Gulf Shores

GULF SHORES

Chapter 1

July-- 7:35pm -- Biloxi, Mississippi

The Camaro idles in the AMC theater parking lot, its black shell gleaming under street lights and the neon glow of the theater's sign, engine purring--a low, throaty rumble that vibrates through Connor Mayhew's bones.

At 24, he's all sharp edges--blond hair tousled, calluses rough from construction gigs--his dirty jeans stretched tight over lean muscular thighs. His girlfriend, Beatrice Jones, 20, sits next to him, her flip-flops abandoned, pink-painted toenails flexing against the dash's warm vinyl. Her Forever 21 sundress--frilly, floral--clings to her sun-kissed skin, bunched up, revealing the soft swell of her thighs, fabric kissing her flesh.

Her laugh spills out, high and bright, as she flicks his arm with glitter-dusted nails. "You're such a dick--it was cute!" she squeals, voice high and playful.

His gravelly chuckle cuts through, dark and warm, as his hand slides up her thigh--fingers rasping over her smoothness, tracing the tan line where her dress ends. "Come on, it was sooo fucking corny--I'm picking the movie next time," he drawls, smirking.

Sabrina Carpenter's "Please, Please, Please" thumps from the radio--bass pulsing through their chests as Connor drives off. Both of their voices screaming lyrics into the muggy night. Her hair whipping across her face, a dirty blonde tangle catching the breeze, while his knuckles brush against her knee--deliberate and slow.

Across town, Bob Jones sweats over a bubbling pot in an upper-class kitchen, his Ole Miss tee stained with sauce and time. The wooden spoon in his hands scrapes the pan, a dull grind, as garlic and tomato waft thick and sharp through the room, steam beading on his brow.

"Bob, can I go to Jamie's?" --Lydia, his 15 year old stepdaughter's voice rings from the balcony above. Lydia leaning over it.

"Ask your mom," he grunts, wiping his hands on the Bud Light towel slung over his shoulder, sauce splattered across the counter top. Lydia stomps off into the master bedroom where her baby sister, Finley, bounces in her jumper--drool sliding down her chin, "Baby Shark" blaring from the iPad in a tinny loop that grates the air.

Amelia Jones, their mother, stands before the mirror, critical of her reflection. She's poured herself into a tight red satin dress, sheen molding to her hourglass--breasts full and unbound, tugging the neckline low, dusky peaks teasing the fabric. Her hips flare wide, thighs brushing with each shift--a ripple of flesh she despises. Her chestnut curls tumble wild, catching the light, and her amber-flecked eyes smolder, shadowed by crow's feet she sneers at. I'm a mess, she thinks, spritzing herself with cheap CVS perfume--floral and sharp--over her décolletage, the scent a cheap mask.

She slicks on deep cherry lipstick, her plump lips a fleeting asset she clings to. She's 45 but still just as sexy as ever, no matter what she says about herself--the looks she still gets from other men (and some women) say it all. She's still a fox. The looks of a Golden Age Hollywood star trapped in her own harsh self criticisms.

"Mom, Bob says--" Lydia starts, but Amelia cuts her off, "I don't care, he's got Finley. I thought he might want some help. Do whatever, just be back by 10 tomorrow morning so you can pack."

"Kay. Thanks, Mom," Lydia says as she bolts, texting furiously, leaving Amelia to smooth the dress, its hem whispering against her calves.

Outside, the Camaro buzzes in the street, a few feet away from the Jones' house. Bea straddles Connor's lap, sundress hiked high, grinding slow against his jeans. Her tongue flicks his mouth, lips tasting of Strawberry ChapStick and popcorn salt.

"Let me come over tonight," she purrs, hips slowly rolling against his lap. Hot breath against his neck. He groans, hands slipping beneath her dress, nails biting into the plush curve of her ass--firm yet yielding, a ripe handful quivering under his grip.

"You know I can't tonight baby. I have to work early tomorrow," he rasps before her lips crash into his--wet, loud, sloppy--gloss painting his chin as she moans into his mouth. His cock twitching against the denim.

"But I'll see you after I get off, right? Gulf Shores, here we come."

"I'm so excited that you're coming with us!"

"Me too, babe. It's gonna be great. Doing nothing but relaxing with my girl, chilling, smoking, and most importantly getting lucky on the beach."

"Oh, you think so, huh? Maybe with your other girlfriend because I am not fucking on a public beach."

"It'll be dark."

"Not happening."

"I'll have you convinced by the middle of the week."

"Not likely."

"It's a bet."

They shake on it, her giggle spilling free as she opens the driver's side door and slips out of the car. Turning back towards him before shutting it: "I love you, you know that."

"I love you too," he responds, firm, stating a fact. She leans back in and collects one last kiss before she walks away, sundress swaying as she bounds up the driveway, flip-flops slapping.

He watches her go, ass bouncing with each step, his smirk softening into something fragile, then guns the engine, the Camaro's growl fading down the street as Bea disappears inside.

Back inside, Amelia descends the stairs, Finley on her hip, drool seeping into the satin.

Her dress clings tight, outlining her unrestrained breasts--they shift with each step, spilling over the low neckline. Nipples press like pebbles through the satin, betraying the lack of support beneath--a choice made for allure, not comfort.

Bob turns, sauce spoon mid-air, eyes widening. "Whoa, look at you! Where did you say you're going again?"

"Just out with Tori and Miranda--girls' night," she says shoving Finley at him. The toddlers sticky fingers smearing her arm. "Jealous?" She teases, sensing his eyes lingering on her curves.

Bea strolls in at the front door behind them, kicking off her shoes. "Whoa, Mom, you're a fuckin' smoke show--hot date tonight?" she asks jokingly. Scooping Finley out of Bob's hands, giving her a sweet kiss on the head.

"Just the girls," Amelia pulls her into a quick hug, lips brushing her cheek. "Love you. Help Bob with Finley tonight--Lydia's bailing, and he's useless."

Bea smiles. "I'll keep an eye on them."

"And don't wait up. I'll probably be out late... and drunk."

"Don't drink and drive."

"I'm taking an Uber. 'God, Mom, get off my back,'" Amelia says in a tone mocking the attitude normally reserved for her from her daughters. They both laugh.

Amelia struts out, heels sinking into the lawn, yanking down her rising dress--thighs rub together, a soft friction she hates.

She walks away from the house, down the sidewalk. Her cellphone in her hand buzzes with a text message notification. She stops to read it. Smiling to herself just as headlights flare around the corner, getting closer and closer to reveal Connor's Camaro...

She opens the door to Connor saying "You're fuckin' unreal," yanking her in--her dress, once again, riding up--white thong peeking out--her ass in sharp focus--a lush, rounded expanse that fills the seat next to him, the fabric of her dress riding up to reveal its plush contours. The exposed thong digs into the crease where her thighs meet that generous backside, framing its heft with a teasing string, the flesh quivering as he squeezes it, a ripe peach begging to be devoured despite her self-doubt.

--

It started last fall, after Bea went back to Ole Miss. Connor would stop by to check on everyone. Lydia at school and Bob at work. He said he had nothing going on and wanted to see if Amelia needed any help with Finley--he's always so good with her. He stuck around for a while, they talked over coffee. Weeks stretch--him lingering, Amelia trading baggy tees for clingy tops, making any excuse to brush past him.

One night, he stayed late. Bob having fallen asleep on the couch while an episode of Game of Thrones played in the background, Lydia at her friend Jamie's. It built slow--his hands found her thigh as the episode concluded, at first comforting--warm, hesitant--slowly rubbing up and down her tight black leggings--Bob snoring a few feet away from them.

Their eyes locked, a silent spark, acknowledging without any words the feeling deep in the pit of both of their stomachs. And just like that they found themselves tiptoeing up the stairs, careful not to wake Bob, but an erotic hunger dragging them as quick as they could. In Amelia's room--him peeling her leggings down, his lips on her thighs, kissing them like they aren't flawed, her fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue traced her, hot and reverent, making her feel alive again. Making her come harder than she ever has before. Cuming on the same bed she shared with her husband. Her daughters boyfriend now buried between her legs.

It went on throughout the year--his car, her bed, the garage, his bed--Connor fucks Amelia like she isn't some sagging has-been. He makes her feel wanted. He makes her feel sexy. It isn't something they planned, but once it started, there was no going back. Lustful and dangerous. It never ended, even when Bea got back from school.

--

Now, the Camaro growls down Highway 90, headlights slicing through the muggy Mississippi night, the Gulf a dark shimmer beyond the pines. The radio humming low, Connor's hands grip the wheel, his blond hair whipping from the open window.

Amelia shifts in the passenger seat, satin whispering against leather. She smirks, catching his sidelong glance taking in her body. "Eyes on the road," she teases, voice husky, leaning closer, her perfume tickling his nose, her fingers dancing along his thigh, nails grazing the denim seam, pausing just shy of his bulge. His jaw tightens, hips shifting, denim stretching as he hardens from the magnetic pull of her touch.

"I don't want you getting a ticket." She laughs--low, throaty--unbuckling her seatbelt, the click loud in the quiet car. She slides closer, over the center console, her tits brushing against his arm through the satin, nipples peeking out like promises.

She grins, wicked, her hand hovering over his fly, teasing the zipper. "You better drive steady," she says, popping the button on his jeans--slowly dragging the metal zipper down. Her breath hot on his ear, chestnut curls spilling onto his shoulder as she unzips him completely, savoring the rasp of the zipper, freeing his cock: it's thick and veined, a solid seven inches of rigid flesh that pulse with youthful vigor, slapping his thigh with a wet smack upon it's freedom.

The shaft, girthy enough to stretch her grip as she wraps her fingers around it. Head flaring wide, a deep pink crown glistening with pre-cum. Unlike Bob's modest, softer offering--worn down by years and routine--Connor's is a weapon of desire, unyielding and insistent.

Her tongue flicks out, tasting the tip--salty, sharp--and he groans, hands flexing on the wheel as she hovers over his cock, lips brushing the tip, lightly kissing it, making him squirm. "Please, Mel."

Her lips stretch wide to accommodate his girth as she takes him into her mouth. The car swerving slightly--correcting it fast, breath ragged, her moans vibrating against him, wet and needy.

She pulls off with a pop, spit stringing from her lips, still attached to his hard cock, grinning up at him--"God I love the way you taste."

"Fuck Mel!" He groans with the agony of his full balls. "You're... you're mean." Despite the desire he just smiles. Shaking his head. Knowing that was only the beginning.

Connor's apartment sits ten minutes away--a dingy one-bedroom above a vape shop. The Camaro's engine ticking off in the parking lot as Connor and Amelia stumble up the rickety stairs to his dingy one-bedroom.

Her scarlet number clinging to her curves--satin molding her breasts, their unbound swell shifting, her ass swaying, a lush expanse quivering with each step.

His hand grazes her hip, possessive, urgent, as he fumbles the key into the lock, the faint buzz of the shop below vibrating through the floorboards.

