I'd known for years that Elena—my stepmom—wanted a baby more than anything. She and Dad had been trying since they got married when I was fifteen. Doctor visits, charts, supplements, endless quiet disappointments. Dad's test results came back last year: low count, basically impossible. Elena smiled through it in front of him, but I caught her sometimes staring out the kitchen window with that hollow look, hand resting on her empty stomach.
I was twenty-two now, home from grad school for the summer. Dad was away on a two-week business trip overseas. The house felt different without him—quieter, heavier.
One evening after dinner, she texted me: *Can you come to my room? I need to talk.*
I knocked softly and pushed the door open. The bedside lamps were on low, casting warm gold over everything. Elena was sitting on the edge of the bed in a silk robe the color of midnight, loosely belted. Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder. She looked nervous, fingers twisting the tie.
"Come sit," she said, patting the duvet beside her.
I sat, keeping a careful distance. She took a breath, then started talking—soft, steady—about how much she still wanted to be a mother, how the years were slipping away, how she couldn't give up the dream even if biology was cruel. Her voice trembled only once.
I tried to listen, I really did. But the robe had slipped open just enough to reveal what she wore underneath: delicate black lace, sheer in places, hugging every curve I'd spent years pretending not to notice. The swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the long line of her thighs. My pulse hammered in my ears.
She stopped mid-sentence. "You're not listening, are you?"
I swallowed. "I'm… trying."
Her eyes flicked down to where my hands were clenched on my thighs, then back up to my face. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. She reached for the belt of her robe and tugged it loose. The silk parted, sliding off her shoulders.
The lingerie was even more devastating up close—lace cups barely containing her full breasts, a matching garter framing smooth skin. My mouth went dry.
"I wore this for you," she said quietly. "I've seen how you look at me when you think I don't notice. And right now… I need someone who can give me what I've been aching for."
She took my hand and guided it to her chest. The lace was soft, but beneath it her skin was warmer, softer. When my palm cupped her breast, she let out a small, shaky exhale. I brushed my thumb over the peak straining against the fabric; it hardened instantly. She arched into my touch, eyes fluttering closed.
"Elena…" My voice cracked.
"I know," she whispered. "I know it's wrong. But I want this. I want *you.*"
She reached behind herself, unhooked the bra, and let it fall away. Her breasts spilled free—heavy, perfect, nipples dark and tight. I couldn't stop touching them, kneading gently, feeling their weight, the way she trembled when I circled the sensitive tips. She moaned softly, leaning in to kiss my neck, her breath hot against my skin.
Then she stood, hooked her thumbs into the lace panties, and eased them down her hips. She sat back on the bed, legs parted just enough. The sight of her—bare, glistening, swollen with need—nearly undid me.
"Touch me," she said. "Feel how ready I am."
I slid my hand between her thighs. She was slick, scorching hot. My fingers glided through her folds easily; she gasped when I brushed her clit, hips lifting toward me. When I slipped one finger inside, her walls fluttered around me, tight and wet and desperate.
"I need you inside me," she breathed. "I need you to fill me… to give me what your father can't."
The words snapped the last thread of my restraint. I kissed her—deep, hungry—while I shed my clothes with shaking hands. She lay back on the pillows, pulling me over her, guiding me between her thighs.
The first press of my tip against her entrance made us both groan. She was so wet I slid in slowly, inch by inch, her body yielding around me like it was made for this. When I was fully seated, we stayed still for a moment, foreheads touching, breathing each other in.
Then we started to move—slow, deep strokes, her legs wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my back, urging me closer, deeper. Every thrust drew soft cries from her throat, her nails scoring gentle lines down my shoulders. The room filled with the sounds of us—skin on skin, her wetness, our shared gasps.
"I'm going to come inside you," I rasped against her neck.
"Yes," she whimpered. "Please. Give it to me. Breed me."
The plea sent me over. I drove into her harder, faster, until pleasure coiled tight and snapped. I buried myself deep and let go, pulsing inside her again and again, filling her exactly as she'd begged. She clenched around me, milking every drop, her own climax shuddering through her as she clung to me.
Afterward, we stayed tangled together, my weight on her, her fingers stroking my hair. I could feel myself still inside her, soft now but not pulling away. She pressed a kiss to my temple.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "For giving me hope."
I lifted my head to look at her—flushed, beautiful, eyes shining. "I'd give you anything," I said. And I meant it.
Maybe it started with desperation. But what we shared that night felt like something deeper—something neither of us could deny anymore.