In-Laws
"He married the daughter. But every holiday visit, it's the mother he can't stop thinking about. This Christmas, she stops pretending not to notice."
Christmas at the Hendersons.
Three days. Two nights. One house full of family, and the woman I can't stop wanting.
My mother-in-law.
Valerie Henderson is everything my wife isn't.
Thick where Sarah is thin. Soft where Sarah is sharp. Warm where Sarah is—well. We've been married five years, and the warmth faded around year two.
But Valerie.
She's fifty-six, widowed three years ago, living alone in the house where she raised her daughters. She's five-four and easily two-sixty—a body that fills doorways, that makes furniture creak, that I've been trying not to stare at since the first time Sarah brought me home.
Her breasts are enormous. Her hips are wide. Her belly is soft and round beneath the holiday sweaters she always wears. When she hugs me hello, I sink into her like she's made of clouds.
"James! You made it!" She pulls me against her in the foyer, and I breathe her in—cinnamon, vanilla, something that makes me dizzy.
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Sarah's already in the kitchen, being helpful." The way she says it suggests Sarah is being anything but. "Come sit with me. Tell me about your year."
I follow her to the living room, watching her walk. That ass. The way it sways.
I'm going to hell.
I've made my peace with it.
Dinner is chaos.
Sarah's sister and her family. Kids running everywhere. Valerie commanding the kitchen like a general, producing dish after dish with an ease that makes my chest ache.
Sarah doesn't cook. Sarah orders in.
After dinner, I help Valerie with the dishes. It's become our tradition—the two of us at the sink while everyone else collapses in the living room.
"You don't have to," she says. "You're a guest."
"I'm family."
"Are you?" She glances at me sideways. "Sometimes I wonder if you even like being here."
"I love being here."
"But not with Sarah."
The words land like a slap. I stop scrubbing.
"Mrs. Henderson—"
"Valerie. And don't pretend I don't see it." She sets down the dish she's drying. "I see the way you two are together. The distance. The silence. She's my daughter, and I love her, but I'm not blind."
"Every marriage has rough patches."
"This isn't a patch. It's a pattern." She turns to face me. We're close—closer than we should be. Her breasts brush my arm. "Why do you stay?"
I should lie. Should deflect. Should say something about commitment and vows.
"Because I keep hoping it'll get better."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then I keep coming to Christmas." I meet her eyes. "Because the only time I feel like myself is in this kitchen. With you."
She doesn't say anything.
Just holds my gaze for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she turns back to the dishes.
"Go join the others. I'll finish up."
"Valerie—"
"Go."
I go.
But when I look back from the doorway, she's standing still at the sink.
Not washing anything.
Just standing.
That night, I can't sleep.
Sarah passed out at nine, exhausted from the performance of being a good daughter. I lie awake beside her, staring at the ceiling of the guest room.
At midnight, I give up.
I slip out of bed, pad downstairs for water. The house is dark, quiet. The Christmas tree glows softly in the living room.
Valerie is sitting on the couch.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she asks.
"No."
"Sit with me."
I sit. The couch cushion sinks with our combined weight. She's wearing a nightgown—thin cotton, showing the outline of her body in the tree's glow.
"I've been thinking about what you said." Her voice is low. "About this kitchen being the only place you feel like yourself."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"You should have said it years ago." She turns to face me. "I've been watching you, James. Every holiday. Every visit. Watching you dim yourself to fit into my daughter's life."
"That's not—"
"It is. And I've been watching you look at me." She reaches out, touches my face. "I told myself I was imagining it. That a man your age wouldn't want a fat old woman like me."
"You're not old."
"I'm fifty-six."
"And I've wanted you since the day we met."
She kisses me first.
Soft, tentative—like she's not sure I'll kiss back. I kiss back. I kiss her like I've been drowning for five years and she's the first breath of air.
"Upstairs," she breathes. "My room. Sarah won't—"
"I don't care about Sarah."
"You should. She's your wife."
"And you're everything she's not." I pull her closer, feel her body yield against mine. "I don't want to think about her. I don't want to think about anything except you."
She stands. Takes my hand.
Leads me upstairs.
Her bedroom is at the end of the hall.
Far from the guest rooms. Far from anyone who might hear.
She closes the door. Locks it. Turns to face me in the moonlight.
"This is wrong."
"I know."
"I'm your mother-in-law."
"I know."
"If anyone finds out—"
"They won't." I cross to her. Cup her face. "I've been wanting this for five years, Valerie. Tell me you don't want it too."
She answers by pulling off her nightgown.
Her body is everything I've imagined.
Breasts that hang heavy, dark nipples stiffening in the cool air. A belly that curves and folds, soft as clouds. Hips that flare wide, thighs that press together.
"I know I'm not—"
"You're perfect." I pull off my shirt, my pants. Stand before her naked and aching. "You're everything I want."
I guide her to the bed. She lies back, and I cover her with my body—feeling her softness yield beneath me, her warmth envelope me.
"I've thought about this," she whispers. "Every holiday. Lying in this bed alone, thinking about you down the hall with her—"
"I'm here now."
"Yes." She spreads her legs. "You are."
I push inside her.
She's tight.
Hot and wet and gripping me like she's been waiting years for exactly this. Because she has. We both have.
"God," she moans. "James—"
I move slowly at first, savoring her. The way her body cushions me. The way she wraps around me—arms, legs, everything. The way she looks at me like I'm the only thing that exists.
"Harder," she breathes. "Please—harder—"
I give her harder. The bed creaks—too loud, but I don't care. Let someone hear. Let them all hear.
"I've wanted you so long," I groan against her neck. "So fucking long—"
"I know." Her nails dig into my back. "I know—me too—oh God—"
She tightens around me. Her whole body shakes.
"I'm coming—James—"
She shatters.
Her pussy pulses around me, her mouth open in a silent scream. I bury myself deep and follow her—explode inside my mother-in-law while my wife sleeps two doors down.
We lie tangled in the dark.
Her head on my chest. My hand tracing her curves.
"We can't do this again," she whispers.
"I know."
"You're married to my daughter."
"I know."
"And yet—" She lifts her head. Looks at me. "I don't want you to go back to that room."
"Neither do I."
"Then don't."
I pull her on top of me. Feel her weight, her warmth, her everything.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Christmas morning.
Sarah opens presents, oblivious. Her sister's kids shriek and run. Valerie serves coffee and pastries, the perfect hostess.
No one notices the look that passes between us.
No one notices my hand on her hip in the kitchen.
No one notices that I slept three hours.
"Same time next year?" Valerie murmurs as she hands me a mug.
"Sooner." I meet her eyes. "Much sooner."
She smiles.
And I start counting the days until I can come home again.
To her.
Where I've always belonged.