I looked at her standing there in that black lace robe, the late afternoon light slicing through the sheer fabric like a cinematographer who actively hated my self-control.
Every golden beam highlighted exactly what it was supposed to hide — the heavy, full curve of her breasts, the dark, hardened peaks of her nipples pressing insistently and invitingly against the delicate pattern, the soft dip of her navel, and the shadowed promise of ruin between her thighs where the robe had parted just enough to tease bare skin.
"I think we should take this to the living room," I said, forcing my voice to stay casual. "What do you think?"
She tilted her head, a small, deliberate movement that made the robe shift again.
The lace whispered against her skin, one side slipping another fraction lower so the inner swell of her left breast was now fully visible to my so much kin eyes, the weight of it soft and inviting under the golden light.
A single water droplet still clung stubbornly to the upper curve, slowly tracing downward.
"Why?" she asked, voice warm and unhurried. "I’m just about to rest. Unless you’re planning for a long chat, here would be just enough."
I didn’t say what I was really thinking at this moment with my mother-in-law presented in that.
Couldn’t really.
Because she was so fucking distracting it was making my brain short-circuit.
It didn’t matter how many women I’d already had today or that I’d just been buried deep inside her daughter barely an hour ago.
If anything, that made it worse. The Bloodline Tension hadn’t faded. Hadn’t cooled.
Hadn’t done me the courtesy of shutting the fuck off once I left the changing room and honestly, I liked it that way.
It was still humming in my veins like a low, traitous filthy frequency tuned specifically to the woman standing barefoot on cold marble in a black lace robe she had very deliberately chosen — and we both knew it.
She knew exactly what she was wearing. She knew exactly what it showed — the way the sheer lace clung damply to her full breasts, outlining every detail, the way it barely covered the smooth flare of her hips, the way it left her long, bare legs exposed from mid-thigh down.
And she had answered the door in it anyway.
Which meant one of two things: either she’d genuinely been about to rest and hadn’t considered the implications... or she had considered them very thoroughly and decided the implications were the point.
I love it if it were the latter.
Twenty years of celibacy didn’t kill a woman’s understanding of what black lace communicated. It had sharpened it into something dangerous.
I walked over to the couch and sat down. She settled on the bed across from me, legs folding gracefully beneath her.
The robe shifted with the movement, the lace doing sinful things I refused to stare at directly — because if I let my eyes linger on the way the fabric rode up her thighs, on the dark shadow where her legs met, on the way her nipples tightened further from the cool air or from my gaze, this conversation would be over before it started.
Six feet of marble floor and warm, scented air separated us. Six feet that felt like six inches and six miles at the same time.
"I’m just here to apologize," I said.
She blinked. Whatever she’d expected, it clearly wasn’t that. Her posture shifted — a tiny micro-adjustment, the straightening of someone who’d been bracing for an entirely different kind of conversation and was now recalibrating.
"I’m afraid I won’t be here for another day. I’m going to Paris tonight and I’ll be there for two and a half months, minimum." I leaned back into the couch, hands resting openly on my knees, keeping my posture relaxed and honest. "Just wanted to inform you before I go."
She shrugged — one elegant shoulder. The movement made the robe slip another dangerous inch, exposing more of the soft, heavy curve of her breast and the dark edge of her areola pressing against the lace.
"It’s fine. Thank you. You didn’t have to."
"Yeah, I did. Would’ve been rude to just disappear without telling my mother-in-law who came all this way to visit me."
Her eyes narrowed. The word mother-in-law landed exactly as I intended — a reminder, a boundary, a deliberate frame around whatever charged electricity was crackling in this room.
It said: this is what we are, officially, on paper... regardless of what your robe is doing to the air between us.
She held the narrowed gaze for a beat longer than comfortable, processing the word, tasting it, deciding whether it was a shield or a provocation.
With me, it could easily be both, and she was beginning to figure that out.
I stood up. "Please excuse me."
I started walking toward the door. Got three steps before I turned my head over my shoulder.
"Be safe while I’m gone," I said. "And thank you for the game today. I had fun." A beat. "I hope you reconsider your stance about my relationship with Luna."
I turned back toward the door and kept walking.
"Peter."
"Why do you love Luna?"
"Also — I understand teenagers," she continued, her voice shifting into something more careful now, picking through words like she was handling fragile glass.
"I’ll admit nothing about you makes sense to me. I can’t say I understand you at all. But I understand teenagers and their obsessions with older women. It’s hormones. It’s novelty. It’s the thrill of something forbidden." A pause.
"Would you?" she asked, and the question carried real weight — the kind that came from a woman who wasn’t attacking, but genuinely wanted to know. "If you were in my place. Would you understand?"
"Fair enough."
"Doesn’t it bother you?" she asked, her voice quieter now. "The incest. The taboo. The morals and ethics of all of it."
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