Inside, all mismatched furniture and frameless movie posters--the faint musk of weed fills the space, the floor buzzing faintly from the shop below-- the door barely shutting before they turn into a hurricane. His hands cup her face, rough calluses scraping her cheeks, his mouth crashing into hers--her nails digging into his neck as she melts, clawing his shirt up, revealing the sweat-slick plane of his chest. They kiss like animals--her tongue tracing his teeth.

He spanks her--crack sharp, her yelp melting to a moan--as her dress pools red on the floor, left bare in just her white thong that she wears just for him.

His breath heaving as he steps back, eyes raking her bare form--

Her beautiful heavy breasts, hanging free, nipples hard like a jolly rancher, begging to be sucked--lush, slightly asymmetrical globes that bounce free, tan lines from last summer tracing their curves, dusky areolas with small braille like bumps, growing in the cool air. Her white thong damp with want--thighs sticky with humidity and the promise of more.

"Fuck, Amelia," he mutters, voice rough with hunger, her name a real thing slipping out--not "Mrs. J" like he forces himself to say around her family. She shivers at it, a thrill rippling down her spine, her hazel eyes glassy with the weight of being seen.

He hesitates, Bea's laugh flashing in his mind--high and pure from earlier tonight--but it's drowned out by the vision standing in front of him. Vulnerable and exposed. Completely his.

"Fuck," he excitedly squeals as he slowly peels off her thong, kissing the salty curve of her hip. He doesn't care about the flaws, she tells herself, clinging to his lust, her breath hitching as his lips linger, teasing the soft flesh, his stubble scraping a slow burn across her skin. His hunger a mirror where she's not just a tired mom, but a storm he can't resist.

They stumble to the couch, a tangle of limbs and heat, but she's in control now--straddling him as they fall, the scratch of the worn fabric biting her knees. His hands grip her hips, guiding her, his breath ragged as he watches--her chestnut hair wild, cascading over her shoulders, catching the faint light; her hazel eyes glassy with lust, locked on his. She hovers over him, teasing, her pussy brushing his jeans, damp heat seeping through as she grinds slow circles, dragging out his torment. "You're mine tonight," she murmurs, her fingers threading his blond hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, his head tipping back, exposing his throat--she leans in, lips brushing his pulse.

Then he flips her onto her back, the couch creaking under them, its worn springs digging into her spine, and she laughs--throaty, reckless, daring him to take her.

He takes her fast and hard--yanking his jeans down, his cock springs free--thick, veined, his seven inches pulsing with need, the head glistening as reaches out for her. Her nails rake his back as he slides her panties off, tossing them aside, and settles between her legs, his breath hot against her inner thigh. She's bare, glistening, her patch of pubic hair a dark tease above her slick folds, and he groans, "Goddamn, Mel," his voice a prayer as he teases her first--head brushing her clit, slow circles that make her hips buck, her nails digging into the couch, gasping, "Fuck, yes."

Their feelings flood the moment--her need to be wanted, his addiction to her storm. His tongue tracing her, tasting her sweat and heat, dragging slow and deliberate across her clit, flicking until her thighs tremble. She clutches his hair, guiding him, her moans bouncing off the peeling walls--"Connor, don't stop"--and he doesn't, burying his face deeper, her scent overwhelming, her taste a drug he can't quit.

They switch it up--doggy, her ass jiggling as he spanks her again, the crack louder, her cry sharper; 69, her pussy in his face, his tongue buried deep, her mouth stretching around his cock, sucking slow, teasing the head until he curses; reverse cowgirl, her hips grinding like a stripper, her ass bouncing, his hands gripping her waist, watching her take him; missionary, eyes locked, tender and slow, his weight pinning her down, hands framing her face.

Their breath mingles, sweat slicks their skin, and she tightens her legs, pulling him deeper, he moves with a fierce yet gentle rhythm--hard thrusts softening into rolls of his hips, lips brushing her ear, murmuring her name like a confession. Her body yielding to his angles, a collision of youth and aged longing that's sexier for its desperation. His forehead presses to hers, his cock filling her completely, stretching her with every thrust, her walls clenching as she nears the edge. The room fades--the chipped paint, unframed posters, the hum of the AC, the distant thump of bass from below.

It's just them, skin on skin, her curves a canvas for his hands, his hunger a mirror for her need.

She comes first, a soft cry escaping her sweet lips--high and raw, her thighs clamping around him, her pussy pulsing as waves crash through her, leaving her shuddering, slick and spent. He follows, shuddering against her, his groan muffled into her neck, hot and sudden, spilling into her with a final, deep thrust that makes her gasp again, clinging to him.

For a moment, they stay still--panting, entwined--a perfect, fragile bubble of their forbidden world.

Afterwards, she sprawls out, lying flat on her stomach, panting, sweat pooling in the dips and curves of her back. He traces his fingers across her ass, lightly tickling her, caressing the inward curves that turn into her crack. She traces a faint scar on his chest--"skateboarding accident when I was young--hurt like hell, but all pain eventually fades I guess." He tells her. She brushes it with her lips, a quiet moment.

"When I die, I wanna be buried in this" he says changing the subject, squeezing her right ass cheek with the entirety of his hand. She laughs, "You're so weird. I don't know... It's kind of big. And the cellulite--"

But he cuts her off as he dives back in--kissing her thighs, licking her slow--his tongue drags across her thick cheeks and straight toward the hole in-between. His hunger silencing her doubts--her moans bounce off peeling walls, raw and unashamed.

--

During the drive back, the Camaro stays quiet. Amelia stares out the window as though focusing on something she's never notice before. "I wish I had met you first," she whispers.

He grips her hand, "Mel, come on. Don't do that. You know... what we have is special. It's forbidden and tragic... It's romantic. It's sexy." He takes a beat to think about what he wants to say next. Amelia clings onto the space between his next words. "It's what we have to have for the time being."

She nods, lips swollen, heart bruised. But understanding. Something inside her hates what she's doing to her daughter. But the other part selfishly doesn't want to give this up. Bea's so young, so perfect, she thinks, flashing back to Bob ignoring her at a party a few weeks ago, his eyes praying on the much younger women, in much skimpier clothing--tight skin, no stretch marks--she doesn't deserve him. I hate her for it. I'm a worn shell, but Connor wants me. That's enough.

The car eventually pulls back up close to the house, but far away enough to avoid suspicion. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says as he goes in for a kiss--

"Wait." she breathes, pulling back, her shifting gaze glinting. She shifts, hiking her dress higher, revealing once again, the white thong--soaked from the night's release--a trophy of her hunger.

"For you," she purrs, slipping it off, the damp fabric brushing his thigh as she presses it into his hand. A charged touch, her smirk daring him to keep it. "Keep it safe--Bea's nosy."

And with that she gets out of the car. Leaving with the power.

Chapter 2

The next day, before they leave, Bea tears apart the room looking for necessities to fill her suitcase. She digs through her purse, pulling out a slim canister of pepper spray. "Should I bring this?"

Connor smirks, sprawled on her bed. "What, you planning to mace me when I win that beach-sex bet?"

She tosses it at him; he catches it, laughing. "Just in case some creep tries me. Gulf Shores is full of freaks."

"Fair. Pack it," he says, tossing it back. "But I'm the only freak you need."

As Bea and Connor exit the Jones home, down the driveway to the SUV being packed up by Bob--who takes a pause to greet Connor with a bear hug. "Another dude to balance the estrogen--thank Christ!"

The Jones crew piles into their SUV headed for the beaches of Gulf Shores, Alabama. Bob wears flip-flops, Amelia already in a sarong hugging her luscious hips, Lydia texting and holding a Juul in her hands.

The drive's a humid slog--two hours from Biloxi down I-10, the AC wheezing against the Mississippi heat. Bob cranks classic rock, singing off-key to AC-DC. Once again, Amelia stares out the window, thighs sticking to the leather seat, dreaming of Connor's hands--she'd watched them pack earlier, Bea's tight ass in cutoffs mocking her own softness, fueling her need to reclaim him; Bea and Connor share earbuds in the back, her head on his shoulder, giggling over TikToks; Lydia sulks, scrolling, while Finley babbles, kicking her seat. The SUV smells of sunscreen and nearly empty air fresheners--the smell of Amelia's perfume cutting through it straight into Connor like a knife.

--

The Jones crew spills out of the SUV onto the sand-dusted gravel driveway of a weathered two-story relic perched right where the dunes kiss the shore. A ramshackle beauty, its faded gray clapboard peeling, streaked with salt and neglect, the kind of place that smells of mildew and memories before you even step inside.

A weathered two-story relic on stilts, carport below, balcony above--steps from the dunes.

A rickety wooden staircase--warped from years of storms--climbs from the gravel drive to the main level, creaking under their weight, while a narrow balcony juts off the second floor, wrapping around the back offering a jagged frame to the ocean view.

The main level opens into a sagging porch, its warped swing creaking in the breeze, seashell wind chimes clattering faintly--a kitschy touch Amelia scoffs at under her breath.

Inside, the living room sprawls wide, its mismatched wicker furniture sinking into a faded blue rug, the TV perched on a driftwood stand facing a lumpy couch. A cramped kitchen hugs one corner--linoleum peeling, a broom closet tucked beside the fridge--its screen door banging open to the porch, letting sand track in with every step.

The dining room sits adjacent, a scarred table under a flickering bulb, close enough to the stairs that giggles or creaks from above filter down like whispers.

The staircase--steep, narrow, its banister wobbly--goes up from the living room to the second floor, where the bedrooms branch off a tight hallway.

Bea claims the biggest one fast--"Dibs!" she yells--mattress shoved against a window overlooking the dunes, the balcony door cracked open to let in the sea breeze. Bob and Amelia take the next room, a double bed sagging under seashell quilts, Finley's portable crib squeezed beside it. Lydia slinks downstairs to the smallest room on the living room level--a dank box with a twin bed--grumbling "This sucks" as she hits her vape.

Bob hauls Finley's diaper bag, kicking the gravel drive as the crew stretches cramped limbs. "This place better have decent AC," he grumbles, his flip-flops scuffing the stones, perspiration glistening to his brow. Amelia drops her purse on the porch swing, adjusting her sunglasses, scanning the dunes--her sarong hugs her luscious hips, swaying as she moves.

The house groans under their arrival, a salty breeze wafting through every crack, the dunes so near you can taste the ocean on your tongue. It's a tight, tangled nest--living room bleeding into kitchen, stairs linking levels, carport grounding it all, beach just a heartbeat away.

--

The day unfolds in a haze of heat and chaos. Bob cracks a Bud Light, plopping onto a wicker chair on the porch, the can sweating as fast as he does. Amelia slips into a loose tank and shorts--her curves straining the fabric, nipples faintly visible--she tugs at the hem, hating how it hugs her belly, but Connor's gaze from the night before still lingers in her mind, a comfort.

Connor's shirtless, helping Bea inflate a floatie, his abs flexing, moisture trickling down his spine. Bea's in a bikini top and cutoffs, laughing as the floatie pops--causing Connor to wrestle her onto the sandy floorboards, tickling her 'til she squeals.

Lydia emerges from her room, joining the others outside, rolling her eyes at her sister rolling around with her boyfriend, then retreats, slamming her door. Finley babbles through "Baby Shark," still playing on the iPad, grating everyone's nerves.

