Jess’s motorcycle boots hit the pavement with a thud that always made me hold my breath just a little. She had this way of moving—like she owned every inch of space around her without even trying. I watched from the kitchen window as she tugged off her helmet, shaking out that stupidly perfect dark hair of hers. It was barely longer than my thumb, mussed from the ride, and she ran a hand through it like she knew I was looking.

The screen door slammed behind her before I could pretend I wasn’t staring. “Miss me, kid?” Her grin was crooked, one side of her mouth tugging higher than the other, and her leather jacket smelled like gasoline and the stupid cherry-scented car freshener she stuck on her bike’s handlebars. My fingers twitched against the counter edge.

Then—just like always—she closed the distance in two strides and kissed me square on the mouth. Dry lips, faintly chapped from the wind, pressing firm and warm for exactly three heartbeats before she pulled back. “Jesus, you’re tall now,” she muttered, swiping her thumb over my bottom lip like she was wiping away evidence. Her callouses scraped my skin.

I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the way my short nightgown barely covered my thighs, the way the thin fabric clung to my hips where I’d been leaning against the counter. The AC kicked on, sending a draft up my legs, and Jess’s eyes tracked the movement of the hem fluttering against my skin. Her jaw flexed. “Mom’s upstairs,” I blurted, voice cracking.

Jess snorted, reaching past me to yank open the fridge. The cold air rushed out as she bent over, her jeans pulling tight across her ass—deliberately slow, like she was giving me a show. “Mmm. Saw her Cadillac in the driveway.” She straightened with a beer bottle dangling between two fingers. “Some legs you got, kid. College treating you right?” The cap popped off with a twist of her wrist, landing somewhere near the sink.

Heat crawled up my neck. She’d caught me staring—again—at the way her back muscles moved under her tank top when she hauled in groceries last summer, at the curve of her shoulders when she wiped engine grease off her hands with that stupid bandana. Now here I was, twenty years old and still tripping over my tongue because she’d stepped into the kitchen smelling like leather and bad decisions.

Jess leaned over the sink, forearms braced against the counter, and her jeans tightened obscenely around her thighs. The denim was faded white at the creases, clinging to every contour of her ass like it’d been painted on. She craned her neck to peer through the window, her bicep flexing as she adjusted the angle—casual, effortless, completely unaware of how the sunlight caught the dark hair at her nape or how her stance spread her legs just enough to make my pulse stutter.

“Your mom’s garden’s looking shitty,” she remarked, voice rough from the beer. She took another swig without looking back, the muscles in her shoulders rolling under her tank top straps. A drop of condensation slid down the bottle’s neck, tracing a slow path toward her fingers. I wondered, stupidly, what it’d feel like to lick it off her knuckles. “Needs more mulch. Or a flamethrower.”

The sink’s edge pressed into her hips, deepening the curve of her waist before flaring out into those impossible jeans. The fabric strained against the movement of her thighs as she shifted her weight, one boot nudging the cabinet below. I could see the outline of her wallet in the back pocket, the way it dipped slightly under the weight of whatever she kept in there—probably a switchblade, knowing her.

Jess turned just enough to glance at me, catching my gaze before it could escape south again. The corner of her mouth twitched. “What?” she said, stretching the word out like taffy. Her throat worked as she swallowed another sip, tendons flexing, and I wanted to bite them.

Then she shifted her weight—casual, like she wasn’t doing it on purpose—and Jesus Christ, her ass was big. Not just round or firm or whatever bullshit people said when they were trying to be polite. It was wide, straining the seams of those obscene jeans, the denim pulling tight enough to show the crease where her thigh met her cheek. My mouth went dry.

She leaned forward to grab a dishtowel, moving slow, and the fabric stretched even tighter. I could see the dimples right above her back pockets, the way her belt loops dug in slightly where her hips flared. The AC blew again, and her tank rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above her waistband—tan, taut, disappearing under leather. I wanted to sink my teeth into it.

The stairs creaked. Jess straightened instantly—too fast—and the dishtowel snapped between her hands like a whip. “Hey Jess,” my mom called from the hallway, voice still sleep-rough. “And hey, sleephead,” she added as she rounded the corner, squinting at me in my stupid nightgown. “Christ, you’re practically naked. Go put some pants on before you give your aunt a heart attack.”

