Chapter 3

Mark adjusted his collar, the fresh polo shirt sticking slightly to his still-damp skin as he descended the stairs. The scent of roasted chicken and thyme filled the air, mingling with the faint trace of Karen’s perfume. She stood by the dining table, arranging plates with precise movements, her sundress hugging the full curve of her hips, the neckline dipping just enough to reveal the soft swell of her cleavage. “Did you get that suitcase sorted?” she asked without looking up, her fingers smoothing a wrinkle from the tablecloth.

“Yeah,” Mark muttered, sliding into his seat across from her. The chair creaked under his weight—or maybe it was just his imagination, hyperaware of every sound after what had just happened upstairs. He reached for the wine bottle, pouring himself a generous glass. “Em just ... overpacked again.”

Karen laughed, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. “That girl.” She shook her head, her breasts swaying slightly with the motion. “Always needs three outfits for every occasion.”

Mark’s fingers tightened around his glass. If only she knew.

Footsteps padded down the stairs—slow, deliberate. Emily appeared in the doorway, her bare legs gleaming in the warm light. The pink shorts were practically indecent, riding so high they barely covered the curve of her ass, the loose white shirt doing nothing to hide the bounce of her bare breasts beneath it. No bra, Mark realised with a jolt, his cock twitching despite being spent just minutes ago. Her nipples were still stiff, the peaks visibly poking against the thin fabric as she shifted her weight gingerly from one foot to the other.

Karen glanced up, her fork pausing mid-air. “Sweetheart, are you limping?”

Emily’s lips twitched, her fingers brushing the back of her thigh as she eased into her chair beside Mark. Her skirt rode up even higher, revealing the faint red marks his fingers had left on her inner thighs. “Yoga,” she said breezily, reaching for the water pitcher. Her wrist bore the faint imprint of his teeth—another souvenir. “Tried a new pose. Overdid it.”

Mark choked on his wine.

Karen frowned, her gaze darting between them. “You’re flushed,” she said to Emily, her brow furrowing. “And your neck—is that a rash?”

Emily’s fingers fluttered to the love bites scattered along her throat, her smirk widening as she kicked Mark lightly under the table. “Allergies,” she lied smoothly, pouring herself a glass of water. “Pollen’s brutal this year.”

Karen hummed, unconvinced, but let it drop as she passed the salad bowl.

Emily’s bare foot slid up Mark’s calf under the table, her toes tracing the inseam of his jeans. He nearly dropped his fork. “So, Mom,” Emily purred, her fingers toying with the hem of her shirt—just high enough to flash the shadow of her pierced navel. “How was book club?”

Karen sighed, spearing a cherry tomato. “Oh, the usual. Linda’s husband bought her another Mercedes—”

Emily’s foot climbed higher, her big toe pressing against the growing bulge in Mark’s pants. He shifted, his jaw clenching as she rubbed slow circles over the denim. Karen prattled on, oblivious, as Emily’s fingers crept under the table, her nails scraping his thigh.

Mark grabbed her wrist under the tablecloth, his fingers digging into her pulse point. Emily’s breath hitched, her cheeks flushing pinker, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned forward, her loose shirt gaping to give him—and only him—a perfect view of her bare breasts swaying as she reached for the butter knife.

“Daddy,” she murmured, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “Can you pass the salt?”

Karen’s head snapped up at the word—the first time Emily had ever called him that in front of her.

Mark’s grip on Emily’s wrist tightened.

Game on.

Karen dabbed her lips with a napkin, the diamond on her wedding ring catching the light as she set it down with deliberate care. “Actually,” she began, her voice taking on that measured tone she used for announcements, “I have some news.” Emily’s foot stilled against Mark’s calf, her toes curling involuntarily as she watched her mother’s manicured fingers trace the rim of her wine glass.

“The quiz competition in the city this weekend,” Karen continued, her gaze flicking between them. “I was supposed to accompany Emily, but Marjorie just called—her mother’s taken a turn, and I really should be there.” She sighed, the swell of her breasts rising with the breath. “It’s only an hour’s drive, and the hotel’s already booked.” Her eyes settled on Mark, her lower lip catching between her teeth in a way that made his gut tighten. “Would you mind going instead? Take Monday off. Emily could use the support.”