Lewisham Love
"Jerome's new stepmum Adanna is everything he never expected—young, Nigerian, and built like a goddess. When his dad leaves for a business trip, they discover they have more in common than anyone should."
Jerome's dad had done well for himself. Divorced, fifty-five, and somehow he'd convinced Adanna—a thirty-one-year-old Nigerian goddess—to marry him. "She's only ten years older than you," his mum had sneered over the phone. "It's embarrassing."
But Jerome wasn't embarrassed. He was distracted.
Adanna was five-foot-eight of pure temptation. Thick in all the places that mattered, with skin like polished mahogany, full lips, and eyes that seemed to know secrets. When she moved, everything moved with her, and Jerome found himself taking very long showers whenever she was around.
His dad's business trip came up suddenly. "Two weeks in Dubai," he announced at dinner. "Adanna, you'll look after the house? Jerome's staying while his flat gets renovated."
"Of course, darling." Adanna's voice was smooth like palm wine. She caught Jerome's eye across the table and held it a moment too long.
The house felt different with just the two of them. Quieter. More charged.
"Your father tells me you don't have a girlfriend," Adanna said the first evening, lounging on the sofa in silk pajamas that left very little to imagination.
"Haven't found the right one."
"Mmm." She stretched, and her top rose to reveal her soft belly. "British girls don't know how to treat a man. That's what your father says, anyway. Says it's why he came to Lagos to find me."
Day three. Jerome came downstairs to find Adanna in the kitchen, wearing only a short robe as she made breakfast. Her thick thighs were on full display, and when she bent to get something from the fridge, he saw she wore nothing underneath.
She caught him looking and didn't look away.
"See something you like?"
"Adanna, I—"
"You've been watching me since I married your father. Don't bother denying it." She walked toward him, hips swaying. "The question is: what are we going to do about it?"
"We can't," Jerome said, even as his body betrayed him. "You're married to my dad."
"Your father is a good man, but he's... limited. His energy, his stamina." She placed her hand flat on Jerome's chest. "You're young. Strong. I see how you look at me. I see what happens in your joggers when I walk by."
Her hand traveled down, finding the proof of her words. She squeezed gently, and Jerome groaned.
"I won't tell if you won't," she whispered. "And I promise, you won't regret it."
The robe dropped to the floor, and Jerome's resistance went with it.
She was magnificent naked. Heavy breasts with dark nipples, a soft stomach, hips that flared out dramatically, and an arse that defied belief. She pressed against him, warm and soft.
"Take me to bed, Jerome. Show me what a young man can do."
He lifted her—she gasped with delight—and carried her upstairs. Not to the master bedroom, but to his old room. He laid her on the bed, and she pulled him down on top of her.
"I've been wet for you all week," she confessed. "Every time you walked past. Every time I heard you in the shower."
What followed was unlike anything Jerome had experienced. Adanna was demanding, vocal, and absolutely insatiable. She rode him until he thought he'd pass out, then demanded more. She taught him things—angles, rhythms, ways to touch her that made her scream.
"Yes! Like that! Don't stop!"
When he took her from behind, gripping those magnificent hips, she buried her face in the pillow and came so hard she shook. Then she pushed him down and returned the favor, her full lips working magic until he couldn't hold back.
"God, Adanna..."
"Mmm." She crawled up his body. "We're just getting started."
The two weeks became a blur of stolen pleasure. Every room in the house. Every position she could think of. Jerome learned more about a woman's body in those fourteen days than in all his previous relationships combined.
The day before his father was due back, they lay tangled together in the master bedroom, finally having christened it.
"What happens now?" Jerome asked.
Adanna traced patterns on his chest. "Now, we're careful. Your father travels a lot. Dubai, Lagos, sometimes London for days. We'll find our moments."
"And if he finds out?"
She smiled, catlike. "Then we'll deal with it. But for now..." She climbed on top of him, already feeling him harden again. "For now, we have twelve more hours."
His father never suspected. How could he? Adanna played the perfect wife, attentive and loving whenever he was home. But those moments when he traveled—those belonged to Jerome.
It was wrong. They both knew it. But wrong had never felt so right.
"Your father's going to Manchester next month," Adanna texted him one evening. "Thursday to Sunday. Block your calendar."
Jerome smiled at his phone. His stepmum was going to be the death of him. But God, what a way to go.