By late afternoon, the sun blazes brutal, baking the house. Bob naps on the porch, beer can tipped in his lap. Amelia heads inside to grab a broom from the kitchen closet to clean up the sand that's been tracked everywhere. She bends low, her shorts riding down as she rummages, the fabric slipping to expose the top of her pink panties--and the soft, tan curve of her hefty cheeks peeking out, a tantalizing sliver of flesh framed by the frayed hem. The air's thick and sticky, her skin glistens with a faint sheen of sweat, the dimple above her tailbone catching a stray beam of sunlight through the screen door.

Connor steps in from the porch, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and stops dead. His eyes lock on her--bent over, oblivious, the plump swell of her cheeks straining against the shorts, that crack a shadowed tease between them.

His breath hitches, a low heat coiling in his gut, dick twitching hard in his trunks. The sight's raw, unposed--her body soft and ripe, the panties thin fabric being consumed by the valley he's traced with his tongue before. He imagines yanking those shorts down right there, pressing himself against her--feeling her yield under his hands--Bea's laughter outside flickers in his mind, but it's drowned by the thud of his pulse. Amelia straightens up, broom in hand, catching his stare--her hazel eyes flicker with a knowing glint, lips curling faintly as she brushes past him, her hip grazing his crotch just enough to make him stifle a groan.

She mixes lemonade after sweeping, her hips swaying, curly hair sticking to her neck, perspiration trickling between her breasts. She catches his eye through the screen door as he chases Bea with the hose, water sliding slow down his chest, their gazes locking--brief, electric--her tongue darting over her lips before Bea's shriek snaps him back. "You asshole!" Bea laughs, drenched, tackling him into the sand. Amelia smirks, pouring herself a glass.

Hunger hits as dusk creeps in, the sky bruising purple. Bob rouses, scratching his gut, "Anyone else starving or just the old fat guy?"

Bea perks up, "Yes please, I'm fucking starving."

Connor volunteers, "I'll drive--if you don't mind me taking the keys to the SUV, Bob?"

Bea grins, "I'm coming with," grabbing her flip-flops.

Bob hands Connor the keys along with a crumpled twenty, "Don't cheap out," and flops back onto the couch next to his wife. Amelia watches them go--Connor's hand on Bea's back, her giggles fading--jealousy flaring from the pit of her stomach up towards her chest, which she instinctively clutches. Fighting through the jealousy, she clings to he fucked me last night.

--

Once Connor and Bea return with greasy bags from Whataburger, everyone eats at the dining room table--Bob tearing into his burger, sauce dripping, staining his Tommy Bahama shirt; Bea feeds Connor fries, their fingers brushing; Lydia picks at hers, still texting; Finley ignores the cut-up pieces of cheeseburger to smear ketchup on her face. Amelia sips on a large Diet Coke from the white and orange styrofoam cup.

After dinner that night, the crew gathers in the living room around the glow of the TV, the waves crashing faintly outside. Bob sprawls on the recliner, a fresh Bud Light in hand, eyes half-lidded as he grunts at the screen--a shitty romantic comedy Bea picked out. Lydia slumps on the floor, back against the couch, Juul glowing faintly as she scrolls TikTok, earbuds dangling from one ear. Finley's finally out, tucked into her crib upstairs, "Baby Shark" mercifully silent. Bea curls into Connor on the sagging couch, her legs draped over his lap, head nestled against his chest, giggling at the cheesy dialogue.

Amelia sits on the other end of the couch, a throw blanket tossed over her lap, still in her loose tank and shorts, the fabric clings to her curves.

The room's dim, the TV's hum drowning out the waves, and the air buzzes with a lazy, distracted energy--everyone's half-there, lost in their own worlds.

Amelia shifts, subtle at first, letting the blanket slip down her thighs, revealing the smooth expanse of her tan legs. Her hazel eyes move towards Connor, catching his profile in the blue light--his jaw tight, his hand resting on Bea's hip. She smirks, a private thrill sparking low in her belly, and stretches slowly, arching her back so her tank rides up, exposing the soft dip of her stomach, the faintest hint of her navel.

She "accidentally" spills her Diet Coke, dripping several cold drops onto her chest, wiping it slow, fingers lingering as it trickles between her breasts.

Connor feels her move, a ripple in his peripheral vision, and his gaze darts over--instinct, not choice. She's leaning forward now, reaching for her cup on the coffee table, her tank dipping low, the swell of her breasts spilling against the neckline, nipples faintly pressing through the thin fabric. Her shorts hike up as she shifts, the hem riding high to show the curve of her ass cheek peeking out, the edge of her pink panties just visible--a deliberate tease, a silent dare. His breath catches, a jolt of heat shooting straight to his groin, dick stirring under Bea's legs. He shifts, trying to adjust without her noticing, but Amelia's eyes lock on his--knowing and hungry--she runs her tongue deliberately over her bottom lip, dragging it out, letting another drop of condensation drip onto her chest, glistening in the TV's glow.

"Hot in here," she murmurs, voice smoky, barely audible over the movie, fanning herself with one hand while the other trails lazily up her thigh, fingers brushing the edge of her shorts. It's for him--every move calculated, a seduction wrapped in casual pretense.

Bob snorts, oblivious, muttering, "AC's shit," eyes glued to the TV.

Bea giggles at the movie, nuzzling closer to Connor, her hand sliding up his chest, oblivious to the tension coiling inches away. Lydia doesn't look up, lost in her phone, a cloud of mango vapor curling around her.

Connor's jaw clenches, his fingers twitching on Bea's hip, fighting the urge to stare. Amelia leans back, stretching her legs out so her bare foot grazes his calf under the blanket--a light, teasing brush, her chipped coral polish catching the light. She holds his gaze a beat too long, then smirks, popping a leftover french fry into her mouth, sucking the salt off her fingers slow, her lips glistening.

His dick hardens fully now, straining against his trunks, and he shifts again, coughing to cover the groan threatening to slip out. Bea glances at him, "You okay, babe?"--innocent concern--and he nods, gruff, "Yeah, just... cramped," forcing a grin as Amelia's foot presses harder, a fleeting, deliberate stroke before she pulls back, wrapping the blanket around herself again like nothing happened.

The movie drones on, but Connor's barely watching. His pulse hammering, caught between Bea's warmth and Amelia's heat--a tightrope he's walked too long. Amelia settles back, satisfied, her smirk hidden in the dark, the taste of salt and power lingering on her tongue.

Around midnight, reeking of the six Bud Lights he downed throughout the night, Bob is knocked out cold in a deep snoozing slumber. Amelia lies restlessly. The giggles from Connor and Bea's room drift down the hall--she suffers through them, Bea's youth a taunt in every laugh.

She eventually finds a moment to pull out her phone and send a quick text: "Beach @ 1:30?"

--

The Gulf Shores night pulses alive with a sultry beat--waves crash in a relentless rhythm, the air carrying salt and the faint tang of seaweed, the moon a fat silver disc spilling light across the dunes. The beach house sits swallowed by shadows, Bob's snores rumbling faintly through an open window, the crash of waves a low hum. Bea's giggles fade into soft breaths next door.

Amelia, still lying awake, feels her skin prickle with restless heat, the cotton sheets sticking to her thighs. Her text burning in her mind, a reckless dare, her heart pounding as she waits for his reply. When her phone buzzes with a single: can't wait, she slips from the bed.

Connor waits beyond the dunes, shirtless and barefoot, his blond hair tousled by the breeze, a Marlboro dangling from his lips. The glow of the ember flares as he exhales, smoke curling into the humid dark, his blue eyes glinting with a hunger that weakens her knees. He doesn't say a word--just flicks the cigarette into the sand and closes the distance, his hands finding her hips like they belong there. His teeth grazing her earlobe hard enough to draw a gasp. She melts into him, her nails dig into his shoulders, the sand cool and gritty beneath her feet as he pins her against a dune.

Connor pinning her against the coarse grass, her ass steals the scene--a plump, heart-shaped marvel that quivers under his grip. Each cheek is a thick, cushioned mound, the skin taut yet yielding, dappled with the faintest dimples of cellulite that catch the moonlight. It's broad and inviting, spilling over the edges of her thong as he yanks the sarong higher, the fabric disappearing into the deep crevice between those jiggling halves.

When he spins her around and presses her hands into the dune, her ass arches back, a ripe, trembling offering--soft yet firm, the kind that bounces with each thrust, the flesh rippling like waves as he claims her, a primal canvas of desire she both hates and wields.

The sand scratches her knees as he spins her. Their mouths forcing themselves against each others. Her sarong bunched up as his calloused hands roam, sliding under the fabric to cup the magnificent ass, squeezing hard, pulling her flush against him. She feels him through his shorts--thick, insistent, straining--and a moan slips from her lips, swallowed by his mouth.

"Fuck me," she whispers, breathless, her voice trembling with need. "Please." He doesn't hesitate--yanks the sarong off, revealing the dampness made so obvious through the white thong--goose eggs rippling her plump bottom, the humid night clinging to her skin like a second lover--Bea's sleeping face flickers in his mind before he shoves it away.

He spins her back around, pressing her hands into the dune, her fingers sinking into the sand as he rips the thong clean off. The air kissing her bare skin, a fleeting coolness before his heat overwhelms her. He takes her from behind--thrusting, hard and deep, a grunt escaping him as she cries out, her voice lost to the tide's roar. The rhythm pulses primal, sand dusting her knees, her breasts swaying free, nipples fully erect. His hands grip her hips, moving her back and forth on the protrusion between his legs, each thrust a claim, a rebellion against the life waiting inside that house.

"God, you're so fucking tight," he rasps, his breath hot against her neck, stubble scraping her skin as he bites down--"Careful! Don't leave any marks," she spits out.

She arches, pushing into him, her body a live wire sparking with every move. The danger fuels it--the thought of Bea upstairs, Bob snoring, the thin thread of secrecy snapping taut. "Harder," she begs, her voice a throaty plea, and he obliges, one hand sliding up to fist her chestnut curls, tugging just enough to make her gasp, the other slipping around to tease her clit, slick and swollen. The dune shifts beneath them, sand cascading as her knees buckle, pleasure coiling tight in her core.

He pulls out abruptly, spinning her once more before dropping to his knees, his mouth replacing his fingers--hot, wet, relentless. His tongue flicks and swirls, tasting her, devouring every available space inside her wet pussy. She clutches his hair, legs trembling, the ocean's roar drowning her moans as she rocks against his face, glitter lotion smearing on his cheeks. "Connor--fuck, yes," she pants, her head tipping back, stars blurring above her as the coil snaps, a wave of heat crashing through her, leaving her shuddering, thighs slick.

He rises, kissing her fiercely, letting her taste herself on his lips--she claws at his shorts, freeing him fully. Her turn to sink down to her knees, sand gritty against her skin. He's long and weighty, the shaft a sculpted column of muscle wrapped in tight skin, veins bulging like rivers under the surface. The head juts out, broad and blunt, a glistening tip that dances under her teasing tongue. A stark contrast to Bob's--thicker, harder, a young man's cock brimming with power, the kind that fills her completely when he sinks into her, its relentless girth stretching her in ways Bob never could, a potent force that drives their forbidden rhythm.

