Bristol Brown Sugar

Tyler's dad had remarried without warning. "Found someone special," he'd said on the phone. "You'll love her."

What he hadn't mentioned was that Marcia was thirty-four—only nine years older than Tyler—Jamaican, and built like a dancehall queen. When Tyler arrived at the Bristol house with his suitcase, his jaw hit the floor.

"So you're Tyler!" Marcia pulled him into a hug, and he got a face full of her ample chest. "Your dad talks about you all the time. Come, come, let me show you your room."

She walked ahead of him, and Tyler nearly tripped over his own feet watching her hips sway.

This was going to be a problem.

The first week was torture. Marcia seemed to own nothing but tight dresses and shorts that showed off her thick thighs. She cooked incredible Jamaican food and filled the house with her laughter and the smell of her perfume.

And she touched. Casual brushes in the kitchen. A hand on his arm when she talked to him. A squeeze of his shoulder that lingered a moment too long.

"Everything alright, love?" she asked one evening when she caught him staring.

"Fine. Yeah. All good."

She smiled like she knew something he didn't.

His dad worked nights. That's what made it worse. From ten PM to six AM, it was just Tyler and Marcia in the house, separated by one thin wall.

He heard her sometimes. Sounds he tried not to think about. Sounds that made him grip his pillow and pray for sleep.

Then, one Thursday night, his door opened.

"Tyler?" Her voice was soft, careful. "You awake?"

He sat up. She stood in his doorway, backlit by the hallway, wearing a silk nightgown that showed everything.

"I can't sleep," she said. "Mind if I come in?"

She sat on the edge of his bed, close enough that he could smell her—cocoa butter and vanilla.

"I'm going to be honest with you," she said. "Your dad is a good man. Kind. Provides well. But he's... older. Tired. And a woman has needs that don't get tired."

"Marcia, I—"

"Shh." Her finger pressed to his lips. "You think I don't see you looking? You think I don't know what you do in this room at night? I hear everything through these walls."

Her hand traveled down to his bare chest. "I need something your father can't give me. And I think you want to give it."

"This is insane," Tyler whispered, even as his body responded to her touch.

"Is it?" She pulled her nightgown over her head, and he stopped breathing. Her breasts were heavy and full, nipples dark and hard. Her waist curved out to hips that could stop traffic. "Feels pretty sane to me."

She climbed onto him, straddling his lap. "I've been thinking about this since you walked through that door. Couldn't get it out of my head. This young, fit body right here under my roof."

Her hand found him through his boxers. "And Lord have mercy, I wasn't wrong about this."

She rode him right there in his childhood bed, her thick body bouncing, biting her lip to stay quiet. The bedsprings squeaked no matter how careful they were, but she didn't seem to care.

"Yes," she breathed. "That's it, baby. Give it to me."

When she came, she clamped a hand over her mouth, shaking silently. Then she leaned down and whispered in his ear: "Your turn. Come inside me. I need to feel it."

He couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. She milked every drop from him, sighing with satisfaction.

"Same time tomorrow," she whispered, kissing him before she left. "And the night after. Every night your father works."

"What if he finds out?"

She smiled in the darkness. "Then he'll probably thank you. He's been struggling to keep up with me for months." She paused at the door. "Sleep well, baby. You'll need your energy."

The door clicked shut. Tyler lay in the dark, heart pounding, wondering if he'd dreamed the whole thing.

The next night, when his door opened again, he knew he hadn't.

Their arrangement continued for months. Every night his father worked, Marcia would slip into Tyler's room. Sometimes slow and sensual, sometimes fast and desperate. She taught him things he'd never imagined, showed him exactly how to please a Jamaican woman.

"You're getting good," she praised him one night, lying in his arms. "Knew you would be."

"Best teacher in Bristol."

She laughed, that warm sound that made his heart clench. "Your father's getting promoted. More nights away."

"Is that so?"

"Mmhmm." She climbed on top of him again. "Shame for him. Good for us."

Tyler had expected awkward family dinners when he moved to Bristol. What he got was something else entirely. And he wasn't complaining one bit.