The Favor
"She needs him to pretend to be her boyfriend at her high school reunion. He agrees—but he has conditions. By the end of the night, neither of them is pretending anymore."
"I need a favor."
I look up from my laptop. Celeste is standing in my doorway, arms crossed, looking uncomfortable. My father's wife doesn't do uncomfortable—she does confident, commanding, occasionally dismissive. This is new.
"What kind of favor?"
She steps into my room. Closes the door behind her. That's also new.
"My high school reunion is this Saturday. My ex-husband will be there. With his new wife." She pauses. "His new, twenty-six-year-old wife."
"Okay..."
"I need to show up with someone. Someone young. Someone handsome." She meets my eyes. "Someone who will make Richard feel like the pathetic, limp-dicked failure that he is."
I lean back in my chair. "You want me to be your date. To your high school reunion. Your stepson."
"No one there knows I remarried. No one knows you exist." She shrugs. "As far as they're concerned, you're just my boyfriend."
"Dad would—"
"Your father is in Tokyo until next Wednesday. He'll never know." She steps closer. "I'll pay you. Whatever you want."
I look at her.
Celeste is fifty-one, Korean American, and she wears her age like armor. Silver streaking through black hair. Crow's feet at the corners of sharp eyes. And a body that's only gotten better with time—thick in the hips, heavy in the chest, soft in the belly but hard everywhere else. She does Pilates every morning. It shows.
I've been trying not to notice for eight months. Right now, with her asking me to pretend to be her lover, not noticing is impossible.
"Whatever I want?"
"Within reason."
"Define reason."
Her eyes narrow. "What are you asking for, Kyle?"
I should say money. I should say car. I should say anything except what I'm about to say.
"One kiss."
"Excuse me?"
"At the reunion. In front of your ex. One real kiss—not a peck, not a performance. A real, make-him-sick-to-his-stomach kiss." I hold her gaze. "That's my price."
She stares at me for a long moment. I can see her calculating—the risk, the reward, the line we'd be crossing.
"Fine," she says. "One kiss."
"Deal."
Saturday night. The reunion is at some overpriced hotel downtown. I'm in a suit I borrowed from my father's closet. Celeste is in a black dress that hugs every curve she has—and she has many.
"Remember," she says in the car. "You're a stockbroker. We met at a charity gala. You pursued me for months before I said yes."
"Got it."
"And you're crazy about me."
I look at her. The dress. The curves. The silver in her hair catching the streetlights.
"That won't be hard."
She glances at me. Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something else. Then we're pulling up to the valet, and it's showtime.
Richard finds us within ten minutes.
He's exactly what I expected—late fifties, silver fox type, arm around a blonde girl young enough to be his daughter. He looks at Celeste like he won something. Then he looks at me, and his smile falters.
"Celeste. You look... well."
"Richard." She slips her arm through mine, presses her body against my side. "This is Kyle. My boyfriend."
I shake his hand. Squeeze a little too hard.
"Nice to meet you, Rick."
"It's Richard."
"Sure."
His wife—Brittany, because of course—looks between me and Celeste like she's doing math that doesn't add up. "How long have you two been together?"
"Eight months," Celeste says. "He wore me down."
"She's worth the effort." I slide my hand to the small of her back. Lower than appropriate. She stiffens slightly, then leans into it. "Every single day."
Richard's jaw tightens. "Well. That's... nice."
"Isn't it?" Celeste smiles at him—pure victory. "Now if you'll excuse us, they're playing our song."
There's no song. But I take her to the dance floor anyway, and she doesn't complain.
"You're good at this," she murmurs as we sway. Her body is pressed against mine—breasts against my chest, belly against my stomach, hips moving in a slow rhythm that's making it hard to think.
"I'm motivated."
"By one kiss?"
"By making that asshole jealous." I pull her closer. "And by one kiss."
She laughs, low and quiet. "He's still watching. I can feel it."
"Then let's give him something to watch."
I slide my hands down her back. Cup her ass—full and round and absolutely perfect in this dress. She gasps, but she doesn't pull away.
"That wasn't part of the deal."
"Consider it improv."
I spin her, pull her back, and dip her. When I bring her up, our faces are inches apart, and she's breathing hard.
"Kyle..."
"You wanted to make him sick." My lips brush her ear. "Is it working?"
"Yes."
"Good." I straighten, keep her close. "Then let's get that kiss out of the way."
I don't wait for permission.
I cup her face with one hand, grip her hip with the other, and kiss her like I've wanted to for eight months. Not gentle. Not polite. I kiss her like I'm claiming her in front of everyone—tongue deep, hands possessive, body pressed hard against hers.
She makes a sound in her throat. Her hands find my hair. She kisses me back with a hunger that can't be faked.
When we break apart, the dance floor has gone quiet. Richard looks like he's been slapped. Brittany looks like she's taking notes.
"That was..." Celeste breathes. Her lipstick is smeared. Her eyes are dark.
"One kiss," I say. "As agreed."
"As agreed."
We stare at each other for a long moment.
"I want to leave," she says.
"We just got here."
"I don't care." She takes my hand. "I want to leave. Now."
We don't make it home.
She pulls into an empty parking garage two blocks from the hotel, kills the engine, and climbs into my lap before I can say a word.
"This wasn't part of the deal," I manage, as she hikes up her dress and straddles me.
"Fuck the deal." She kisses me again—harder this time, desperate. Her hands fumble with my belt. "You think I don't know? You think I haven't seen you watching me? Wanting me?"
"I—"
"Eight months." She frees my cock, strokes it. "Eight months of catching you staring at my ass. My tits. Eight months of pretending I didn't want to bend over and let you take me."
"Jesus, Celeste—"
She pulls her panties aside, positions herself, and drops.
We both groan.
She's tight and wet and so fucking hot. Her weight settles on my lap, driving me deeper, and her breasts press against my face through the thin fabric of her dress.
"Fuck me," she hisses. "Fuck your stepmother in this car while your father sleeps in Tokyo. Show me what you've been wanting to do all year."
I show her.
I grab her hips and thrust up into her, hard. The car rocks. She braces herself on the seat back and rides me—bouncing, grinding, her dress bunched around her waist and her moans filling the car.
"God, yes—bigger than I imagined—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I fuck her until she comes, screaming, her nails raking my shoulders. Then I flip her onto the passenger seat, spread her legs, and fuck her again—slower this time, watching her face, watching her breasts bounce with every thrust.
"Inside," she gasps. "I want to feel it—"
I bury myself to the hilt and let go. She comes again as I fill her, shaking, clenching, saying my name like a prayer.
Afterward, we sit in the dark parking garage, catching our breath. Her dress is ruined. My suit is wrinkled. Neither of us cares.
"So," I say. "Same deal next time?"
She laughs—hoarse, satisfied.
"Next time, you don't have to ask for a kiss." She leans over, kisses me softly. "Next time, you just take what you want."
"And your ex?"
"Fuck him." She starts the car. "I have a new favorite young man."
We drive home with her hand on my thigh, and I know this favor is going to cost us both more than we bargained for.
Worth it.