Slow at first, teasing with her tongue, dancing around his pink head--each time jolting at her tongue's light touch. Handling him in her hands, she kisses his cock gently. Lovingly. As though her lips have never touched something finer. She kisses from the tip all the way to his ballsack. Her tongue laps them up, sucking on them gently. Each ball at the edge of her lofty pressed lips. Then, deeper. Her throat relaxes as his hands tangle in her hair, guiding her.

Finally, she takes him in her mouth--a formidable, throbbing rod, its size forcing her jaw wide as she can make it. Sucking--her throat straining to take its length. "Fuck, Mel," he groans, hips jerking, his voice rough with awe and lust. She hums around him, the vibration drawing a curse from his lips, her hazel eyes locked on his, daring him to unravel. He does--hot and sudden, shooting into her mouth.

She swallows, a triumphant smirk curling her lips as she pulls back, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. They aren't done. Not yet. He yanks her up, their bodies crashing together again, stumbling further into the shadows of the dunes. Sand sticks to their sweat as he enters her slow, tender. Foreheads pressed against each other.

"You're everything," he murmurs, a confession slipping out in the heat, and she clings to it, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper. Their eyes lock, the forbidden. Despite the heavy load he just releases, he erects himself and enters her slowly this time. Carefully. They have all the time in the world. She comes again, softer this time, a quiet cry against his lips, "I want you to inside of me," she whispers. And he does, shuddering into her. Their bodies entwined as the tide laps closer.

Sand sticks to their sweaty skin, gritty and cool beneath them, a rough bed for their exhausted bodies. Amelia lies on her back, chest heaving, her sarong crumpled beside her, one arm flung out, the other curled against Connor's side. Her chestnut hair fans wild across the sand, tangled with grains and salt, her hazel eyes half-lidded as she stares at the stars--blurry pinpricks through the haze of her post-orgasm glow. Her thighs ache, slick with him, her breath still ragged, lips parted like she's still tasting him.

Connor's sprawled next to her, propped on one elbow, bare ass sinking into the dune. His chest rises slow, moisture trickling down his spine, his shorts kicked off somewhere in the shadows. He fumbles in the sand, fishing out his crumpled pack of Marlboros, the cellophane glinting faintly as he shakes one loose.

The lighter flares, a brief orange bloom in the dark, and he takes a long drag, the ember glowing red as smoke curls from his lips, drifting into the night like a ghost. He passes it to her, their fingers brushing--electric, deliberate--and she takes it, her nails scraping his knuckles as she brings it to her mouth.

She inhales deep, the burn sharp in her lungs, and exhales slow, smoke trailing up to mingle with the stars. "Fuck," she murmurs, voice throaty, roughened by moans and tequila, "that was..." Her head lolls toward him, a lazy smirk tugging her lips, cherry lipstick smeared from his kisses.

She twists, sand shifting beneath her ass--dimpled in the moonlight--and props herself up, elbow digging into the dune, her tits swaying free in the wind, the chilled air keeping nipples hard.

He chuckles, taking the cigarette back, his blue eyes glinting as they trace her body--unapologetic, hungry, even now. "You're a fucking wildfire, Mel," he says, voice thick while dragging on the smoke before blowing it out through his nose. He reaches over, tracing a finger along her thigh, circling a faint stretch mark she hates, his touch tender in a way that twists her gut. "Always are. Every fuckin' time."

She laughs--a throaty, reckless sound that bounces off the dunes--and snatches the cigarette again, rolling onto her side to face him fully. The sand clings to her hip, her curves catching the moonlight, a ripe silhouette against the dark. "Better be," she teases, but her eyes flicker, searching his face--his stubble, his sharp jaw, the way he looks at her like she's more than Bob's leftovers.

She takes a drag, holds it, then lets it spill out slow, her breath mingling with his. "You ever think... what if we'd met different? Like, no Bea, no Bob--just us, some dive bar, me at 25, you at... what, 19? Fucking like rabbits without all this hanging over us?"

Connor's hand still on her thigh, his grin fading, something raw flickering in his eyes--guilt, maybe, or a longing he won't name. He takes the cigarette back, staring at the ember like it's got answers. "Yeah," he admits, voice quieter now, rough edges smoothed by the confession. "Sometimes. You at 25--shit, I'd have been done for. No chance I'd let you go." He drags deep, smoke curling thick, and exhales hard, his gaze drifting to the waves. "But we didn't. And this..." He gestures vaguely between them, sand dusting his fingers. "This is what we've got. Messy. But ours."

Amelia's chest tightens, a new bruise forming around her heart. She snags the cigarette, her fingers trembling just enough to betray her, and takes a shaky drag. "Messy," she echoes, bitter-edged, staring at the horizon where the Gulf swallows the night. "Romantic, you said earlier. Forbidden and tragic. Like some shitty romance novel." She laughs again, but it's hollow, her free hand tracing circles in the sand, a restless tic. "I wish I'd met you first... Before Bob, before stretch marks and saggy tits and a life I can't stand half the time." Her voice cracks, soft and fragile, and she hates it--hates how much she means it.

He gets closer and cups her face, thumb brushing her cheek where a tear threatens to spill. "Hey," he rasps, firm but gentle, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You're beautiful--every inch of you. Bob's an idiot for not seeing it. And me..." He hesitates, swallowing hard, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers. "I see you, Mel. All of you. That's why I'm here, why I keep coming back." He kisses her temple, slow and lingering, she leans into it, clinging to the lie that he's hers alone.

She pulls back, sniffling, and steals the cigarette again, smirking through the sting in her eyes. "Sweet talker," she mutters, taking a drag, the smoke a shield between them. "You say that now, but you're still crawling into bed with my daughter every night." It's a jab, sharp and deliberate, testing him, and she watches his jaw clench, his hand dropping to the sand.

"Don't," he warns, voice low, a growl under the surface. "Don't do that. You know it's different." He grabs the cigarette back, finishing it with a hard pull, the ember flaring bright before he flicks it into the dune, a tiny spark snuffed out. "Bea's... she's Bea. She's light and easy and--fuck, I don't know--safe. You're..." He trails off, raking a hand through his hair, sand falling like rain. "You're a goddamn storm I can't stay away from. Dangerous. Real." His voice low.

Her lips twitch, a half-smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and she rolls onto her back again, staring up at the sky. "Dangerous," she murmurs, tasting the word, letting it settle. "Guess that's me. The fucked-up mom screwing her kid's boyfriend on a family vacation while her husband snores." She laughs, bitter and loud, the sound swallowed by the tide. "Bonnie and Clyde with no guns--just fucking and falling," she muses, half-laughing, half-aching, "I wish I'd met you first," her vulnerability, raw and exposed. "You're right--it's romantic as hell."

He doesn't laugh--just watches her, his hand finding hers in the sand, squeezing tight. "It's us," he says simply, voice steady now, no trace of doubt. "For now, it's what we've got. And I'm not sorry." He pulls her closer, her head resting on his chest, his heartbeat thudding against her ear--a reckless, alive rhythm she clings to.

She nods, lips brushing his skin, tasting salt and smoke. "Me neither," she whispers, her voice small against the roar of the waves. They lie there, tangled and quiet, the cigarette's ghost fading into the night. The moon climbs higher, bathing them in silver, and for a moment, it's just them--sand in her hair, his arm heavy over her waist, a fleeting dream they'll lose when dawn breaks. "I could stay here forever," she murmurs, tracing his jaw, her fingers soft against his stubble. He kisses her forehead, a silent agreement, and they drift, the crash of waves lulling them into a fragile, reckless peace.

Chapter 3

Dawn breaks over the beach with a vengeance--pink and gold streak the sky, the air already brimming with heat, the tide retreating to reveal their tangled mess. Amelia jolts awake first, sand in her hair, her sarong lying next to her--her body completely out in the open. Connor sprawls beside her, one arm flung out, bare ass slowly burning in the sun. His chest rises slow and steady, blond hair matted with salt and grit. The sun climbs fast, too bright, too exposing, and panic claws up her throat. "Oh shit!" she hisses, shaking him hard. "Connor, wake up--we gotta go, Bob's gonna freak!"

His eyes snap open, bleary and confused, then widen as reality hits. "Fuck--fuck, what time is it?" He scrambles up, sand cascading off him, yanking his shorts up as she struggles to her feet, her legs wobbly from the night's exertion, furiously wrapping the sarong around her body, desperately looking for her panties.

The beach stretches empty around them, but the house looms too close, its windows glinting like judgmental eyes. Her sarong flaps loose, barely covering her, her ripe swell, bouncing free as she tugs it tight, cursing under her breath. "Move, move!" she snaps, sprinting toward the house, sand flying, her heart hammering with dread and adrenaline.

Connor stumbles after her, barefoot and disheveled, his dick still rigid with heat--the memory of her mouth flashing through his groggy mind. They hit the gravel driveway, stones biting their soles, and she shoves the back door open, praying that everyone is sleeping in. The kitchen sits dim, quiet--coffee maker untouched, Finley's high chair empty--but the clock on the microwave blinks 6:03. Amelia's breath hitches as she darts for the stairs, Connor on her heels, sand trailing behind them like evidence.

They freeze at the sound of footsteps--Bea, padding down from the second floor, yawning, her hair a messy bun, an oversized T-shirt swallowing her frame. She stops midway, blinking at them--her mom, wild-eyed and sandy, and her boyfriend, shirtless and flushed, both reeking of the beach and something suspiciously primal. "You two are up early?" she mumbles, rubbing her eyes, confusion creasing her brow. "Con, I didn't even feel you get out of bed."

Amelia, utilizing every inch of the sarong to not expose the fact that she's completely bare underneath its cover, forces a laugh, shrill and brittle. "Oh, you know how I am, honey--never sleep in for long. Bob's snoring's a damn alarm clock. Just... bumped into Connor taking a walk." Her voice wavers, her sarong slipping, revealing a flash of thigh she yanks back into place. Connor nods, too quick, scratching his neck. "Yeah, sorry, baby--don't wanna wake you. But I couldn't sleep... Heard your mom downstairs and thought... I don't know, maybe she'd like company." His smirk strains, eyes darting to Amelia, a silent plea to keep it together.

Bea frowns, sniffing faintly--ocean salt on him?--but he leans down, kissing her quick, and she lets it go. "Okay... weirdos," she mutters, shuffling toward the kitchen, grabbing a bowl for cereal--missing the glance they trade--Amelia's relief, Connor's guilt--or the way Amelia's hand brushes his as they part, a fleeting touch. A forbidden lovers goodbye.

He bolts upstairs to shower off the sand and shame, while she lingers, heart pounding, watching Bea pour milk, knowing the storm she just dodged.

Amelia slips into the bathroom in her room, locking the door, her reflection a wreck--hair a tangled nest, glitter lotion smeared, a faint bite mark blooming on her neck. She splashes water on her face, scrubbing at the sand, the memory of his hands, his tongue, his whispered "you're everything" replaying in a loop.

"Get it together," she mutters to herself, yanking the sarong off, stuffing it into the hamper. But the ache between her legs, the thrill of their reckless night, clings to her like the salt on her skin--a secret she carries into the day, even as the house wakes around her.

