The Fitting | NEON LIT

"Cameron! I need you!"

I look up from my phone. My stepmother's voice is coming from upstairs, pitched with frustration.

"What?"

"Just come here!"

I haul myself off the couch and climb the stairs. Her bedroom door is open. I stop in the doorway and forget how to breathe.

Natasha is standing in front of her full-length mirror, wearing a red dress that looks like it was painted on. It hugs every curve she has—and she has plenty. Her hips strain against the fabric. Her breasts threaten to escape the low neckline. Her ass is a perfect heart-shape, outlined in crimson silk.

The zipper is stuck halfway up her back, revealing a strip of bare skin and the clasp of her black bra.

"I can't reach it," she says, not turning around. "Your father left an hour ago, and I'm supposed to meet him at the venue in ninety minutes."

"Can't you just... wear something else?"

"This is a charity gala, Cameron. Black tie. I've been planning this outfit for months." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "Just zip me up. Please."

I walk toward her. Each step feels heavy. Dangerous.

Natasha is forty-one, Russian, and the second woman my father married after my mother died. She's also the most beautiful woman I've ever seen—curves for days, ice-blue eyes, blonde hair that falls past her shoulders. I've spent two years trying not to want her.

I've failed.

I reach for the zipper. My fingers brush her back, and she shivers.

"Sorry. Cold hands."

"It's fine." Her voice is strange. Breathier than usual. "Just... do it slowly. The fabric is delicate."

I do it slowly.

The zipper moves up an inch. Two inches. I can feel the heat of her skin through the gap. I can smell her perfume—something dark and floral. I can see the curve of her spine, the dimples above her ass, the—

The zipper catches again.

"Shit." I tug gently. It doesn't move. "It's really stuck."

"Pull harder."

"I don't want to tear it."

"Then..." She pauses. "Try from a different angle."

"What angle?"

She turns to face me. Now we're inches apart, her breasts at eye level, the dress gaping open down her back.

"Get behind me. Use both hands."

I get behind her.

In the mirror, I watch myself reach around her waist. She's so close I can feel the warmth radiating off her body. My hands find the zipper, but my arms are wrapped around her now, and her ass is pressing against my—

"You're hard."

I freeze.

"Don't stop." Her voice is calm. Too calm. "Just... deal with the zipper."

"Natasha—"

"The zipper, Cameron."

I tug. The zipper doesn't move. But my cock does—thickening against her ass, impossible to hide. She doesn't step away. If anything, she presses back.

"It's really stuck," I manage.

"Maybe you need more leverage."

"What kind of—"

She reaches back. Takes my hands. Places them on her hips.

"Hold me steady," she says. "Then try again."

I'm holding my stepmother's hips. My cock is pressed against her ass. In the mirror, I watch her bite her lip.

"Natasha, this isn't—"

"Try the zipper."

One hand leaves her hip. Finds the zipper. Tugs.

It slides all the way up.

"There," I say. "Done."

I don't let go of her hip.

She doesn't tell me to.

"We have ninety minutes," she says to my reflection. "Your father won't be back until midnight."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying this dress took twenty minutes to get into." She reaches back, finds the zipper I just fixed. "It's going to take at least that long to get out of."

She pulls it down.

The dress pools at her feet. She's wearing a black bra, black panties, and heels. Nothing else.

"Help me," she says.

I help her.

I unhook her bra first.

Her breasts spill free—full, round, topped with pink nipples that harden in the cool air. She sighs as my hands cup them, thumbs brushing the tips.

"I've seen you looking," she murmurs. "Every time I bend over. Every time I wear something low-cut."

"I didn't mean to—"

"I wore them for you." She pushes back against me, grinding on my cock through my jeans. "I wanted you to look."

My hands slide down her stomach. Over the soft curve of her belly. Into the waistband of her panties.

She's soaking wet.

"Fuck," she hisses as my fingers find her clit. "Yes. Touch me. I've waited so long—"

I touch her. Circle her clit while she moans and writhes against me. Her ass grinds against my cock, and I'm so hard it hurts.

"Inside," she gasps. "I need you inside—"

I push two fingers into her. She cries out, her head falling back against my shoulder, her hips rocking to meet each thrust.

"More—please—"

I give her more. Three fingers now, stretching her, fucking her, my thumb still working her clit. In the mirror, I watch her face contort—watch her mouth open in a silent scream as she comes.

Before she can recover, I'm pushing my jeans down.

"The bed—"

"No." I bend her over the vanity. Her hands press flat against the mirror. "Right here. Where you can watch."

I push into her.

She's tighter than I imagined.

Hot and slick and gripping me like she never wants to let go. I grab her hips and thrust, watching in the mirror as my cock disappears into her again and again.

"Oh God—you're so big—fuck—"

She's beautiful like this. Desperate. Undone. Her breasts sway with every thrust, her mouth hangs open, her eyes locked on our reflection.

"Look at yourself," I tell her. "Look at what you're doing."

"I see it." She moans. "I see myself getting fucked by my stepson—God—don't stop—"

I don't stop. I fuck her harder, faster, the vanity shaking beneath us. She comes again, screaming, her cunt clenching around me so tight I see stars.

"Your turn," she gasps. "Come inside me. I want to feel it—"

I bury myself deep and let go. Watch in the mirror as my face twists, as she shudders beneath me, as we both break apart at the same time.

Afterward, she's late to the gala.

Very late.

"The zipper gave me trouble," she tells my father when she arrives. "Cameron helped."

He thanks me later. Shakes my hand. Tells me I'm a good man.

"Any time," I say.

And I mean it.