Moving Day
"He comes home from college to find his father remarried. His new stepmom is everything his mother wasn't—warm, thick, and watching him with eyes that promise trouble."
Dad didn't tell me he got married.
I found out when I pulled into the driveway after eighteen hours of driving from California, diploma still warm in my backpack, and saw a woman I'd never met watering the garden in a sundress that should be illegal.
She turned at the sound of my car. Smiled. Waved.
"You must be Tyler!" She set down the hose and walked toward me, and I forgot how to breathe.
She was maybe forty-five. Dark skin—Latina, I'd guess. Black hair that fell past her shoulders in waves. And a body that made the sundress look like it was painted on.
She wasn't fat. She wasn't thin. She was thick—the kind of thick that made men walk into poles. Her waist dipped in, then flared out into hips that swayed like a pendulum when she walked. Her breasts were heavy, full, straining against the floral fabric. Her ass was a shelf you could set drinks on.
"I'm Carmen." She pulled me into a hug before I could react. She smelled like jasmine and sunscreen. "Your father's told me so much about you."
"He didn't tell me anything about you."
She laughed—a warm, rich sound. "That sounds like David. Come inside. I made lemonade."
Dad was at work. Of course.
"He works late most nights," Carmen said, pouring two glasses in the kitchen. "The firm is very demanding."
"It always has been." I watched her move around the room—my mother's kitchen, now filled with new curtains and new appliances and a new woman wearing the apron Mom used to wear. "When did you two...?"
"Meet? Eight months ago. Married four months ago." She handed me a glass. Her fingers brushed mine. "I know it seems fast."
"My mom's only been gone two years."
"I'm not trying to replace her, Tyler." Her eyes were soft. Understanding. "I'm just trying to make your father happy. He was very lonely."
"I know." I drank the lemonade. It was perfect—not too sweet, not too sour. "I just wish he'd told me."
"He was nervous. He thought you'd be angry."
"I'm not angry. I'm..." I looked at her again. Really looked. At the curve of her neck. The swell of her chest. The way she stood with one hip cocked, like she knew exactly what she looked like. "I'm surprised."
"Good surprised or bad surprised?"
"I haven't decided yet."
She smiled. "Take your time."
I couldn't sleep.
The house was different. Same rooms, same furniture, but everything smelled like jasmine now. Carmen's presence had seeped into the walls.
At 2 AM, I gave up and went downstairs for water.
She was in the living room.
Sitting on the couch in a silk robe, TV on mute, glass of wine in her hand. The robe was short—very short—and had fallen open to reveal the inside curve of one thigh.
"Can't sleep either?" she asked without turning around.
"New bed. Takes time to adjust."
"Come sit." She patted the cushion next to her. "Keep me company."
I sat. Tried not to look at the way the robe gaped at her chest. Failed.
"Your father snores," she said. "I've learned to stay up until he's in deep sleep. Otherwise I just lie there, staring at the ceiling."
"Mom used to make him sleep on his side."
"I've tried. He rolls back." She took a sip of wine. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"Sure."
"Do you have a girlfriend? Back in California?"
"No. Not anymore."
"What happened?"
"She wanted different things." I shrugged. "She wanted a guy who'd be home for dinner every night. I wanted a career. We weren't compatible."
"Hmm." Carmen turned to face me. The robe shifted. I could see the swell of her breast now, almost to the nipple. "Your father said you're staying for the summer. Looking for jobs here."
"That's the plan."
"Good." She reached out and touched my knee. Just a light touch, friendly, but it burned through my pajama pants. "I'd like to get to know you, Tyler. Properly. We're family now."
"Yeah." My voice was hoarse. "Family."
She held my gaze for a moment too long. Then she stood, and the robe fell open completely for just a second—long enough for me to see she wasn't wearing anything underneath.
"Goodnight, Tyler." She walked toward the stairs, hips swaying. "Sweet dreams."
I didn't sleep at all.
Week One
I told myself I was imagining it.
The way she brushed against me in the kitchen. The way she bent over in front of me to get things from low shelves. The way she sunbathed in the backyard in a bikini that covered almost nothing, her thick thighs glistening with oil.
"You're being paranoid," I muttered to myself while watching her through the window. "She's your stepmother. She's married to your dad."
But then she turned over onto her stomach, and her bikini bottom rode up between her ass cheeks, and she looked directly at my window and smiled.
I closed the blinds.
"Tyler, can you help me?"
She was in the garage, trying to reach a box on the top shelf. She'd changed out of the bikini into shorts and a tank top, but somehow that was worse. The shorts were denim, tight, cutting into the meat of her thighs. The tank top was white and thin.
"What do you need?"
"Christmas decorations. Your father asked me to sort through them." She pointed. "Up there."
I grabbed the stepladder and climbed up. She stood behind me, one hand on my calf—"Just making sure you're steady."
