The After Party | NEON LIT

Mr. Wellington's mansion is ridiculous.

Twelve bedrooms. A ballroom. Enough marble to sink a ship. I'm wandering the second floor, too many glasses of champagne in, looking for a bathroom that isn't occupied.

That's when I find the study.

And Mrs. Wellington.

Patricia sits in a leather chair by the window, nursing something amber. At fifty, she's everything her husband doesn't deserve—elegant, full-figured, with curves that her designer dress can't contain. Heavy breasts, soft stomach, the kind of body that looks like comfort feels.

"Lost?"

"Bathroom."

"End of the hall. Left." She doesn't move. "But that's not why you're still standing there."

I should leave. Instead, I step inside.

"You're the new analyst. Jordan."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Patricia." She gestures to the chair across from her. "Sit. Drink with me."

I sit.

"You hate these parties as much as I do," she observes, pouring me a scotch.

"I wouldn't say hate—"

"You hide in corners. You nurse your drinks. You leave the moment it's polite." She smiles, wry. "I've been watching you for months."

"Why?"

"Because you're interesting." She leans forward, her cleavage deepening. "Because you don't try to impress Charles. Because you look at me like I'm a person, not an extension of my husband's success."

"You are a person."

"Sweet boy." She sets down her glass. "But you're not here because I'm a person. You're here because you've been wondering what's under this dress since the summer gala."

I should deny it.

I can't.

"Patricia—"

"Shh." She stands, crosses to me. Her hand tilts my chin up. "Charles is passed out in his study downstairs. He won't wake until morning. And I have been so lonely."

She kisses me before I can respond.

Her mouth is soft, demanding, tasting of expensive scotch. Her body presses against mine—warm, full, overwhelming.

"Mom?"

We break apart.

Chloe stands in the doorway. The boss's daughter, twenty-five, slim and sharp where her mother is soft and curved. She's wearing a dress that probably costs my monthly salary.

"I was looking for—" She stops, taking in the scene. A slow smile spreads across her face. "Well, well."

"This isn't what it looks like," Patricia starts.

"It looks like you finally made a move on the cute analyst." Chloe steps inside, closes the door behind her. "I was wondering when you would."

"You knew?"

"Mom, please. You talk about him constantly. 'Jordan handled the Millbrook account so well.' 'Jordan has such great instincts.' 'Jordan looks so handsome in those suits.'" She leans against the doorframe. "I'm surprised Dad hasn't noticed."

"Your father notices nothing." Patricia's voice is bitter. "He hasn't noticed me in years."

"I know." Chloe's smile sharpens. "That's why I came looking for you. To tell you he's unconscious and you have about six hours of freedom."

She looks at me. Evaluates.

"I didn't expect you to have already found entertainment."

"Chloe." Patricia's voice is warning.

"What? He's cute. You have good taste." Chloe pushes off from the doorframe, moves closer. "The question is whether he's interested in sharing."

"Sharing?"

"Mom and I are close." She reaches Patricia, runs a hand down her arm. "Very close. Especially when Dad's being... neglectful."

I watch Chloe touch her mother. Watch Patricia lean into it.

"This is insane," I manage.

"This is the Wellington family." Chloe turns her attention to me. "We take care of each other. The question is: do you want to be part of that care?"

They kiss in front of me.

Mother and daughter, lips meeting soft and familiar. Patricia's hand cups Chloe's cheek while Chloe's slides down to her mother's hip.

"Come here, Jordan." Patricia beckons without breaking the kiss. "Don't be shy."

I cross to them. Patricia pulls me in, and suddenly I'm kissing her again while Chloe kisses my neck.

"Bedroom," Chloe breathes. "Mom's bedroom. Dad hasn't slept there in months."

The master bedroom is obscene.

Bigger than my apartment. A bed that could fit eight. Patricia leads me to it while Chloe locks the door.

"Undress him, Mom. I want to watch."

Patricia's hands are efficient, practiced. Jacket, tie, shirt. She takes her time with my belt, eyes meeting mine.

"Are you sure about this, Jordan?"

"No."

"Honest." She smiles. "I appreciate that."

My pants hit the floor. My boxers follow.

"Damn," Chloe exhales. "Mom, look at him."

"I'm looking." Patricia wraps her hand around me. "He's perfect."

Chloe undresses first.

Her body is lean, angular—small breasts, flat stomach, long legs. She's her father's daughter in build, but her mother's in appetite.

Patricia follows, revealing curves that defy her age. Heavy breasts with large nipples, a belly that's soft and inviting, hips that flare wide.

"Different, aren't we?" Chloe drapes herself over her mother's shoulder. "I got Dad's metabolism. Mom got all the flavor."

"Both of you are—"

"Shh." Patricia presses a finger to my lips. "Less talking. More demonstrating."

I eat Patricia while Chloe rides my face.

Mother on my cock—slow, savoring, her full body bouncing as she takes me. Daughter on my mouth—urgent, demanding, grinding against my tongue.

"That's it, Mom. Take your time."

"God, he's good with his tongue—"

"Told you. I could tell just by looking at him."

They talk about me like I'm a toy, a thing. Somehow, that makes it hotter.

We switch.

Chloe takes my cock—tight, aggressive, fucking me like she has something to prove. Patricia straddles my face—soft, wet, flooding my senses.

"Make her come, Jordan. Make my mother come on your tongue."

"Make her come. I want to see her lose control."

They're competing and collaborating at once. I'm caught between them, overwhelmed by sensation.

Patricia comes first, shuddering against my mouth. Chloe follows seconds later, clenching around me with a cry.

By 4 AM, we've explored every position.

Patricia likes it slow and deep, with lots of eye contact. Chloe likes it fast and rough, from behind. I've come three times; they've lost count.

"Dad's going to wake up soon," Chloe says finally, pulling on her dress.

"I know." Patricia doesn't move, still draped across me. "Five more minutes."

"Mom—"

"Five more minutes."

Chloe sighs but doesn't argue.

"What happens now?" I ask.

"Now you go back to the party." Patricia traces my jawline. "You pretend you fell asleep in a guest room. You keep working for Charles, keep being brilliant, keep ignoring how he treats you."

"And this?"

"This continues." She kisses me softly. "When Charles travels. When he's distracted. When we can steal time."

"Both of you?"

"Both of us." Chloe appears at the bedside. "We're a package deal, Jordan. Take it or leave it."

I look between them—mother and daughter, curves and angles, two women I shouldn't want but absolutely do.

"I'll take it."

The party winds down by sunrise.

I emerge from a guest room, looking appropriately rumpled. Charles Wellington gives me a jovial clap on the shoulder.

"Fell asleep, did you? Good man. Take advantage of the hospitality."

"Thank you, sir."

Patricia appears beside him, composed and elegant. "Let me get you some coffee before you go, Jordan."

In the kitchen, away from prying eyes, she slips a phone number into my pocket.

"Tuesday," she whispers. "Charles has golf. Chloe will be there too."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Patricia." She squeezes my hand. "After what we did, I think you can call me Patricia."

I leave the Wellington mansion with my career intact and my morals destroyed.

Tuesday can't come fast enough.