The words echoed from the hallway. Distant. Flustered.
I watched her go. My eyes traced the swing of her hips — the heavy, rhythmic motion of a thick woman moving fast. The visual lingered even after she vanished.
I sighed. Looked down.
My crotch bulged. The fabric of the borrowed trousers — already strained — tented outward. My cock, half-hard, pressed against the material. The shape was visible — the length, the girth, the unmistakable outline of an erection.
I stared at it.
"Fuck." The word came out flat. Honest. The word of a man confronting an uncomfortable truth. "I am trash to think about fucking my mother-in-law."
I stood there. In the doorway. In the silence. The carriage was gone. The servants were scattered. Vespera was elsewhere, managing affairs. The mother-in-law was hiding.
The bulge didn't go down.
I adjusted myself. Shook my head. Walked back inside.