Jess laughed—low, throaty—and grabbed my mom by the waistband of her ratty bathrobe, yanking her close. “Nah, let her stay,” she murmured, right before kissing my mom square on the mouth. The same three-heartbeat press she’d given me, only this time with her thumb hooked in mom’s belt loop. My stomach lurched.

Mom made a noise against Jess’s lips—not quite protest, not quite surprise—before pulling back with a huff. “Jesus, Jess.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, but I saw how her fingers lingered, how her eyes dropped to Jess’s collarbone where her tank top gaped. Her ears were pink. “Been divorced three months, not three decades. Calm down.”

Jess grinned, slow and wolfish, and flicked the towel at Mom’s hip. “Just keeping you on your toes, sis.” But when she turned back to the sink, her knuckles were white around the beer bottle. The silence stretched, thick as the humidity clinging to the window screens.

Then—casual as a landmine—Jess said, “How about the legs on the kid though?” Her voice dropped half an octave, rough with something that wasn’t just beer. “Jesus. Didn’t realize college came with a fucking growth spurt.”

Mom blinked at me like she’d just noticed I wasn’t wearing pants. Jess leaned back against the counter, deliberately slow, her hips cocked to one side. The denim creaked.

“Glad you’re showing them off,” Jess said, gaze dragging up my thighs. Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip—quick, filthy—before she raised her beer bottle toward my mom. “Don’t you think so too, Clair?”

Mom didn’t bat an eye. Just shrugged, reaching past Jess for the coffee pot like this was normal breakfast chatter. “Her legs are lovely,” she agreed absently, pouring herself a cup. The steam curled around her fingers as she glanced at me over the rim.

Jess snorted into her beer. “Bullshit.” She rolled the bottle between her palms, condensation dripping onto the tile between her boots. “I’d know those legs anywhere.” Her voice dropped, slow and syrupy. “Wonder what’s between ‘em.”

Mom choked on her coffee. A laugh burst out of her—sharp and startled—before she could swallow it down. The sound twisted something hot in my gut. Jess grinned, crooked and knowing, like she’d been waiting for that exact reaction. Her boot nudged mine under the table, the toe of her steel cap dragging up my bare calf.

“Friday night?” Jess repeated, louder this time, like she was daring Mom to intervene. Her fingers drummed against her beer bottle. The condensation had pooled around its base, soaking into her sleeve cuff where it was rolled up to her elbow. Her forearm flexed when she shifted her grip, veins standing out against the ink of her tattoos—one of them fresh, dark and angry-looking under the kitchen lights. A serpent coiled around an axe. I wanted to lick it.

Mom sighed into her coffee cup, long-suffering. “Oh Christ, here we go.” But she didn’t look up from the newspaper spread across the table, didn’t stop Jess when she hooked her boot around my ankle under the table and tugged—just hard enough to make my chair squeak.

Jess’s grin widened. “No, seriously,” she said, dragging the words out like she was savoring them. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, and the serpent tattoo rippled as her bicep flexed. “I got tickets for that demolition derby out at the fairgrounds. You in, kid?” Her knee bumped mine, deliberate, and her voice dropped to a murmur. “Or you got a hot date already?”

I laughed “ well I got one now dont I?”

Jess’s grin sharpened like a blade. Her boot pressed harder against my ankle, leather warm against bare skin. “That so?” She took a slow sip of beer, eyes locked on mine over the bottle’s rim. The condensation dripped onto her wrist, tracing the veins that stood out when she flexed her grip. I watched it slide toward her elbow, disappear under her rolled-up sleeve.

Mom turned a page of the newspaper with deliberate casualness. The rustle of paper was the only sound for three heartbeats before Jess set the bottle down with a click. “Better be a damn good date,” she murmured, thumb swiping at the wet ring left on the table. Her gaze dropped to my mouth. “If it’s me.”

The AC hummed to life again, sending goosebumps down my arms. Jess tracked them with her eyes—slow, predatory—before reaching across the table to pluck a grape from Mom’s fruit bowl. She popped it between her teeth, never breaking eye contact. Juice glistened on her lower lip. “Race starts at eight,” she said around the pulp. “Be at my place by six-thirty.”

I swallowed hard. “That’s pretty early, isn’t it?” The words came out breathier than I’d intended, catching on the memory of her thumb against my mouth.

Jess leaned back in her chair, the wood groaning under her weight. Her fingers drummed against the table—slow, deliberate taps that matched the racing pulse in my throat. “Early?” She arched one dark eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Oh, I got plans for you, kid.” The way she said ‘plans’ sent heat licking up my spine—low and dangerous, like the rumble of her bike’s engine before she gunned it.

