Chapter 7

Trash Panda

Mira pushed open the door to their cramped third-floor apartment. The city lights bled through the blinds in orange stripes across the worn carpet. Her feet ached in the high heels she had worn for the date, and the faint buzz of wine still hummed in her blood. Another fucking loser, she thought. Her tail lashed once behind her as she kicked the door shut. The raccoon had been big and broad-shouldered like her late husband, the kind of man that promised strength. But he had been all talk: hesitant hands, nervous laughs, no fire. She was still keyed up, still wet between the thighs from the frustrated anticipation that had carried her through dinner.

The living room glowed from the TV. Jax was sprawled on the couch in nothing but a pair of tight black boxer-briefs, controller in his hand and ears twitching to the explosions on-screen. Empty beer cans littered the coffee table. He did not even look up.

“Back already?” he muttered. “Thought you were gonna get laid tonight, Mom.”

Heat flared in her chest. “Watch your mouth, Jax. I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re never in the mood to do anything but bitch at me.” He finally paused the game and turned. His eyes dragged slowly down her body: the way her blouse clung to her chest, the curve of her hips in that short skirt. He had been doing that more and more the last year. Lingering hugs that pressed too close. “Accidental” brushes of his hand against her ass when he passed her in the kitchen. She had told herself it was nothing. Two years since his father died, and the apartment felt smaller every day.

“You’re sitting here in your goddamn underwear, drinking and playing games like a loser while I break my back at the salon,” she snapped. Her tail bristled. “I asked you to do the dishes. I asked you to look for a job. What the hell are you doing?”

Jax stood up. He was taller than her now, broader through the shoulders, that same masked face but with a younger, dangerous edge. “Maybe if you stopped dating deadbeats who treat you like shit, you wouldn’t come home frustrated.”

The words hit too close. She stepped forward, jabbing a claw at his chest. “Don’t you dare talk to me like—”

He grabbed her wrist. Fast. Strong. The same way his father used to when things got heated in the best ways.

Mira’s breath caught. “Let go.”

Instead he pulled her closer. “You want a real man, right? That’s what you always say. Someone who doesn’t take your shit.”

She slapped him hard across the cheek with her free hand. The sound cracked through the room.

Jax’s eyes flashed. Then he kissed her: rough, demanding, nothing like the hesitant raccoon from the date. His mouth pressed against hers, tongue pushing past her lips. She shoved at his chest, snarling, but he did not let go. One big hand slid down her back, cupped her ass, and squeezed hard enough to make her gasp into his mouth.

“Jax—stop—fuck, I’m your mother—”

But her body was already betraying her. The heat between her legs flared hotter. She could feel him hardening against her stomach through those thin briefs. He had wanted her. She had known it for a while, the way he looked at her when she walked around the apartment in her robe. The way she had sometimes let her tail brush him on purpose, telling herself it was an accident.

He spun her around and bent her over the back of the couch in one smooth motion. Her skirt flipped up. Mira’s claws dug into the cushions.

“Jax, no—wait—”

His hand yanked her panties down her thighs. She heard him spit, then felt the wet head of his cock press against her ass. Thank the goddess. Not her pussy.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he growled against her ear, voice low and rough. “You need it too. I can smell how wet you are.”

Mira whimpered, pushing back half-heartedly even as her tail lifted invitingly. The blunt pressure against her butthole made her shudder. He was huge. He pushed forward steadily, stretching her open with a slow, burning slide that made her claws unsheathe and her nipples tighten.

“Fuck ... Jax ... slow—ahh—”

He sank in deep, inch by inch, until his hips met her ass and she felt his balls against her soaked pussy. The fullness was wrong, filthy, and wanted. He started thrusting: long, firm strokes that made her breasts bounce inside her blouse and her ears stiffen. Each push rubbed perfectly against that sensitive spot inside her. The stretch turned from making her feel like she had to take a big shit to pure pleasure that had her pushing back despite her protests.

“That’s it, Mom,” he panted. One hand gripped her hip while the other slid around to rub her clit. “So good.”

Mira came hard, sudden and shocking. Her anus clamped down around his cock buried in her ass. A sharp cry tore from her throat as waves of pleasure crashed through her. Jax groaned and kept fucking her through it, harder now, until he buried himself deep and spilled inside her with a low, satisfied growl.

They stayed like that, pressed together. He pulled out carefully and turned her around, wrapping his arms around her. Mira’s legs felt weak. She buried her face against his chest, tears slipping down her cheeks. Humiliation burned in her gut. My own son. What the hell did I just let happen?

But her emotions felt different about it. She clung to him, hands lovingly kneading his back, feeling his heartbeat against her cheek.

“I ... I can’t believe we did that,” she whispered, voice cracking. “We’re fucked up.”

Jax just held her tighter, stroking her ears. “Felt pretty good though, didn’t it?”

She did not answer. Not yet. But deep down, a small, secretive part of her, the same part that had learned long ago, as a teenager fooling around with her older brother, that family could take care of each other’s needs sometimes.

Mira wiped down her station with quick, practiced swipes. The sharp citrus scent of disinfectant cut through the salon’s mix of hair chemicals, nail polish, and gossip. Her hands still tingled from the long pedicure she had just finished on Mrs. Hargrove, one of her most reliable regulars. The older raccoon had chattered the whole time about her grandkits, leaving Mira with a dull ache behind her eyes and a persistent, low throb between her legs that had nothing to do with the conversation.