Fiestas Patrias

Emily Thorne is Russian, pink between the legs and tight where it counts. She’s helping her seventy-five-year-old husband get ready for Fiestas Patrias, chopping up the bright fish for ceviche when the old man remembers he needs another slab. “I’ll be right back,” he tells her. “My boy should show any minute.” The second the door shuts, she feels a little buzz between her hips. When the stepson walks in, tall and cut from gym work, his jeans already straining, Emily can’t look away. She models the red dress she’s wearing, hips swaying so the skirt lifts just enough to show the good white ass underneath. The young man reads the look. He steers her straight to the dining-room table, bends her over, hikes the dress, and slides straight into that pink without a rubber. Every stroke pounds deeper than his stepfather ever manages, the table legs squeaking under the steady slap of skin on skin. She moans, reaches back, and grips the edge while he works her with a smile that says this celebration just got a whole lot hotter.