We didn't speak for four days.
Not with words.
The house became a church of held breath and stolen glances. Every room felt smaller, the air thick with the scent of what we'd done and what we still hadn't. We moved around each other like magnets forced the wrong way (close enough to feel the pull, never quite touching).
I came home from school and she was folding laundry in the living room, bent over the couch in a thin cotton dress that clung to the damp curve of her back. She didn't look up when I dropped my bag, but her hands stilled on one of my T-shirts, fingers tightening until the fabric wrinkled. I stood in the doorway long enough to watch her nipples stiffen under the dress, long enough to see her thighs press together once, hard, before she forced herself to keep folding.
I went upstairs without a word. Jerked off in the shower with the door open so the sound would carry (low groans, the wet slap of my fist, my cum hitting the tile in thick ropes while I pictured her mouth). When I came down later she was at the kitchen sink, knuckles white around a glass, staring out the window like she hadn't heard every second.
Night was worse.
She stopped closing her bedroom door. I stopped pretending I wasn't listening.
The first night I heard the soft rustle of sheets, then nothing. She was trying to be quiet. The second night she lost the battle: small, stifled gasps, the faint creak of the bedframe, the wet sound of fingers moving too fast. My name, broken into pieces (Dan… iel… please). I stood outside her door with my cock in my hand, stroking in time with her rhythm, cum splattering the hallway carpet while she came on the other side of the wall.
The third night she didn't even try to hide it. The headboard tapped the wall in a slow, desperate rhythm. She cried through her orgasm (real tears, the kind that come when pleasure and shame collide so hard you can't tell them apart). I pressed my forehead to her door and came without touching myself, just from the sound of her breaking.
By the fourth day the silence was a living thing, coiled around our throats.
I woke up aching, cock so hard it hurt to walk. The house was still dark. 4:47 a.m. I pulled on nothing but boxer briefs (already soaked at the tip) and went looking for her.
She was in the kitchen, standing at the counter in an oversized sleep shirt that barely skimmed her thighs. The light above the stove painted her gold and shadow. She had a mug halfway to her lips and froze when she saw me.
We stared.
Her eyes were bloodshot, cheeks hollow. She looked like she hadn't slept in days. The shirt was one of mine (old, soft, stretched across her breasts). Her nipples were so hard they cast tiny shadows. Between her thighs the hem was dark with wetness.
I took one step. Another. Until I was close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.
She set the mug down with a clink that sounded too loud.
"I can't do this anymore," she whispered. Her voice cracked in the middle, raw from crying or screaming into pillows, I couldn't tell.
"I know."
"I'm drowning, Daniel."
"I'm already under."
Her hands fluttered up like she wanted to touch me, then fell again. "If we do this (if you put that inside me), there's no undoing it. You know that."
I stepped closer until her breasts brushed my chest with every shallow breath. My cock pressed against her stomach through the thin cotton, leaving a wet smear.
"I stopped wanting to undo it the second you got on your knees in the shower," I said.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away.
"I'm your mother," she said, like she was trying to remind herself.
"You're the only woman who's ever looked at me like I'm a god and a sin at the same time."
Another tear. Then another. She was shaking so hard the shirt trembled against her thighs.
"I'm scared," she breathed.
"Me too."
"Of what this makes me."
"It makes you mine."
The sound that left her was half-sob, half-moan. She surged forward and kissed me (not soft, not careful). Teeth and tongue and desperation. I tasted coffee and salt and four days of starvation. Her hands clawed at my back, nails raking skin. I lifted her onto the counter without breaking the kiss, shoved the sleep shirt up to her waist.
She was bare underneath, dripping. Her thighs fell open around my hips like they'd been waiting years for this exact moment.
I pulled back just enough to look at her (really look). Swollen lips, slick and flushed dark, clit peeking out, begging. I dragged the head of my cock through her folds once, twice, coating myself. She whimpered every time I nudged her entrance, hips trying to chase me inside.
"Please," she said. One word, shattered.
I lined up.
The head pressed against her. She was so tight, so hot, even just the tip felt impossible. I pushed (slow, relentless). Her breath hitched, eyes going wide as I stretched her open inch by inch. When the crown finally popped past that first ring of muscle she cried out, sharp and shocked, nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
I stopped, buried only a third of the way, shaking with the effort of holding still.
She was panting, tears streaming, but her legs wrapped around my waist and pulled.
"More," she gasped. "Give me all of it. I need to feel you in my throat."
I slid home in one long, slow thrust.
She screamed (quietly, into my shoulder), body arching off the counter. I felt her pussy flutter and clench, trying to adjust to the impossible size. When my hips finally met hers I was deeper than anyone had ever been, the head kissing her cervix with every heartbeat.
We stayed like that (joined, trembling, breathing each other's air) for a long minute. I could feel her heartbeat around my cock, fast and frantic.
Then she moved first (small, rolling circles of her hips that dragged me in and out an inch at a time). The friction was blinding. I pulled back slowly until only the head remained, then sank in again. Again. Building a rhythm that was almost gentle, letting her feel every ridge, every vein.
Her head fell back, throat exposed. I latched onto the pulse point and sucked a bruise into existence while I fucked her slow and deep.
"I can feel you in my stomach," she moaned. "God, Daniel, you're so deep—"
I sped up. The counter creaked under us. Her tits bounced with every thrust, nipples grazing my chest. I wrapped one arm under her ass to tilt her hips and hit that spot inside that made her sob my name.
She came without warning (hard, sudden, pussy locking down so tight I saw stars). Wet heat gushed around me, dripping down my balls, soaking the cabinet below. I fucked her through it, drawing it out until she was clawing at my back and begging (too much, too good, please don't stop).
I was close. So close.
"Where?" I growled against her neck.
"Inside," she said instantly. "Fill me up. I want to feel it leak out of me all day."
The words snapped the last thread of my control.
I slammed deep and came with a roar, cock pulsing over and over, flooding her so full I felt it seep out around the seal of our bodies. She came again just from the heat of it, nails raking bloody lines down my back, legs shaking around my waist.
We stayed locked together, breathing hard, cum and slick running down her thighs in slow rivulets. I could feel myself softening inside her, but not enough to slip out yet.
She started crying (quiet, overwhelmed tears that soaked my shoulder).
"I love you," she whispered. "God help me, I love you like this."
I kissed her slow and deep, tasting salt and us.
The silence was over.