It settled over the house like a second skin.
Not shame.
Not anymore.
Just the quiet, inevitable rhythm of two bodies that had decided the rules no longer applied.
Mornings became sacred.
She woke me every day with her mouth (sometimes soft and sleepy, sometimes desperate and sloppy, always swallowing). I'd roll her onto her back while she was still licking her lips clean and slide into her slow, watching her eyes roll back as I filled the space she'd spent the night aching for. We'd fuck lazy and deep until the alarm clock gave up beeping, then stay joined while she made coffee, my cock plugging her so nothing leaked out.
She started wearing only my T-shirts around the house. Nothing underneath. The hem never quite covered the curve of her ass, and when she bent over to get something from a low cabinet I'd drop whatever I was doing and take her right there (kitchen floor, hallway rug, once against the washing machine while it spun her delicates). She never said no. She'd just brace her hands, spread her legs a little wider, and whisper please like it was the only word she still believed in.
Afternoons were stolen minutes.
I'd come home from school still smelling like hallways and teenage sweat, and she'd be waiting at the door (sometimes on her knees, sometimes bent over the entry table with her skirt already flipped up). Quick, hard fucks that left us both shaking and laughing into each other's mouths because we couldn't believe this was real.
Evenings were slower.
Homework spread across the kitchen table while she cooked dinner in one of my shirts, thighs shiny with what I'd left inside her earlier. I'd reach under the table and finger her while she stirred pasta sauce, feeling my own cum coat my fingers, feeling her clench every time I curled them just right. She'd come with the wooden spoon still in her hand, biting her lip bloody so the neighbors wouldn't hear.
Nights belonged to her bed.
She stopped pretending she wanted to sleep alone. I'd carry her there after dishes were done, lay her down, and take my time (hours of licking her open, making her come on my tongue until she was sobbing, then sliding into that swollen, dripping heat and fucking her until the headboard left dents in the wall). She liked it best when I stayed inside after (cock softening slowly while she fell asleep impaled, my cum sealed deep where she said it belonged).
She started calling it "keeping you warm."
I called it everything I'd ever wanted.
We never used condoms. Never even discussed it. The first time I asked if she was on birth control she laughed (soft, bitter, fond) and said, "I had my tubes tied after you were born, baby. Thought we were done." Then she kissed me slow and filthy and whispered, "Guess we're not."
The thought of knocking her up (impossible and perfect) lived in the back of my head like a second heartbeat. I came harder every time I pictured her belly rounding again, breasts heavy with milk that was meant for me this time.
Some nights she'd ride me slow, hands on my chest, eyes locked on mine while she rolled her hips in that perfect circle she'd perfected.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she'd murmur, voice husky. "Seeing me swollen with another baby. Knowing everyone would know exactly who put it there."
I'd lose the ability to speak, just grip her hips and fuck up into her until she screamed.
We showered together every morning now. She washed me like I was something holy (soaping my cock with both small hands, rinsing me clean only to drop to her knees and take me down her throat again). I returned the favor, fingering her against the tile until her legs gave out and I had to hold her up while she came.
She started leaving the bathroom door open when she peed. I'd lean in the doorway and watch, cock getting hard at the casual intimacy of it (her thighs spread, my cum still dripping from her while she smiled shyly and asked if I wanted to kiss her after). I always did.
The house smelled like sex and coffee and her lavender lotion everywhere. My sheets never made it to the wash anymore; she liked sleeping in our mess. Some nights I'd wake up to find her licking dried cum off my stomach like a cat, eyes closed in bliss.
We still ate dinner at the table like a normal family. She'd sit on my lap, feeding me bites while I stayed buried inside her, both of us pretending to watch whatever show was on TV while she clenched around me in slow, deliberate pulses.
"You're going to make me come in my pants at school one day," I told her once, voice rough.
She just smiled, wicked and soft, and whispered, "Good. Then you'll think about coming home and filling me properly."
There was no more silence. No more shame.
Just the quiet, perfect certainty that this was what we were now.
Mother and son in the daylight.
Lovers every other minute of our lives.
And I had never been happier.