I pulled down the box. Started to climb down. She didn't move.
"Carmen—"
"Sorry." But she didn't sound sorry. She stepped back just enough for me to descend, which meant I had to slide past her, my body brushing hers the whole way down.
She was soft. Warm. Her breasts pressed against my chest for just a moment.
"Thank you," she breathed. "You're so helpful."
"No problem."
I practically ran back into the house.
Week Two
Dad took me to dinner. Just the two of us.
"So what do you think of Carmen?" he asked over steaks.
"She seems nice."
"She's amazing." His face lit up in a way I'd never seen. "I didn't think I'd find someone again. After your mother... I thought that was it. But Carmen makes me feel young again."
"I'm happy for you, Dad."
"Really?"
"Really." I meant it. Mostly. "She's... she's something else."
"She is." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I know she's different from your mom. Your mom was always so... reserved. Carmen is more passionate. More alive."
"I've noticed."
"I just want you two to get along. It would mean the world to me."
"We get along fine."
"Good." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Because she's asked if you'd help her with some projects around the house this week. I've got to travel for work—three days in Chicago."
My stomach dropped. "Three days?"
"Is that a problem?"
"No." I forced a smile. "No problem at all."
Day One Alone
She was waiting for me when I came downstairs.
Yoga pants. Sports bra. Hair tied up. She was stretching in the living room, one leg extended on the couch, her ass pointing directly at me.
"Morning, Tyler." She didn't stop stretching. "Sleep well?"
"Fine."
"Good." She switched legs. The yoga pants left nothing to the imagination—I could see the outline of everything. "I was thinking we could start with the guest room. I want to repaint."
"Sure."
"Great." She stood. Turned. Walked toward me until she was inches away. "I'm glad we're getting this time together. Just the two of us."
"Carmen—"
"Don't." She put a finger to my lips. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. I've seen the way you look at me, Tyler. I've felt it."
"You're married to my father."
"And he's in Chicago." She stepped closer. Her breasts pressed against my chest. "I love your father. But he's sixty-three years old. He sleeps by nine. He hasn't touched me in two months." Her hand slid down my chest. "I have needs, Tyler. Needs he can't meet."
"This is—we can't—"
"We can." Her hand reached my belt. "We're going to."
She didn't give me a choice. Not really.
She led me to the guest room—the one we were supposed to paint—and pushed me onto the bare mattress. Then she stripped.
The yoga pants peeled off to reveal thick thighs and a round ass that jiggled as she moved. The sports bra came next, and her breasts spilled free—heavy, natural, with dark nipples already hard.
She stood there, letting me look.
"Your father thinks I'm too much," she said. "Too loud. Too demanding. Too fat." She spat the word. "He wanted me when we met, but now he sees me as a problem. Something to manage."
"You're not fat."
"I'm thick. There's a difference." She climbed onto the bed, straddled me. Her wet heat pressed against my shorts. "Do you know the difference, Tyler?"
"Yes."
"Show me."
I grabbed her hips—those wide, impossible hips—and flipped her onto her back.
She gasped. Laughed. "There he is."
I kissed her neck. Her collarbone. The valley between her breasts. She arched into every touch, starving for it.
"He doesn't do this," she panted. "He doesn't take his time. He doesn't make me feel wanted."
"I want you." I kissed down her stomach—soft, with a slight curve. "I've wanted you since you walked across the driveway."
"I know." She spread her legs. She was wet—glistening. "That's why I picked you."
I buried my face between her thighs.
She came twice before she let me inside her.
When I finally pushed in, she wrapped her legs around me and pulled me deep. She was tight—tighter than I expected—and burning hot.
"Fuck," she hissed. "Yes. Yes."
I fucked her hard. Harder than I should have. But she met every thrust, her thick body bouncing on the mattress, her breasts swaying, her voice rising.
"Don't stop—don't you dare stop—"
I didn't.
When she came the third time, her whole body clenched around me, and I followed her over the edge, emptying myself inside my father's wife.
We lay there after. Sweaty. Tangled.
"This can never happen again," I said.
"Okay."
"I mean it."
"I know." She rolled on top of me. I was already getting hard again. "We'll never do this again. Starting tomorrow."
"Carmen—"
She sank onto me.
Tomorrow came and went.
We didn't stop.
Three Months Later
Dad still travels for work. Sometimes a day. Sometimes a week.
Carmen still meets me at the bottom of the stairs when he leaves. Still leads me to whichever room she wants to christen next.
We've done the guest room. The kitchen. The garage. The pool.
Once, his office.
That one felt personal.
"You're a terrible person," I tell her sometimes, after.
"So are you," she replies. Then she kisses me, and I forget why that matters.
Dad asks how we're getting along. I tell him great. He smiles, claps my shoulder, says he's glad we're family.
Carmen catches my eye across the dinner table.
Family.
Right.