The kiss broke, but their breath remained tangled, hot and frantic in the space between their faces. Her eyes, wide and dark like pools of spilled ink, were dazed, swimming with a mixture of shock and a terrifying, burgeoning hunger. The veneer of the concerned mother had been shattered, replaced by the raw, exposed nerves of a woman who had just been touched by lightning. Ethan saw it all, and he knew he had her.
"You feel that?" he growled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through his chest and into hers. His hips ground against her again, a slow, deliberate circle that mashed the thick bulge of his cock against the soft delta of her sex, still protected by the thin layers of their clothes. "That's real, Latoya. That's not loneliness. That's not pity. That's what your body wants."
She let out a shuddering gasp, her head lolling back on the carpet. Her fingernails, which had been tentative, now scored lines down his pectorals, leaving faint red trails on his pale skin. A low, guttural moan escaped her throat, a sound so foreign to her own ears that it seemed to startle her. It was the sound of a dam breaking.
That was his signal.
With a feral snarl, Ethan reared back, his hands hooking into the collar of her soft cream sweater. He didn't pull it over her head. He ripped. The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the cozy room, loud and violent. The thick knit gave way with a sickening screech, splitting down the middle. He pulled the two halves apart, exposing her large, heavy breasts, barely contained in a plain black cotton bra. Her dark, round areoles were visible through the thin, stretched material, the peaks already hardened into tight nubs.
"Ethan!" she cried out, but the protest was weak, drowned out by the gasp of pure sensation as his hot mouth latched onto the swell of her breast above the bra cup. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, marking her. His other hand wasn't idle; it shredded the delicate fabric of her yoga pants. The reinforced seam popped, and he yanked the torn material down her thick, powerful legs, flinging it aside. Now she was truly exposed, save for the simple bra and her black panties, which were already dark with a patch of moisture.
He didn't bother with finesse. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and tore them away too. The fabric snapped, and the air hit her sex, hot and wet and swollen with need. The wild horse was out of the gate. Her shyness, her shock, it was all burning away, consumed by a fire he had started. A primal, gut-deep need took over. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the powerful muscles of his ass, pulling him down, urging him on.
"Don't you fucking tease me, boy," she snarled, her voice no longer the warm, maternal tone he knew, but a husky, demanding growl. Her eyes blazed with an unquenchable fire. "Give me what you got."
That was the invitation he'd been waiting for.
He fumbled with his own jeans, his fingers clumsy with urgency. He didn't even bother pulling them all the way off, just shoving them down his thighs along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick, hard, and angry, the head already weeping with precum. It was a monument to his new power, a tool of conquest. He positioned himself at her entrance, not pausing, not asking for permission. He slammed into her.
"FUCK!" The word was torn from Latoya's throat, a ragged scream of pain and pure, unadulterated bliss. He was huge, and he filled her completely, stretching her walls, forcing them to accommodate his brutal length. It had been years since a man had been inside her, and never like this. Never with this raw, unrestrained force.
There was no gentle rhythm, no period of adjustment. He began to fuck her. Hard. Each thrust was a powerful plunge that drove the air from her lungs, their bodies slapping together with a wet, percussive beat that was the only music in the room. The carpet burned against her knees and elbows with every punishing drive, but she didn't care. All she cared about was the glorious, punishing fullness, the friction that was sending sparks of electric pleasure shooting through her entire being.
She threw her head back, the loose bun completely coming undone, her sweat-soaked hair splaying out on the carpet. She was no longer the concerned mother or the lonely neighbor. She was a primal creature, taken by a predator, and she was reveling in it. Her hands were everywhere, clawing at his back, gripping his ass, pulling him deeper into her. Her hips rose to meet his thrusts, bucking wildly, a classic equestrian motion as if she was trying to throw him, to take control of the ride.
Ethan met her, matched her ferocity. He was a stallion himself, powerful and dominant. He grabbed her legs, pushing them back towards her chest, folding her nearly in half, opening her up completely to his assault. The new angle allowed him to plunge even deeper, hitting a spot inside her that made her see stars. A torrent of filthy praises and demands poured from her lips.
"Fuck me! Yes, right there! Harder, damn you, harder! Split me open on that big white cock!"
Her language was as raw as their coupling, a revelation of the passionate woman pent up inside her for years. He obliged, pounding into her with a renewed vigor, his grunts mixing with her cries. The room was a maelstrom of sound and smell—the scent of sweat and sex, the wet, rhythmic squelch of her cunt swallowing his cock, the guttural sounds of their mutual abandon. He was claiming her, not just her body, but her soul, marking her as his own. When he felt her begin to tremble, her inner walls fluttering and clamping down on him, he knew she was close.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice rough and raw. "Come all over my cock, Latoya. Show me how bad you want it."
His words were the final trigger. Her back arched off the floor, a silent scream tearing from her lips as her orgasm crashed through her. It was a violent, overwhelming wave that stole her sight and her hearing, leaving only the raw sensation of pleasure pulsing through every nerve ending. Her cunt clamped down on him like a vise, milking him, demanding his own release.
He wasn't far behind. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her and let go. A guttural roar was ripped from his chest as he came, spilling himself deep within her, his hot seed flooding her womb. It felt like a transfer of power, a final, definitive act of conquest. He collapsed onto her, his weight pressing her into the floor, both of them panting, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling in the aftermath.
It was in that moment, that brief, perfect, shared silence, that the world shattered.
"Mom!"
The voice was high, thin, and cracked with horror. It cut through the post-coital haze like a shard of ice.
Latoya's body went rigid beneath him, every muscle locking into a spasm of pure, undiluted shock. Her eyes, which had been closed in blissful exhaustion flew open, widening in utter terror. She twisted her head, her gaze finding the doorway.
There stood Marcus Tate. Her son. He was leaning against the doorframe, his face pale as death, his eyes and mouth stretched into identical O's of disbelief. In his hand was a crutch, his body battered and bruised, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional devastation etched onto his face. The image before him—his mother, naked and spread on the living room floor, the boy who had nearly killed him lying on top of her, both of them still joined in the most intimate way imaginable—was a nightmare from which he could not wake.
The sound of his voice was a splash of ice water on Latoya's passion-fueled haze. The wild horse that had been running free was suddenly, brutally reined in. A choked, strangled sob escaped her lips. The shame, the humiliation, the gut-wrenching horror of being discovered by her son in such a state—it was too much. She thrashed beneath Ethan, pushing him off her with a frantic surge of adrenaline.
"Get off me! Get off!" she shrieked, her voice no longer husky with desire but shrill with panic.
Ethan rolled away, landing on his side with a soft thud. He felt no shame. With a swift, fluid motion, Ethan pushed himself to his feet. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled up his jeans, his movements unhurried. He didn't look at Latoya, who was now sobbing uncontrollably, a pathetic heap of naked flesh and torn fabric on the floor. He looked directly at Marcus.
He met the boy's horrified, tear-filled stare and gave him a slow, lazy smile. A smile of utter, absolute victory. A smile that said, I didn't just beat you. I took your mother. I took everything.