Then she was moving—swift and easy—pushing away from the table with that predator’s grace. Her leather jacket creaked as she stretched, arms high overhead, the hem of her tank riding up to reveal a sliver of taut stomach. The serpent tattoo rippled with the movement. “Got to go now,” she said, voice rough with something that wasn’t just beer. Her bootsteps were heavy as she rounded the table toward me.

Jess stopped just short of touching me, close enough that I could smell the gasoline clinging to her jacket, the cherry car-freshener, the sweat at her collarbones. Her thumb hooked under my chin, tilting my face up. Dry lips pressed against mine—chapped from the wind, warm from the beer—lingering just long enough for me to taste the hops on her tongue. Then she pulled back with a wet smack, swiping her thumb over my bottom lip like she was wiping away evidence. “See you Friday, kid,” she murmured, voice dropping to a growl. Her knuckles brushed my thigh as she straightened—deliberate, fleeting.

She turned to Mom next, who was still pretending to read the newspaper with elaborate disinterest. Jess snatched the paper away with one hand, catching Mom’s wrist with the other. “Clair,” she said, grinning that wolfish grin, and kissed her too—harder than she’d kissed me, open-mouthed and filthy. Mom made a noise against her lips, half-protest, half-something else, before shoving at Jess’s shoulders. Jess broke away laughing, thumb swiping at Mom’s swollen lower lip. “Keep the kid out of trouble,” she said, tossing the newspaper back onto the table.

The screen door slammed behind her before either of us could react. Through the window, I watched her swing a leg over her bike, the muscles in her thighs flexing under denim as she kicked the stand up. She hesitated, helmet dangling from one hand, and glanced back at the house—right at me, through the glass. Her grin flashed, sharp and knowing, before she tugged the helmet on and gunned the engine. Gravel sprayed as she peeled out of the driveway, leaving nothing but the scent of exhaust and cherry air freshener in her wake.

Mom exhaled through her nose beside me, fingers tightening around her coffee cup. “Christ,” she muttered, rubbing her temple with her free hand. The newspaper rustled as she flipped it back open with forced nonchalance, but her gaze kept flicking to the driveway where Jess had been. The steam from her coffee curled between us like a question neither of us would ask.

Then—distinct beneath the hum of the AC—the growl of Jess’s motorcycle cut through the morning quiet again. My pulse jumped as the engine idled outside, stuttered, then cut off entirely. Boots scuffed the porch steps in that lazy rhythm I knew too well, the screen door whining open before slamming shut behind her. Jess didn’t pause in the doorway this time—just strode straight to where Mom sat at the table, newspaper held up like a shield.

Mom barely had time to lower the paper before Jess hooked a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. The kiss wasn’t playful this time—it was hungry, all teeth and tongue, Jess’s free hand fisting in Mom’s bathrobe belt to yank her closer. The newspaper crumpled between them, ink smearing across Mom’s fingers as she gripped the edges like she might push Jess away or pull her in deeper. Jess broke it off with a wet sound, thumb dragging across Mom’s lower lip hard enough to redden it. “Forgot something,” she murmured, voice rough.

Mom exhaled shakily, fingers still tangled in the newspaper. “Jess—” she started, but Jess was already turning toward me, boots scuffing against the linoleum. She didn’t stop until her thighs bumped my knees, until I could see the way her pupils swallowed the hazel of her irises. Her palm hit the table next to my hip, caging me in, and she leaned down until her breath ghosted over my lips—warm and beer-bitter.

“You too,” she murmured, and then her mouth was on mine again, hotter this time, tongue sweeping over my bottom lip like she was chasing the taste of herself. The denim of her jeans rasped against my bare thighs as she angled closer, her free hand gripping the back of my chair hard enough to make the wood groan. Mom made a strangled noise behind us, but Jess didn’t pull away—just bit down on my lip, sharp enough to make me gasp.

Then she was gone, turning on her heel with that infuriating grin, and strode back to Mom with deliberate slowness. She caught Mom’s wrist mid-air—Mom had been reaching for her coffee like it was a lifeline—and twisted her grip until their fingers tangled. “Clair,” Jess said, low and rough, and kissed her again, deep and filthy, the kind of kiss that made the newspaper flutter to the floor between them. I could see the way Mom’s fingers spasmed against Jess’s bicep, torn between pushing her away and dragging her closer.