Friday, 11:47 p.m.
The porch light at the lake house flickered once and died, leaving only moonlight on water.
Elena stood at the railing, silk robe fluttering in the warm breeze.
Behind her, the screen door creaked.
Alex's bare feet were silent on the boards until his arms slid around her waist and his mouth found the curve of her neck.
"Thought you were asleep," she whispered.
"Couldn't." His hands slipped inside the robe, palms skating over bare skin. "Kept thinking about you out here. Alone."
"Never alone," she said, leaning back into him. "Not when you're breathing the same air."
He untied the robe, let it pool at her feet.
She wore nothing underneath.
Moonlight painted silver across her breasts, her hips, the soft swell of her stomach.
He turned her, lifted her onto the wide railing.
Her thighs parted for him like they'd been waiting years.
"Cold?" he asked.
"Burning."
He sank to his knees on the deck, spread her with his thumbs, and tasted her slow (long, languid licks that made her grip the rail until her knuckles went white).
The lake lapped below them, steady as a heartbeat.
When she came, it was with her head thrown back, stars blurring behind her eyelids, his name a broken prayer carried off by the wind.
He stood, pushed his shorts down, and entered her in one smooth thrust.
The railing creaked; she locked her ankles at his back.
"Harder," she breathed.
He gave her harder (hips snapping, water splashing up from the force of it).
Every stroke sent ripples across the moonlit surface.
"Look at me," he growled.
She did.
His eyes were wild, possessive, hers.
"Tell me," he said.
"I'm yours," she gasped. "Only yours, always."
He came with a guttural sound, hips jerking, filling her so deep she felt it in her soul.
After, he carried her inside, laid her on the couch, and covered her with his body like a shield.
The lake house smelled of pine and sex and them.
Saturday, they never left the property.
Morning: kitchen counter, sunlight through the window, her palms flat on the granite while he took her from behind.
Afternoon: hammock on the screened porch, slow rocking, her on top, his hands guiding her hips.
Evening: the dock again, this time on a blanket, fireflies blinking above them as he moved inside her like worship.
Sunday, she woke to find him watching her.
"I want to stay here forever," he said.
"We can't."
"I know." He traced her lips. "But I'm keeping this weekend in my bones."
They made love one last time in the big bed (sheets twisted, sunlight striping their bodies, her nails down his back hard enough to leave marks he'd hide under shirts for weeks).
On the drive home, she rested her hand on his thigh.
He covered it with his, squeezed.
"Volume 2 starts now," he said quietly.
She smiled, small and fierce.
"Deeper roots."
The box was matte black, the kind that looked expensive just sitting there.
Elena found it wedged behind Alex's old soccer trophies when she was hunting for his freshman yearbook.
The lock was a simple brass latch (no key needed).
She told herself she was just curious.
Inside: twenty-three prints, stacked like contraband.
Archival paper, thick borders, every image sharp enough to cut.
She carried the box to her bedroom, heart hammering so loud she was sure the neighbors could hear.
Laid the photos across the duvet in three careful rows.
Herself, asleep on the couch last Christmas (mouth parted, one hand tucked between her thighs in sleep).
Herself, laughing over pancakes, flour on her cheek.
Herself, bent over the oven in the blue sundress (no panties, the curve of her ass caught mid-motion).
Her knees buckled.
She sank to the carpet, robe falling open, and stared.
He'd been watching her for years.
Not just watching.
Collecting.
The door opened at 9:17 p.m.
Alex froze in the threshold, backpack sliding from his shoulder.
"Mom—"
She looked up.
Not angry.
Not ashamed.
Wet.
"Pick one," she said, voice husky.
He stepped inside, closed the door with his heel.
His gaze swept the bed, then her (kneeling, robe gaping, nipples hard against silk).
He chose the oven shot.
The one where the sundress had ridden high enough to show the shadowed cleft between her legs.
Elena took it from him with trembling fingers, laid it in front of her like an offering.
Knelt taller.
Let the robe slip off her shoulders entirely.
"Watch," she whispered.
She spread her knees wider, the carpet rough against her skin.
One hand cupped her breast, pinching the nipple the way he liked.
The other slid down her stomach, over the soft swell, until her fingers found slick heat.
Alex's breath hitched.
He didn't move.
She circled her clit slow, eyes on the photo (on herself, caught forever in that moment of unknowing exposure).
Every stroke matched the memory: the way the oven timer had buzzed, the way she'd bent lower to check the cookies, the way she'd felt his stare like a brand.
"Tell me," she gasped.
He dropped to his knees in front of her.
"I took it through the doorway," he said, voice raw. "You couldn't see me. I was so hard I had to jerk off in the bathroom after. Came in your hamper again."
She moaned, fingers moving faster.
"Another," she demanded.
He handed her the Christmas couch shot.
Her sleeping face, lips swollen from his kisses the night before.
"I wanted to crawl under the blanket," he said. "Wanted to wake you with my tongue."
She came with a sharp cry, thighs shaking, the photo fluttering from her fingers.
Before the aftershocks faded, he was on her.
Mouth crashing against hers, hands rough and reverent.
He lifted her onto the bed, laid her in the center of the scattered prints.
"Stay," he growled.
He stripped fast (shirt, jeans, boxers), then grabbed the full-length mirror from her closet, propped it at the foot of the bed.
"Watch us," he said.
He entered her in one thrust, deep and perfect.
She cried out, back arching off the mattress.
In the mirror: her legs spread wide, his hips snapping, the photos framing them like a gallery of sins.
"Look," he panted. "Look how fucking beautiful you are taking me."