--

The midday sun beats through the Target parking lot, baking the asphalt until it shimmers with heat mirages. The Jones crew piles out of the SUV--Bob hauling Finley in her car seat, her chubby fists smeared with melted Goldfish crackers; Lydia slouched, thumbs flying over her phone vaping a cloud of mango mist, flip-flops slapping the pavement, and Amelia in a casual t-shirt and nike shorts combo, sunglasses perched on her head.

They aim to grab essentials--sunscreen, paper towels, a cheap boogie board. The interior of the store sprawls as a fluorescent-lit maze of red carts and pop music droning overhead. Bob heads for the grocery aisle, Finley babbling on his hip. Lydia peels off toward electronics, whining, "I need a new charger--mine's busted."

Amelia trails behind, half-listening to Bob's grumbling--"We're not made of money"--but her eyes snag on a rack of lingerie near the women's section, a riot of lace and string swaying on flimsy hangers and sitting in shelves.

She drifts over, fingers brushing the fabrics--scratchy polyester, push-up, boring choice after boring choice. Fuck that, she thinks. She isn't here for practical. She wants something to make him choke on his own spit, something that says this is for you, not the old man. She imagines him ripping it off. His tongue tracing her skin, her power over him restored.

"Mom, you coming?" Lydia calls, voice cutting through the Muzak, her cart rattling with random shit--sunscreen, a boogie board, a beach ball, and a six-pack of White Claw that she told her sister she'd make sure to grab.

Amelia waves her off, distracted, "Yeah, yeah, just grabbing something," her tone clipped, eyes locked on a black matching leopard bra and thong set like a tease in front of her. It's skimpy--strings thin as dental floss, triangles barely big enough to cover her nipples, the bottom a cheeky cut that would ride high over her hips. She snatches it, size medium, and holds it up, picturing Connor's fingers tugging the ties loose, his breath hitching. Her lips curl, a private smirk.

She ducks into the fitting room, the door clicking shut behind her. Bob's voice drifting faintly from outside of the changing room--"Finley, stop that." The stall cramps tight, mirror streaked with fingerprints, fluorescent light harsh on her skin. She takes off her top and shimmies out of her jeans, letting them land on the tile, finally peels off her wet panties--plain navy, Bob-approved, boring as hell.

Her reflection stares back: 45, tan lines faint from last summer, a soft curve to her belly she hates. She steps into the leopard bottoms, yanking it up--fabric biting into her hips, the thin back piece disappearing into her tan curvy ass, sliver of bush peeking out the top. Trim that later, she notes, adjusting it.

The top's trickier--strings tangle as she ties them, tits spilling slightly over the edges, nipples poking through like they're begging for attention--nipples hardening into tight buds as she adjusts the fit.

The tan lines from her pink bikini trace their curves, a faded boundary between sun-kissed bronze and the paler, softer skin beneath, marked with faint stretch marks that spiderweb from years of pregnancies. They jiggle as she turns, a ripe abundance she pinches and critiques, yet they're magnetic, a raw, mature allure that Connor can't resist.

She turns, ass half-out, cellulite dimpling in the glare, it's sexy--raw, unpolished. The leopard print thong frames her ass in the mirror--a wide, voluptuous expanse that swallows the thin string between its cheeks. It's not as tight or perky as Bea's, but rich and substantial, a woman's ass that begs to be grabbed.

Her phone buzzes in her purse--Bob: Where you at? Finley's fussing.

She ignores it, snapping a mirror pic--angled low, bikini bottom stretched tight, a hint of thigh gap. She sends it to Connor, no caption, just the image.

Her breath shallow as she waits. Seconds later: "Fuck me, buy it!!"

Her core clenches, heat pooling low, she bites her lip. The decision has been made. She removes the lingerie, the mass of her ass swaying as she yanks her jeans back on.

"Amelia!" Bob's voice booms from outside, impatient, closer now. She jolts, yanking the tags off with her teeth and shoves the lingerie into her purse.

She emerges, flushed, as Bob rounds the corner, Finley gnawing a pacifier. "What the hell you doing? We need toilet paper, not--" He stops, squinting at her empty hands. "You get anything?"

"Just browsing," she lies, voice honey-smooth, brushing past him. "Let's go."

At the checkout, Bob gripes about the total--$47.82--while Amelia's miles away, replaying Connor's text in her head, thinking about the way his hands will feel when he sees her in it. She swipes her card, the leopard print a secret weapon tucked away into her purse.

--

On the beach, Connor slathers Bea with coconut sunscreen. His hands glide over her shoulders, then slip under the thin straps of her bikini top, fingers brushing the soft swell of her breasts. She squirms, the sand shifting beneath her towel, her skin slick and warm under his touch. "Easy! There are other people here," she hisses, half-laughing, her voice a playful scold as she swats at his wrist. Her dark hair sticks to her neck in glistening strands, and her eyes glint with mock indignation, though a flush creeps up her cheeks. A few yards away, a family with a squealing toddler splashes in the shallows, and an old guy in a faded visor casts a lazy fishing line--oblivious, but close enough to make her point. Bob's passed out on the porch, beer can tipped in his lap, oblivious to it all.

Connor grins, unrepentant, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he squeezes another dollop of sunscreen onto his palm. "What? Just making sure you don't burn, babe," he teases, voice low and rumbling, the kind of tone that usually melts her defenses. He rubs the lotion into her lower back now, fingers dipping just under the waistband of her bikini bottom, tracing the curve where her ass meets her thighs. She giggles, shoving him lightly, but he catches her wrist, pulling her closer for a quick kiss.

Amelia struts by, headed toward the water, her pink bikini a bold slash of color against the muted tans and blues of the beach. The bottoms--skimpy, barely-there--the top straining to contain her breasts, heavy and spilling over the edges. Her chestnut hair, frizzy from the sweltering air, bouncing with each step, catching the sunlight in a wild halo. She doesn't look at them--doesn't need to--her presence a calculated interruption, a magnet pulling eyes.

Connor's dick jumps, a visceral twitch in his trunks, and his hands freeze mid-motion on Bea's back. His gaze locks on Amelia--her hips rolling, the way the bikini clings-- his breath catches. Bea notices, her spine stiffening under his stalled touch, and whips her head around to follow his stare. "Quit eye-fucking my mom, perv!" she snaps, her voice cutting sharp through the humid air, loud enough that the fisherman glances over, frowning.

She smacks his chest, but there's a laugh in her tone, a playful edge masking the flicker of unease in her gut. She trusts him--mostly--but the way his eyes linger stings, a pinprick she brushes off, filing it away.

He laughs, a sound that rumbles from his chest, shaking off the tension like sand from a towel. "She's hot," he says, voice thick with appreciation, no shame in it, his smirk daring Bea to argue. He leans back on his elbows, letting the sun hit his face, hair tousled by the breeze, and takes a swig of the beer next to him, the aluminum glinting as he tips it.

Bea rolls her eyes, snatching the sunscreen from him to finish the job herself, muttering, "Gross," under her breath. But she steals a glance at her mom too--Amelia's silhouette cutting through the waves now, water lapping at her thighs--and feels a pang of something she can't name. Pride? Envy? It's gone before she can pin it down, drowned by the crash of the surf.

Amelia bends to pick up Finley's bucket, ass high, the bikini bottom riding up, sand clinging to her tan thighs--she catches his stare, winking, then saunters off, leaving him hard under his trunks, jaw clenched. "Need a hand?" he calls after her at lunch, voice tight, as she wrestles a sandwich from the cooler, her shoulder bumping his chest deliberate, a soft "Oops" slipping out as she presses closer, then pulls away. "I've got it," she purrs, smirking, knowing he's unraveling. He resists--Bea's laugh nearby a tether--but each brush, each glance, frays it.

--

That night at family dinner, the beach house dining room buzzes with clinking forks and strained chatter. Amelia wears a halter top, navy blue and snug, the fabric stretching tight across her chest. The Pinot Grigio sloshes into her glass, a little too full. She takes a deep gulp, the cool liquid cutting through the sticky heat, still felt even indoors.

She sits across from Connor, her foot brushing his under the table--accidental at first, then deliberate. Her freshly pedicured foot with chipped coral polish teases his calf, sliding up and down in lazy strokes, hidden by the tablecloth. She keeps her face neutral, chatting about the steak being overcooked, but her hazel eyes flick to him, smoldering with intent.

Connor shifts in his seat, his fork pausing mid-air, a piece of steak dangling as he fights the heat pooling in his groin. He smirks, barely, a twitch of his lips that only she catches, and adjusts his napkin over his lap. Bea sits beside him, oblivious, giggling about some TikTok she saw, her hand resting on his arm.

Bob grumbles about the AC being too weak, wiping wetness from his brow with a napkin. Lydia, at the end of the table, picks at her plate, her phone balanced on her knee under the table, thumbs tapping furiously. She glances up, catching Amelia's foot mid-motion--a subtle flex of her ankle against Connor's leg--and freezes. Her eyes narrow, a storm brewing behind them, but she says nothing, just puffs on her Juul when Bob's not looking, the mango vapor curling up toward the ceiling fan.

After dinner, Connor, Bea, and Lydia walk the beach, the sand cool and damp under their feet as dusk settles in, painting the sky purple. They hunt for ghost crabs, little white blurs skittering across the shore, their flashlight beams slicing through the dark. Lydia trails behind, taking hits of her Juul now that she's free from parental prying eyes, the sweet cloud drifting into the salty air. She mutters about the crabs being too fast, her mood sour.

Connor and Bea duck into the dunes, the tall grass swallowing them as they stumble away from Lydia's sullen orbit. He pulls her close, she giggles into his mouth as he kisses her slow, his tongue tracing the sticky sheen of her strawberry lip gloss, tasting the day's salt and sunscreen beneath it. The dunes shield them, the rustle of grass and the distant waves muffling their breaths. His phone buzzes in his pocket--Amelia's video--and his free hand fidgets toward it, thumb brushing the edge before he pulls back, swallowing hard.

Back at the house, Amelia excuses herself to the bathroom while Bob cleans up the dishes, the clatter of plates and running water filling the kitchen. She locks the door behind her, the click loud in the small space, and leans against the sink, her breath uneven from the wine. The mirror reflects her--flushed cheeks--a woman teetering on the edge of control.

She hikes up her skirt, the fabric bunching around her hips, revealing the striped panties she wears, now damp with anticipation. Her fingers slip beneath the elastic band, two fingers moving inside of her. She begins pumping fast, her moans low and raspy as she braces one hand on the counter. She grabs her phone, angling it awkwardly--the glitter polish on her nails flashing in the dim light, filming her blur of a reflection, showcasing her desperation and lust. She finishes with a small gasp, moaning out his name-- a quiet "Connor"--before hitting send.

The notification lights up Connor's phone as he walks beside Bea, her hand tucked into his elbow, but he ignores it. Fuck, she's relentless, he thinks, half-amused, half-trapped. They're back on the beach path now, Lydia lagging a few steps behind, her Juul glowing faintly in the dark. "Who's texting you?" Bea asks, her voice light, oblivious, her flip-flops slapping the packed sand.

