Gemma 5

The weekend Gemma visited Peterborough arrived sooner than expected.

Mum greeted her at the door with hugs and tea. Oblivious as ever. Nat waited until Mum disappeared into the kitchen before pulling Gemma aside in the hallway. His hand slid low on her back. Possessive. Familiar.

“Your old room’s still the same,” he murmured against her ear. “Haven’t touched it. Pink sheets. That Backstreet Boys poster still up. Thought you might want to ... see it again.”

Her pulse jumped. “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” he confirmed. “After she’s asleep.”

Mum went to bed at half past ten sharp. The same routine she had kept since Gemma was twelve. The house fell quiet. Gemma waited in the guest room for an hour. Heart hammering. Until she heard Nat’s soft knock.

He led her down the corridor on silent feet. Past the creaky floorboard they both knew to avoid. Past the framed family photos on the wall. Gemma at ten, gap-toothed and smiling. Nat’s arm around her shoulders.

Into her old bedroom.

The door clicked shut behind them. Moonlight spilled through the thin curtains. Painted everything soft pink and silver. The Backstreet Boys poster still hung above the headboard. Five frozen smiles from 1999. Edges curling slightly with age. The bed remained exactly as she had left it at eighteen. Single mattress. Pale pink sheets with tiny white daisies embroidered along the hem. The quilt Mum had sewn folded at the foot. A shelf of old Beanie Babies watched them silently. Still lined up in the same order she had arranged them as a girl.

Nat closed the distance in two steps. His mouth crashed into hers. Hard. Claiming. The kiss wet. Hungry. Tasting faintly of the whisky he had sipped downstairs. His stubble rasped against her chin. Her cheeks. She could smell the clean masculine scent of his aftershave mixed with the deeper earthy undercurrent already rising from his skin.

He backed her toward the bed until her calves hit the edge. She sank down onto the pink sheets. Soft cool cotton against overheated skin. The familiar faint lavender scent of Mum’s fabric softener twisted into something filthy as Nat stripped quickly. Shirt first. Revealing the broad furred expanse of his chest. Hair thickest in the centre. Thinning slightly toward his sides but still dense enough to rasp deliciously. Trousers next. Then boxers. His cock sprang free. Heavy. Thick. Already leaking at the tip. Framed by a dark wiry bush of pubic hair that matched the silver-streaked mat on his chest.