Second Chances | NEON LIT

The funeral was three days ago.

I'm still wearing the suit. Not the same one—I've showered, changed—but another dark suit, another white shirt, another black tie. It feels appropriate. The house is full of death, and I should dress for it.

Dad's house. Their house. The one he bought when he married Vanessa four years ago, when I was already out of college and living across the country. I've been here maybe a dozen times. Holidays. The occasional weekend. Never long enough to feel like home.

Now I'm here to take it apart.

Vanessa meets me at the door.

She's been crying—I can see it in the puffiness around her eyes, the redness at the tip of her nose. But she's pulled herself together. Makeup applied carefully. Hair pinned back. A black dress that clings to her curves.

And there are so many curves.

Vanessa is thirty-eight. Only seven years older than me. Dad was sixty-two when they married—a late-life crisis, my mother called it from whatever corner of bitterness she'd retreated to after the divorce. But looking at Vanessa now, I understand why he did it.

She's maybe five-four, but she fills every inch of the doorway. Her breasts are enormous—DD at least, maybe bigger—straining against the modest neckline of her dress. Her waist nips in before flaring into hips that could stop traffic, an ass that the black fabric struggles to contain. Her belly is soft, rounded, pressing against the dress in a way that makes my mouth dry.

She's not fat. Not exactly. She's lush. Abundant. The kind of woman old painters would have killed to capture.

"James." She pulls me into a hug. All that softness presses against me—her breasts against my chest, her belly against mine. She smells like vanilla and something floral. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course." I pat her back awkwardly, trying not to notice how good she feels. "I'm so sorry, Vanessa."

She pulls back. Wipes her eyes. "Come in. There's... there's so much to do."

The first week is paperwork.

Dad was organized, at least. His will is straightforward: everything to Vanessa, with a trust for me that I don't need and didn't ask for. The house, the cars, the investments—all hers. I'm just here to help sort through the details.

We sit at the dining room table every night, surrounded by documents. Insurance policies. Bank statements. The deed to the house. Vanessa reads each one slowly, carefully, asking questions I don't always know how to answer.

"What does this mean?" She slides a paper across to me. Our fingers brush. She doesn't seem to notice.

I notice.

I notice everything about her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. The way she bites her lower lip when she's confused. The way her breasts sway when she leans across the table, heavy and hypnotic.

I'm grieving my father. I shouldn't be thinking about his wife like this.

But I am.

Week Two

We fall into a routine.

Mornings, I handle phone calls. The lawyer, the accountant, the endless stream of people who need to be told that Robert Chen is dead. Vanessa can't do it—she breaks down every time she tries.

Afternoons, we sort through his things. Clothes for donation. Books for the library. Personal items that need decisions: keep, store, or throw away.

Evenings, we sit together. Sometimes with paperwork. Sometimes with wine. Sometimes just with the silence of a house that feels too empty.

"He talked about you all the time," Vanessa says one night. We're on the couch, a bottle of red between us. "How proud he was. How smart you are. How you got your mother's looks but his brain."

"He said that?"

"Every time he got off the phone with you." She smiles, but it wobbles. "He missed you. Wished you lived closer."

"I should have visited more." The guilt is a stone in my chest. "I kept saying next month, next year—"

"Don't." She puts her hand on my knee. Soft. Warm. "He understood. You were building your life. He was so proud of that."

Her hand stays on my knee. Neither of us moves it.

Week Three

I find her crying in the bedroom.

It's late—past midnight—and I'm getting water from the kitchen when I hear it. Soft sobs, muffled by pillows. The master bedroom door is open a crack.

I should walk away. Give her privacy.

I knock instead.

"Vanessa?"

The sobbing stops. Silence. Then: "Come in."

She's in bed, covers pulled up to her chest. The lamp on the nightstand casts her in soft gold. Her hair is down, tumbling over her shoulders. Her face is wet with tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I thought you were asleep."

"It's okay." I sit on the edge of the bed. Not too close. Close enough. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I just—" She shakes her head. "I miss him. But it's not just that. I'm scared, James. I don't know how to do any of this alone. The house, the bills, the—everything. Robert handled everything."

"You're not alone. I'm here."

"For now." She looks at me, and there's something raw in her eyes. "You'll go back to your life eventually. And I'll be here, in this big house, with nothing but—"

She breaks. Sobs wracking her body, shoulders shaking. I don't think. I just move. Pull her into my arms. Hold her while she cries.

Her body is so soft against mine. So warm. She buries her face in my chest, and I feel her tears soaking through my shirt. I stroke her hair. Murmur nonsense. Do what humans have done for other humans since the beginning of time.

Eventually, she quiets. But she doesn't pull away.

"Stay," she whispers. "Please. I can't sleep alone tonight."

I should say no. Every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is wrong.

I stay.

We sleep.

Just sleep. Her back to my front, my arm around her waist, her body pressed against mine in ways that make sleep difficult but not impossible. She's wearing a thin nightgown that does nothing to hide her curves. My hand rests on the soft swell of her belly.

I wake up hard.

She's still asleep. Still pressed against me. My erection is nestled against the curve of her ass, and I pray she doesn't notice.

Then she shifts. Pushes back against me. And I hear her breath catch.

She's awake.

We lie there, frozen. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. I should pull away. Apologize. Pretend this isn't happening.

She pushes back again. Deliberate this time. Slow.

