Chapter 8: Kitchen Near-Miss Terror

The clock on my desk read 4:07 a.m. when I finally hit save on the last mockup file. I sat there in nothing but the jersey Derek had left draped over the couch arm the night before, the fabric still carrying faint traces of dried release along the hem where it had pooled against my skin. My thighs ached in that deep, satisfied way, every shift reminding me of how I’d ridden him until we both collapsed. The stretch marks on my belly peeked from beneath the oversized sleeves, glowing faintly under the monitor light. Last night’s kisses still burned there like invisible brands—soft lips tracing every line without hesitation. For once the sight didn’t make me want to hide. It made something low and warm twist inside me.

The client’s latest email chain exploded across the screen right as I closed the laptop. Four new messages in the last hour, each sharper than the last. Pulling the project tomorrow if we don’t see progress. Missed deadlines. Two full weeks of radio silence on my end while I chased orgasms instead of deadlines. The threat sat heavy in my chest—real money, real consequences for Ethan’s future, for the roof over our heads. I rubbed my eyes, the jersey sliding off one shoulder, and forced myself to breathe.

Ethan padded downstairs for breakfast earlier than usual, still half-asleep in his boxers. He came up behind me at the sink, arms wrapping around my waist in that easy way he always did. His chin rested on my shoulder. “Mom, you really do seem happier lately ... whoever’s putting that glow on your face, I’m happy for you.” The words landed like a fresh blade between my ribs. He meant it. He was rooting for me. And all I could feel was the sticky evidence of last night still faintly tacky between my legs under the jersey.

I forced a laugh, patted his arm, and sent him off to school with a kiss on the cheek. The house emptied. I deleted more of Derek’s morning texts without opening them, then reopened every single one anyway. My thighs pressed together hard each time the memory hit—how I’d made him call me Mommy while I took what I wanted on that couch. The ache returned instantly, slick and insistent.