She did.
Saw herself flushed and wrecked, saw him behind her (above her, inside her), eyes locked on the reflection like he couldn't believe she was real.
He reached for the oven photo, held it beside her face.
"This," he said, thrusting harder. "This is what I saw every time I closed my eyes."
She came again, harder, clenching around him so tight he groaned.
"Don't stop," she begged.
He flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, entered her from behind.
The mirror showed everything: her breasts swaying with each thrust, his hand fisted in her hair, the desperate slant of his mouth.
He leaned over her, chest to her back.
"Tell me you kept the dress."
"In the closet," she gasped.
He pulled out, strode naked to the wardrobe, came back with the blue sundress.
Held it to his face, inhaled.
"Put it on."
She did (shaking fingers, no panties).
The hem barely skimmed her thighs.
He laid her back among the photos, pushed the dress to her waist, and slid home again.
"Same angle," he rasped. "Same fucking dress."
He fucked her like he was reclaiming every stolen moment (slow, then brutal, then slow again).
She came twice more, sobbing into the mattress, the photos sticking to her sweat-slick skin.
When he finally let go, it was with her name shredded in his throat and his cock buried so deep she felt him for hours.
After, he gathered the prints one by one, kissed each image of her like penance.
Then he laid them in a new box (this one velvet, this one hers).
"Next time," he said against her temple, "we take new ones. Together."
She smiled, boneless and ruined.
"Mirror's staying right there."
He laughed, low and wrecked.
"Deeper roots, baby."
She pulled him down into the wreckage of silk and photographs and love.
Jake came back with reinforcements.
Thursday, 6:12 p.m.
Three duffels hit the foyer like grenades.
Ryan (loud, freckled, goalie shoulders).
Connor (quiet, glasses, always filming everything on his phone).
Jake (grinning like he owned the place).
"Coach bailed on practice tomorrow," Jake announced. "Whole team's scattered. We voted your couch."
Alex's jaw flexed.
Elena felt it across the kitchen, where she stood in the sundress (yellow this time, thin cotton, no bra, no panties).
She'd worn it on purpose.
"Plenty of room," she said, smile sweet. "I'll make lasagna."
The boys cheered.
Alex's eyes promised murder.
Dinner was chaos (four plates, garlic bread flying, Connor live-streaming to his three followers).
Elena bent over the oven every chance she got, letting the hem ride just high enough.
Alex sat directly opposite, knuckles white around his fork.
Under the table, his foot hooked her ankle.
Dragged slow up her calf.
She didn't flinch.
Jake reached for the parmesan.
"Mrs. H, you're killing it. This is better than my mom's."
"Call me Elena," she said, and leaned across Alex to refill his water.
Her breast brushed Alex's shoulder.
His inhale was audible.
Connor zoomed in on the lasagna.
Ryan started a story about some party.
Jake talked over him.
Alex never looked away from her.
Dishes done, the boys claimed the living room (Xbox, pizza boxes, Connor's Switch docked to the TV).
Elena floated past in the sundress, carrying a bowl of popcorn.
"Refills?" she asked.
Three hands shot up.
She bent slow, deliberate, setting the bowl on the coffee table.
The neckline gaped.
Alex's view was perfect (nipples hard against yellow cotton, the shadow between her thighs).
He stood so fast the controller clattered.
"Bathroom," he muttered.
She waited forty-five seconds.
Then: "Forgot the drinks."
Down the hall.
Guest bath door cracked open.
He yanked her inside the second she crossed the threshold, mouth on hers, hand already under the dress.
"Fucking tease," he growled against her lips.
"Been hard since you walked out in this."
She sank to her knees on the bathmat, pulled his sweats down.
Took him deep, throat relaxing, eyes watering.
Footsteps in the hall.
"Yo, Alex? You die in there?" Ryan's voice.
Alex's hand tightened in her hair.
"Yeah—uh—taco bell repeat. Gimme a minute."
Ryan laughed, wandered off.
Elena swallowed around him, hummed.
He came with a muffled groan, hips jerking, spilling down her throat.
She licked him clean, tucked him away, stood.
"Later," she whispered, and slipped out.
Back in the living room, she handed out sodas like nothing happened.
Alex returned two minutes later, hair damp (sink water, not sweat).
Connor frowned.
"Dude, you were gone forever."
"Stomach issues," Alex said.
Elena smiled behind her glass.
10:47 p.m.
The boys finally crashed (Jake on the couch, Ryan on the floor, Connor in the recliner, phone still recording in sleep mode).
Elena waited until the snores started.
Then she padded to Alex's room in just the sundress.
He was waiting, door open a crack, light off.
She slipped inside.
He locked it behind her.
"No noises," he warned.
She nodded.
He lifted her, pressed her against the door, dress rucked to her waist.
Entered her in one slow, silent thrust.
They moved like thieves (shallow, controlled, her hand over his mouth, his over hers).
The bed would've creaked; the door didn't.
She came first, biting his palm, walls fluttering around him.
He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, spilling deep with his face buried in her neck.
After, he carried her to his bed, laid her down, pulled the covers over them both.
"Tomorrow they're gone by noon," he whispered.
She kissed his throat.
"Then tomorrow you punish me properly."
He smiled against her skin.
"Count on it."
At 3:03 a.m., Connor's phone auto-uploaded a thirty-second clip to his private story.
Dark living-room footage, grainy, but clear enough:
A flash of yellow sundress in the hallway.
Alex's door closing.
The soft click of a lock.
Connor never noticed.
The clip expired twenty-four hours later.
They never knew how close they'd come.