"Just Dustin. I'll talk to him later," he lies, smooth as oil, pocketing the phone deeper. She nods, trusting, and leans her head on his shoulder, humming a tune from dinner. He forces a grin, his mind split between the girl beside him and the woman waiting back at the house, her video burning a hole in his pocket.

Once they arrive back at the house, they see Amelia standing by the carport, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, the ember flaring as she exhales a thin stream of smoke into the humid night. Her halter top clings to her curves, sweat and wine staining the fabric, and her eyes glint with something dangerous as she spots them. She offers them a cigarette from the pack in her hand, her voice casual but laced with intent. "Want one?" Bea shakes her head, yawning. "I'm gonna take a shower," she says, brushing past them toward the house, her footsteps echoing on the porch steps.

Connor obliges, taking the cigarette with a nod. "I'll be up in a minute, baby," he calls after Bea, his tone easy, as she disappears inside, the door opening and closing with a soft thud.

A beat passes, waiting until they know for sure Bea's out of earshot. The air thick with silence when Amelia moves--fast, deliberate--shoving him against the wall beneath the carport's cover, where the shadows hide them from the house's prying windows.

She kisses him slow, deliberate, her lips tasting of tequila and ash, bitter and intoxicating. Her tits press tight against his chest, the heat of her body seeping through his shirt, and her hands slide up his neck, nails grazing his skin. "Hope you liked my video," she whispers, her breath hot against his ear, a wink flickering in the dark before she pulls back, leaving him hard and reeling, the leftover smoke curling around them like a ghost in the humid dark.

A few feet away, Lydia--abandoned by her older sister and boyfriend on her way back to the house--freezes dead at what she's just seen. Lingered behind, her Juul her only company, the beach path spitting her out just in time to catch the tail end of their collision--her mothers body pressed to Connor's, the kiss, the whisper. Her eyes widen, pupils blown in the dim light, and her heart slams against her ribs, a sick thudding she can't shake.

The Juul slips from her fingers, hitting the gravel with a faint clink, and she stumbles back, breath hitching, her mind racing. No fucking way, she thinks, her stomach lurching as she retreats into the shadows, the night swallowing her shock whole.

Chapter 4

Morning dawns a hangover haze over the beach house. Sunlight slices through the cracked blinds, stabbing at Amelia's eyes as she lies sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted around her legs like a trap. Her head throbs--a dull, pulsing ache from too much Pinot Grigio. She groans, rolling onto her side, the mattress creaking beneath her weight, and presses a clammy palm to her forehead. Bob stirs beside her, his snores cutting off mid-rumble as he shifts, his arm flopping over her hip--a heavy, unwanted anchor. She flinches, shoving it off, her skin prickling with irritation and something darker, a restless hunger that sleep can't kill.

Today's the day, she decides, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, the faint outline of a water stain shaped like a mocking grin. She needs Connor again--his hands, his mouth, the way he makes her feel like she's not just Bob's wife, not just a mom with stretch marks and a sagging life.

The beach calls to the others, a siren song of sand and waves, but she sees her chance: a quiet house, a stolen hour, a plan to pull him back into her orbit. She fakes it, perfecting the lie in her head as she drags herself upright, her hair a sweaty tangle sticking to her neck. Her mouth tastes like ash and wine, and she swipes a hand across her lips, smearing last night's cherry lipstick into a faint stain.

"Too fucked up for the beach, Bob," she croaks, her voice sandpaper, a smoker's rasp laced with theater as she swings her legs over the bed's edge. She clutches her head for effect, fingers digging into her temples, wincing like the light's a blade. "I'll just rest up so I can feel better for our date tonight." She glances at him, half-expecting pushback, but Bob just grunts, already half-out of bed, his gut spilling over the waistband of his boxers as he scratches at the stubble on his jaw.

"Yeah, alright," he mumbles, voice heavy still with sleep, oblivious to the tremor of intent in her words. He pecks her cheek--quick, dry, a habit more than a gesture--and she forces a weak smile, her skin crawling where his lips touch. She sweetens the bait, leaning into the promise she knows he craves. "Tonight's just us, okay? The kids can watch Finley. We'll have some 'adult fun'--you know, like old times." Her tone dips, suggestive, a practiced purr she pulls out of storage, and she trails a finger down his arm, letting it linger just long enough to sell it. He's so easy, she thinks, watching his eyes brighten, a flicker of hope in his tired face. He doesn't see the trap--doesn't know she's carving out space for something else, someone else.

Bob nods, a goofy grin cracking through his sunburned cheeks. "Can't argue with that," he says, already shuffling toward the dresser for his swim trunks. She waits, heart thudding slow and deliberate, as he herds the crew--Bea in a string bikini that barely holds her together, Connor shirtless, Lydia sulking with her phone glued to her hand, Finley sticky with juice and whining. The chaos spills out the door, flip-flops slapping, voices overlapping.

Amelia lingers by the window, curtains clutched in her fist, watching them pile out--Bob, Bea giggling as Connor tosses her a towel, Lydia slumping in the back. The gravel crunches under their feet as they walk away, leaving the house silent, hers.

She exhales, a shaky breath that tastes like victory, and grabs her phone. Her thumbs hover, pulse quickening as she types: "Get your ass back here." No hesitation, no doubt--just a command, raw and urgent, sent into the ether. She imagines him reading it, his smirk, the way his dick'll twitch in those wet trunks when he sees her name flash.

The house creaks around her, settling into emptiness, and she moves fast--shedding last night's halter top by the door, kicking off her shorts onto the couch, unclasping her bra to let it dangle on the stairs, peeling her panties down and hooking them on the banister. A trail, a tease, breadcrumbs to lead him straight to her. She heads for the bathroom, the shower hissing to life, steam curling out as she steps in, the water scalding her skin--a baptism for what's coming.

--

Connor rides the waves, water dripping down his chest, shimmering rivulets over his tanned skin as he tosses Finley high above the surf. She squeals, her chubby arms flailing. Bea presses against him, grinding slow, her string bikini slipping slightly as the tide tugs at them. "Let's hit up a bar tonight after my parents get back," she says, her voice a playful murmur over the crash of waves. He nods, leaning in to kiss her.

Then he groans, pulling back, "I gotta shit, babe. Back soon."

"Don't wake Mom," she purrs, slapping his ass with a wet smack as he wades toward shore, water sloshing around his thighs.

He walks over to their spot underneath an umbrella struck into the sand. Picks up his phone from off of the blanket, blowing off any excess sand that's covered it. His eyes immediately lighting up at the text message on his screen. He jogs back towards the house, sand kicking up behind him, cutting the distance quick.

He strides in, wet trunks slapping against his legs, the fabric clinging cold and heavy. He follows a trail--Amelia's shirt crumpled by the door, shorts splayed across the couch, bra dangling from the stairs, panties hooked on the banister like a flag. Connor collects each piece as he climbs, fingers brushing the damp fabric, her perfume faint but sharp in his nose. The door to Amelia's room open... leading straight to her bathroom--door slightly ajar, the shower hissing, steam leaking into the hallway, thick and warm.

He pushes the door fully open and sees her: Amelia, naked under the spray. Through the foggy glass shower door. Hot water sluicing over her tan skin and curves--tits glistening, hair plastered to her shoulders in dark, wet ropes.

She turns her head over her shoulder to look at him. Eyes, dangerous--scorching Connor as he steps in--cock half-hard just from the sight of her.

She smirks, soap suds slide down her buxom curves, nipples puckered and sharp, her ass swaying as she turns to face him, the air moist with heat and want.

"Get over here," she says, voice low, sharp cutting through the steam--a command, not a tease--and he obeys. He saunters in, trunks hitting the tile with a wet thud before he slides open the shower door--stepping into the steamy enclosed arena, water cascading over his shoulders. His hands twitching to grab her.

He makes them move gently down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, all the way over the peaks of her ass, carefully swiping his hand through the valley between. Her skin slicks under his touch, his hands making their way up her ribs, maneuvering around to her front. His thumbs roll her nipples, slow and deliberate--

She pushes him away from her. Back against the tiles, her palms firm on his chest, "Stay," she orders, her gaze locking his, daring him to move. "You like watching me?" she purrs.

He can't even choke any words out, all of them caught in his throat--he just nods.

"You like watching me in the shower... Looking at these soapy titties," she says as she reaches towards the shower ledge to her left--a pink disposable razor placed atop.

His breath hitches, eyes falling down towards her pussy--neat but wild, her dark curls glisten wet--as she lathers herself with soap, slow, deliberate, her fingers teasing herself just out of his reach, curling the hairs--lightly tugging on them.

"You're gonna watch me make it nice and tidy... for you." She spreads her legs wider, one foot propped up on the ledge, granting a full on front row viewing to the spread lips, veiled behind a bushy curtain in front of him. "But-- you're going to have to play by my rules. Understood?"

The razor glints as she drags it down in smooth, steady strokes--each pass stripping away the hair, baring skin, her clit peeking out, swollen and pink, a taunt he can't touch.

He groans, his cock jerking fully hard now, straining toward her, but she shakes her head, "Not yet--good boys wait," her voice cutting through the steam, her power surging as she owns the moment, the razor scraping a final line, leaving her smooth, glistening. She feels it then--a rush, a spark, this isn't just sex, it's hers to wield, and fuck, she loves it, her heart pounding with the thrill of bending him.

--

At the beach, Lydia grows antsy--her phone's dead, screen black in her hand. "Bob, I forgot my charger," she whines, kicking at the sand. "Can you get it, please?"

"Yeah, okay. Watch Finley," he grumbles, trudging off, flip-flops flapping against the packed shore, his steps creaking closer to the house, pausing to kick a stray shell as he goes.

Lydia waits until Bob is far enough away before furiously sending a text to Jamie: 'saw mom doing something fucked up last nite. Wtf should I do?'

--

She sets the razor down slow, deliberate, letting it clatter on the ledge, her eyes never leaving his--sharp, predatory, drinking in his tremble. "Look at you," she murmurs, stepping closer, water beading on her lashes, her voice a velvet lash. "Hard and helpless--"

Her fingers play along the top edge of his fully erect, slightly curved penis. Lightly flicking the head--not hard, but seductive and teasing. Leaving her hand hovering, but not quite touching it--he twitches, a desperate jerk toward her touch. "You want it?" she asks, tilting her head, smirking as his jaw clenches, his "Yes" a choked rasp.

"Beg" she demands, stepping back, letting the water cut between them. He hesitates, pride flickering, but her stare--unyielding--breaks him.

"Please, Mel," he mutters, voice cracking, hands flexing against the tiles--his "Please, Mel" chokes out.

Bea's giggle from the beach a ghost he can't shake, guilt splintering his resolve as he bends to her will.

"Please what?" she snaps, grabbing the soap, lathering her hands, sliding them over her tits--slow, taunting--suds dripping down her belly, pooling down towards her freshly shaved pussy, a thrill surging--she's no one's leftovers now, not Bob's, not Bea's, her hands claiming what years of neglect stole.

"Please touch me," he groans, louder, raw, his cock throbbing, pre-cum oozing from the tip, washed away by the spray. She grins, wild, alive--this power's new, intoxicating, and she's drunk on it, her skin buzzing as she pulls his strings.