"Vanessa—"

"Don't." Her voice is barely a whisper. "Don't say anything. Just... stay."

She reaches back. Finds my hip. Pulls me tighter against her.

We stay like that until morning.

Week Four

It happens in stages.

First, the sleeping together becomes normal. Every night, I go to her room. Every night, we press together in the dark. Every night, my body responds to hers.

Then the touching starts. Her hand on my thigh at dinner. My hand on the small of her back as she moves through the kitchen. Nothing overt. Nothing that would look wrong from the outside.

But we know.

Then the looks. The way her eyes linger on my chest when I come out of the shower. The way I can't stop staring at the sway of her breasts when she walks. The tension building, building, building.

Then one night, she kisses me.

We're on the couch, wine-warm, her head on my shoulder. She turns her face up to say something—I don't remember what—and our lips brush. Accident. It should stop there.

It doesn't.

She kisses me like she's drowning. Like I'm the only air in the room. Her mouth is soft, tastes like wine, and her hands are fisting my shirt, pulling me closer.

"We shouldn't—" I manage, between kisses.

"I know." She kisses me again. "I know."

We make out on the couch like teenagers. Her body pressing into mine, all that softness overwhelming me. I cup her breasts through her dress and she moans into my mouth. She grinds against my thigh and I feel the heat of her.

We stop before we go further. Both of us breathing hard. Both of us knowing we've crossed a line.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be."

We go to bed. Together. But tonight, when she presses back against me, when my cock settles against the curve of her ass, she doesn't pretend to be asleep.

"Is this wrong?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Do you want to stop?"

"No."

She takes my hand. Guides it to her breast. I feel the weight of it, the softness, the hard peak of her nipple through the thin fabric.

"Then don't."

Week Five

We don't fuck. Not yet.

But we do everything else.

I learn her body with my hands in the dark. The incredible heaviness of her breasts, the way they spill over my palms. The softness of her belly, the little rolls that form when she curls against me. The plushness of her thighs, the wet heat between them.

She learns mine. Her soft hands on my chest, my stomach, my cock. Stroking me while I stroke her. Both of us gasping in the dark, trying to stay quiet even though there's no one to hear.

"He never—" she starts one night, then stops.

"Never what?"

"Touched me like this. Not in the last year. Maybe longer." Her hand tightens on my cock. "He was sick. I didn't know how sick. But he just... stopped wanting me."

"How could anyone not want you?" The words come out raw. Honest.

She shudders. Comes on my fingers. Pulls me over the edge with her hand.

We're still for a long moment. Both of us breathing hard. Both of us sticky with each other.

"Stay," she says. "When this is all over. Stay."

"I can't. My job—"

"Remote work exists. The house is big. Too big for one person." She turns in my arms. Looks at me in the dark. "I'm not asking you to replace him. I'm asking you to... be here. With me. For as long as you want."

I should say no. I should go back to my apartment, my life, my carefully constructed world three thousand miles away.

"Okay," I say instead.

Week Six

We finally fuck on a Tuesday.

There's nothing special about it. No anniversary, no milestone. I'm just watching her cook dinner—watching the way her hips sway, the way her breasts bounce as she stirs something on the stove—and I can't take it anymore.

I come up behind her. Press my body against hers. My cock hard against her ass.

"James—" she breathes.

"Turn off the stove."

She does.

I turn her around. Kiss her deep. She moans into my mouth, clutching at my shirt, pulling me closer. I cup her ass—so much softness, so much flesh—and lift her onto the counter.

"Here?" she gasps.

"Here."

I push her dress up. She's not wearing underwear—hasn't been for days. I drop to my knees between her thick thighs and worship her with my mouth. She cries out, hands in my hair, thighs clamping around my head.

"Fuck—James—yes—"

I eat her until she comes. Until she's shaking. Until she's begging.

"Inside me," she pants. "Please. I need you inside me."

I stand. Unzip. She wraps her legs around me—those thick, beautiful thighs—and I slide home.

She's so wet. So tight. So hot. Her cunt grips me like it was made for this, and she moans as I fill her completely.

"You feel—" She can't finish. Just clings to me as I start to move.

I fuck her on the kitchen counter. Her breasts bouncing, belly rippling, the soft slap of flesh against flesh filling the room. She comes twice before I can't hold back anymore.

"Inside," she gasps. "Come inside me."

I do.

I empty myself into my stepmother, into my father's widow, into the woman I have no business touching. She holds me through it, stroking my hair, whispering my name.

We eat dinner cold, an hour later.

Neither of us cares.

Month Two

I don't go back.

I call my boss, negotiate remote work. Move my things across the country. Take over Robert's office, make it mine.

We live together. As what, I'm not sure. Not husband and wife. Not mother and son. Something else. Something new.

She fucks me every morning. Rides me in the big bed, her curves bouncing, her moans filling the room. I fuck her every night. Bend her over the couch, the table, the counter where it all started.

People assume I'm here to take care of her. The dutiful stepson, helping his father's widow. They don't know about the marks she leaves on my back. They don't know about the way I whisper mine when I'm inside her.

Maybe they suspect.

I don't care.

"What are we doing?" she asks one night, curled against me in the dark.

"Does it matter?"

"No." She presses a kiss to my chest. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

I pull her on top of me. Feel her settle into place, my cock finding its home inside her.

"We're starting over," I tell her. "We're taking a second chance."

She starts to move. Slow. Deep.

"I like that," she says.

So do I.