She closes the gap, her soapy hands wrapping around him, stroking once, twice, then stopping, leaving him gasping. "Not yet," she whispers, leaning into his ear. "You don't come 'til I say."

She drops to her knees, water splashing her face, Bob's attitude from last night a dull echo she drowns with Connor's groan, taking him in her mouth--slow, torturous, her lips a vise reclaiming what's hers. her tongue swirling the head, lips tight, pulling back when his hips buck, a warning hum vibrating against him. "Stay still," she growls, popping off, her hand pumping him now, slick with soap and spit, her other hand cupping his balls, squeezing just enough to make him whine--a puppet on her strings.

He's panting, head thunking back against the tiles, "Fuck, Mel, please--" and she rises, satisfied, grabbing his shoulders to pull him down.

His knees hit the tiles, water splashing as she grinds her freshly shaved pussy against his mouth. "Lick me," she demands, fingers twisting in his hair, tugging hard, and he does--sloppy, eager, his groans muffled as she rides his face, her moans echoing off the walls, loud enough to wake the dead.

She comes fast, a sharp cry, thighs clamping his head, her body shuddering as she holds him there, making him taste every pulse. "More," she thinks, dizzy with it--this isn't enough, she needs him broken, marked, hers.

"Up," she snaps, yanking him to his feet, her nails digging into his arms, leaving red crescents he'll feel later. She spins, bracing against the glass, her ass out, quivering, water streaming down her spine. "Fuck me now--but slow," she orders, glancing back, her smirk daring him to disobey.

He presses against her--fully erect, sliding it in inch by inch--agonizingly slow, her rules, his growl vibrating against her neck as she clenches around him. Controlling even this. They grind--her hips rolling, his hands gripping her tan lines--drawing it out until she drips,

"Harder" she hisses, her ass pushing back, demanding more. "Smack my ass!"

He hesitates, hand hovering, but her glare over her shoulder--fierce, unyielding--spurs him. His palm cracks against her wet flesh, a sharp slap echoing over the water, her ass jiggling, red blooming fast on her tan skin. "Harder!" she yells, moaning as he obeys, another smack. "I want you to make my ass purple--spank me like you mean it."--

Then another, each hit stinging, her cries rising, raw and reckless, "Yes, like that, make it hurt," her body rocking with his thrusts, the glass rattling, her tits pressed flat, nipples scraping the fogged pane. She's lost in it--this pain, this power, it's hers, and she's never felt so alive, her ass burning, purple blooming under his hand, a mark of her reign. He groans, slamming harder, her "Good boy" a ragged gasp as she clenches again, coming with a scream, pulling him over the edge--his thrusts falter, spilling hot inside her, a shuddering collapse against her back.

She grabs his hair, yanks him up, and kisses him hard--teeth clashing, tongue greedy. Her hands claw at his back, nails digging in, and he groans into her mouth. She feels ethereal, other worldly--raw, stripped down. The water turns cold, forcing them closer-- he pins her to the wall--she wraps her legs around him, the new sensitivity making every thrust sharper, electric.

All of this just as Bob has walked into the room--unnoticed, he's frozen, seeing it all: her legs spread, Connor's dick pounding her, the razor discarded, her ass bouncing and purple with handprints, Connor groaning, her dominance--all of it a blade in his chest, her cries piercing the steam.

Cumming harder than he's ever seen her come before. He stumbles out, silent and broken. Connor--eyes briefly opening--catch Bob's shocked gaze in the doorway as he flees, a faint choke escaping his throat.

Bob's knees buckle, a sob choking out as he slides down the wall--hands towards his face. The shower's echo chasing him down the stairs--he collapses onto the couch in the living room. His hands tremble as he grips a throw pillow, the tacky seashell pattern digging into his palms.

Finley's "Baby Shark" still loops faintly from her iPad in the corner, a cruel echo to the image burned into his skull: Amelia, his wife of 17 years, riding Connor--Bea's Connor--like some cheap porn star, her moans louder than anything she ever gives him. He doesn't cry again, not yet--just stares at the peeling paint on the ceiling, chest tight, breath shallow, like he's drowning in the humid air.

He should scream, should storm back in, should beat the shit out of that kid. But he can't. He's too small, too tired, too afraid of what she'd say--or worse, what she wouldn't.

Chapter 5

Hours later, the sun dips low, painting the beach house in bruised purples and oranges. Amelia primps again--back in date-night mode like nothing happened. She stands in the bathroom, the door cracked, humming some old Shania Twain song as she slicks on cherry lipstick, her reflection fogged with steam from her second shower. Scrubbing off Connor's salt and other secretions.

She slips into a snug black sundress--nothing fancy, just something from Ross that hugs her curves, the hem short enough to show off her tanned legs. She doesn't know Bob saw. Doesn't know he sits there, replaying it over and over again, seeing her as someone else--a stranger with his wife's face, a woman who'd fuck her daughter's boyfriend.

Downstairs, Bea sprawls on the floor with Finley, blowing raspberries on her plump baby belly while Lydia scrolls TikTok, Juul tucked behind her ear, her eyes flicking sharp toward Amelia as she descends, heels clicking.

"You sure you're good with her?" Amelia calls from the stairs. She's got that strained lilt in her voice, the one she uses when she plays Mom-of-the-Year.

"Yeah, Mom, we've got it," Bea says, not looking up, tickling Finley's feet. "Go have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." She giggles, oblivious.

Lydia snorts, her gaze lingering on Amelia--a loaded beat, heavy with what she knows. "That's a low bar."

Amelia smirks, ignoring that comment, a typical Lydia-ism. "Well, I love all three of you. Get Finley to bed by 8." She doesn't wait for Bob--just struts out to the SUV, expecting him to follow.

Bob drags himself up, legs heavy. "Be good," he mumbles to the girls, voice flat, barely audible over Finley's squeals. He grabs his keys from the counter and shuffles out after her. He wears the Tommy Bahama shirt again, wrinkled now, sweat rings under the pits--doesn't bother changing. What's the point?

--

El Potro, a kitschy Mexican joint two miles down the highway--neon sombreros flicker over the entrance, mariachi music crackling through busted speakers. Amelia picks a booth by the window, the vinyl sticky with old salsa, and slides in. Bob takes the opposite side, slumping against the wall, his gut spilling over his cargo shorts. She doesn't notice--or doesn't care--flipping open the menu with a flourish.

"Margarita pitcher?" she asks, not really asking, already waving down the waitress--a bored 20-something with a nose ring. "And chips, extra queso. Bob, you want the steak fajitas?" Her voice shines bright, performative, like she's auditioning for the wife he used to know.

"Sure," he grunts, barely a word, staring at the table where someone has carved "B+R 4eva" into the wood. A dead mans eyes--red-rimmed, sunken, the sunburn on his cheeks peeling like his whole damn life. He sees her now: the way her dress rides up, the glitter lotion still clinging to her legs, the same thighs wrapped around Connor hours ago. She's not his Amelia--not the girl he met at a dive bar in '98, not the one who cried when Finley was born. She's a ghost wearing her skin, and he's too gutless to call it out.

The pitcher arrives, salt-rimmed glasses clinking, Amelia pours them both one, sliding his across with a wink. "To us," she says, raising her glass, lips curling like she dares him to play along. He doesn't clink--just lifts the glass, takes a slow sip. She downs half of hers in one go, laughing too loud. "God, I needed this. What a vacation, huh? Finley's a teething terror, Lydia's glued to that damn phone... and vaping now? When did she stop trying to hide that from us?" She trails off, waiting for him to jump in, to banter like they used to.

He doesn't. Just nods, a twitch of his head, and picks at the basket of chips between them.

She keeps going, undeterred, leaning forward so her bust press against the table, cleavage spilling out like an offering. "You're quiet tonight," she says, playful, reaching for his hand. Her nails--chipped now, glitter dull--brush his knuckles, and he flinches, subtly but enough. She frowns, pulls back. "What's wrong? Are you mad about something?" Her tone stays light, but an edge creeps in, a flicker of worry she buries fast. She doesn't know he knows. Can't imagine he'd stay silent if he did.

"Nah," he lies, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Just tired. The beach wears me out." He forces a half-smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes--those stay locked on the queso, congealing in its little plastic cup.

He sees Connor's hands on her hips, her head thrown back, that scream--"Make me your filthy slut!"--looping in his head. He wants to ask. Wants to slam the table, demand how long, how many times, why?! But the words choke him, lodged somewhere between his cowardice and the lump in his throat. Confronting her means losing her--really losing her--and he's not ready for that emptiness, not yet.

Amelia shrugs, sipping again, the buzz softening her edges. "Perk up, old man. The night's young." She kicks his shin under the table, flirty, like it's a game. He doesn't react--just stares out the window at the highway, headlights streaking past. The fajitas come, sizzling, and she digs in, moaning around a bite of steak like it's foreplay. "So good," she says, licking her fingers, eyes on him, testing.

He picks at his, the meat tough and tasteless, his appetite gone. He wonders if she thinks of Connor now, if she pictures him across the table instead.

They continue eating in near-silence, her chatter filling the gaps--about the beach, the shrimp tacos she wants tomorrow, some dumb story about her friend Tori's new boyfriend. He nods, grunts, lets her talk. The waitress refills their pitcher; Amelia's three glasses deep, giggling now, her hand sliding up his arm. "Let's dance," she slurs, nodding at the empty corner where a jukebox hums. "Come on, like we used to dance."

"No," he says, sharper than he means, pulling his arm free. She blinks, startled, then laughs it off. "Fine, be a grump."

By the time they pay--her card, his cash for the tip--Bob's a shell, moving on autopilot. He drives them back, her head lolling against the window, tequila breath fogging the glass. "Good date," she mumbles, half-asleep, as they pull up the driveway.

He doesn't answer--just parks the SUV under the balcony, muttering about shade--staring at the beach house, the bedroom window where it happened glowing faintly. She stumbles out, heels catching in the gravel, and he follows, slow, like a man walking to his own execution.

Inside, Bea keeps Finley asleep on the couch, Moana flickering on the TV. Lydia's upstairs, door shut. "How'd it go?" Bea asks, yawning, as Amelia kicks off her shoes.

"Great," Amelia lies, winking at her. "Your stepdad's a lightweight, though."

Bob doesn't look at Bea, or his wife. Jsinks back onto the couch, the pillow still clutched in his hands. Amelia doesn't notice his distance, doesn't see the man breaking apart beside her. She climbs the stairs, humming, business as usual, while he stays down there, staring at nothing, the weight of her betrayal crushing him into silence.

Chapter 6

The beach house hums with tension all day, a pressure cooker ready to blow. Breakfast unfolds like a funeral march--Bob silent, shoveling cold eggs into his mouth, his sunburned face etched with the betrayal he witnessed yesterday.

Amelia stays oblivious, popping Advil with OJ, chattering like nothing's wrong, her voice a forced chirp over the clatter of dishes. Lydia glues herself to her phone, chain-vaping, her eyes cutting between her parents--narrowed now, a storm brewing behind them

--

Bea and Connor hit the beach early, tangled in each other--Amelia watches through the kitchen window, gripping the sink, her knuckles white, that leopard print lingerie still hidden in her purse like a loaded gun. Bea's tight bikini mocks her, and she clings to the memory of Connor choosing her yesterday.

Meanwhile, Connor's been unraveling ever since Bob walked in yesterday. The image haunting him--Bob's tears, the way he crumpled without a word, a man gutted. It's not guilt, exactly--he's too deep in the thrill for that--but a gnawing dread.

He's 24, fucking a 45-year-old married mom while dating her daughter. The sheer fucked-up-ness of it only now slams into him full force. And besides, he's always liked Bob. He's always been decent to him. He never really thought about the consequences of what they were doing. Never thought about the fact that a marriage could be ruined.

Last night at the dive bar with Bea, her ass grinding his lap, her sloppy kisses tasting of tequila and jealousy as some chick pawed at him, he felt it shift. Bea's wild, real, uncomplicated--her love's loud and messy, not a secret whispered in stolen moments.

He fucked her in the bar bathroom, her legs wrapped around him, nails clawing his back, and it hit him: he loves her, not just her body. Amelia's a drug--scorching, forbidden, a rush--but Bea's his anchor, and he's terrified of losing her over this.

By evening, dinner's a shitshow. Bob barely eats, pushing shrimp around his plate, his silence deafening, his eyes flicking once to Connor--a shadowed glint of knowing. Lydia texts under the table, her fingers pausing as she shoots Amelia a look--hard, accusing, a crack in her restraint.

Amelia sips Pinot Grigio, too fast, her halter top tight against her breasts, brushing Connor's arm "accidentally" as she reaches for the salt. He smirks, cocky on the surface, but his leg bounces under the table, nerves fraying.

Bea sits next to him, tipsy, giggling about the bar, oblivious to the undercurrent. The air thickens with unspoken rot.

--

Around ten, the family is scattered--Bob once again is passed out drunk, sleeping out on the porch swing outside. Finley asleep in her crib. Lydia locked away in her room. Bea in the bathroom, showering off. Leaving only Amelia still loitering in the kitchen. Connor slowly walking in. Standing next to her.

"Hey, can we talk?" He asks. A tone in his voice saying he means it. This is serious. He takes her gently by the wrists, pulling her into the shadowed nook by the stairs. If not for that tone he put on, this would've had her drenched by now.

His grip tightens. His voice low, rough, like ripping off a Band-Aid. "This... it's gotta end."

Amelia freezes, her wine glass trembling in her hand, the liquid sloshing against the rim. "What?" she chokes out, a laugh bubbling up, sharp and brittle. Her hazel eyes widen, glassy, searching his face--his stubble, his hard jaw, the lips she's kissed a hundred times. "You don't mean that." Her voice cracks, desperate, and she steps closer, her perfume flooding his space, her tits brushing his chest through the halter top, hands sliding under his shirt.

"I do," he says, stepping back, his hands flexing like he's fighting the urge to grab her, his body hardening under her touch before he shoves her hands away. "I'm in love with Bea. For real. This shit--" he gestures between them, voice dropping, "--it's fucked up. Bob saw us yesterday. He saw... I--WE can't keep doing this." His eyes flicker--guilt, resolve, a flicker of leftover lust he tries to bury.

Her gut twists, a sick lurch, like she's just fallen. "No, no, no," she whispers, shaking her head, wine spilling over her fingers, sticky and cold. She sets the glass down hard, the clink sharp in the quiet space, then presses herself against him, her hands slide under his shirt, nails grazing his pecs. 'You don't get to just--fuck me--' she hisses, breath hot on his neck. 'You wanted me. You still do--I feel it.' Her hips grind against him, desperate, lips brushing his ear: 'Come on, baby, Bea's a kid--she doesn't know you like I do. She doesn't know what you like." A moan slips out.

Connor's body betrays him--his dick twitches, hard against her thigh, a pulse he can't kill. He grabs her wrists again, prying her off with a growl. "Stop it, Mel. I mean it," he rasps, voice cracking, raw and strained, shoving her back, gentle but firm. His chest heaves, her touch a ghost on his skin, her scent lingering. Bea's laugh echoes faintly from upstairs, a lifeline he clings to. "Bob knows. It's over."

Amelia staggers, wine-soaked and unmoored. "You're a coward," she spits, tears welling, smearing her mascara into black streaks. "You think she's perfect? Tight little ass, no stretch marks--"

Her voice breaks, a sob choking out--she flashes to years of witnessing Bob watching porn of younger women--oogling them out in public--her vowing to never feel invisible again.

"I gave you everything--risked it all--and you pick her?" She lunges, grabbing his shirt, but he pulls free, leaving her clutching air. Her nails leaving marks he'll feel tomorrow, hating himself for craving it nonetheless.

"You think she's better than me?" she spits, venom lacing the desperation, her chest heaving. "She's a kid--my kid! She doesn't fuck you like I do!"

"I'm sorry," he mutters, barely audible, turning for the stairs, his hands shaking as he grips the banister. He feels her still--those scratches burning under his shirt, a heat he can't shake, a weakness he buries as he climbs toward Bea.

Amelia sinks to her knees, wine glass tipping over, spilling across the tile like blood, her cries muffled by the crash of roar of the surf outside. He's mine, she thinks, flashing to their dune nights, his tongue on her skin. Not hers.

Upstairs, Bea steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her, humming. She pauses, hearing the thud below, and frowns. "Con?" she calls, padding to the hall, but he's already there, face flushed, eyes dodging hers. "You okay?" she asks, brushing his arm, her innocence a knife in his gut.

"Yeah, babe," he lies, forcing a grin, pulling her close. "Just... tired." She kisses his jaw. "I'll see you in there in a sec, gonna go piss real quick." He says as he excuses himself into the bathroom--still misty from Bea's hot shower. All the while, downstairs Amelia has collapsed against the kitchen counter, sobbing into her hands but attempting to stifle her volume.

In the bedroom, Bea drops her towel, and begins dressing herself. Bra and panties on. Shorts. Starts looking for a sweatshirt to throw on top--yet the few that she brought are still covered in sand.

She grabs Connor's out from underneath the bed. Starts rifling through his clothes, surely he's brought an extra hoodie. Her fingers snag on something silky. She stops. Never knowing Connor to have any sort of clothing made out of silk.

She pulls it out: a white thong, crumpled, dirty and pungent with days-old arousal--the same one from the car, hidden in his duffel like a dirty secret. Her breath stops, heart hammering as she stares, the pieces clicking--Connor's late returns, the sand on him that first morning--the sneaking glances at each other--his proclaiming that her mom "is hot."

"No," she whispers, shaking her head, but the truth slams her like a wave. She shoves it back, hands trembling, sees his phone on the nightstand charging--unplugs it--starts scrolling through texts. It doesn't take long because one of the most recent texts from someone named Mel catches her eye. "Mel?"

She opens the thread. A photo of a woman, nearly naked. Standing in a dressing room wearing leopard print lingerie. No face, just body. But a familiar body.

Tears bursts through her heaving eyelids. Her hand covering her mouth, preventing herself from letting out any sort of noise. Keeps scrolling:

Beach @ 1:30?"

Her stomach lurches, she gags.

"Hey babe--" Connor's voice barges in before he does. She drops the phone and without turning around: "How could you?" Heart broken.

"What're you talking about?" He asks genuinely confused before his eyes travel down to the ground... his phone. Shit.

"It's not what you think!" He says trying to immediately extinguish the anger that's already been rising.

"So you're not fucking my mother!? Because I don't know any Mel's, but I sure do know an Amelia..."

"I'm not cheating on you I swear! It's her-- your mom. She's obsessed with me. Sending me naked photos--dirty texts--she's trying to seduce me babe, she's crazy." - he says in a panicking low voice, defending himself--lying--but not wanting Amelia to hear it.

"You're---I can't even--I need to take a walk." She says brushing past him--grabbing one of her sand covered hoodies to cover herself and her purse on the floor as she makes her exit.

--

Amelia slumps in the living room, alone, her heart aches, a dull thudding bruise from Connor's rejection, the sting of losing her escape.

The house sits quiet now, save for the TV's melodrama and the faint crash of waves beyond the dunes. Amelia doesn't move, doesn't care--just lets the noise wash over her, a lifeline to keep her from drowning in the silence of her own head. She replays Connor's words--"I'm done, Amelia. Done"--and her own pathetic begging, the way she clawed at him, clinging to the fantasy.

The stairs creak, snapping her out of it--

Bea--the thong haunting her, her mind spinning with betrayal. Yet still too confused to have a discussion about it moves down the steps, sweatshirt on, purse over her should, sandals squeaking on the steps, but most importantly clutching that can mace she dug out from her purse--a reflex, a shield. Hiding it tight in her clenched hand.

She shuffles down the stairs, barefoot, her dark hair damp from a shower, twisted into a messy bun. She's in a baggy T-shirt--over short shorts. Her face is pale, eyes red-rimmed like she hasn't slept, a stark contrast to the golden tan she's been building all week. She clutches the mace tight in her fist, tight enough that her knuckles whiten, and Amelia's gut clenches instinctively, a premonition she can't name yet.

Bea lingers at the end of the stairs. Staring at her mother laying on the couch. Shamelessly smiling at her.

But Bea ignores it. Acts like she's not even there. Just out the door and into the night.

A scorching fire inside her refusing to let him go, determined to not be just another one of his notches. She won't let herself be taken advantage of by a child--no, this was supposed to be a relationship where she was the one in control, he doesn't just get to flip that around.

Now Bea's out of the house, Bob is asleep, and Lydia's quarantining herself in her room. Meanwhile Connor's upstairs, oblivious, still tangled in the wreckage of his breakup attempt.

--

The door to his room is cracked, a sliver of the moonlight spilling out, and she knocks--soft, deliberate--before creaking it open all the way, her breath a quiet tease in the humid air.

Connor's on the bed, shirtless, sprawled out in his boxers as he scrolls his phone--mindless, distracted, scared. He looks up.

His eyes widen, then narrow, confusion flashing as he leans up, propped on his elbows. "Amelia... I think--" he mutters, voice cracks, trailing off as she steps inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. "Shhh." She says with a finger over her lips.

One last stand, a predator stalking her prey. She's wrapped in a fluffy white robe. "You're a goddamn storm I can't stay away from"--and she clings to it, her power, her danger. She won't let him walk away, not after he's seen her, wanted her. Fucked her like it was everything.

The room's thick with tension, the sea breeze off the night air drifts through the open balcony door. She doesn't say a word--just lets go of the sash, the robe parting slow, revealing her like a present--

She wears the leopard print lingerie set from Target--a weapon pulled from her purse, tags ripped off with her teeth days ago. The strings biting into her hips, the tiny triangles barely containing her heavy tits--full, spilling over, nipples hardening against the fabric.

"Did you mean it when you said we were done?" she asks, her voice low, a velvet purr that coils around him, daring him to lie. He shifts, jaw clenching as his eyes rake over her.

"I don't..." he mutters, trailing off, his mind racing--Bea's sobs last night blur into static, drowned by the pull of Amelia's body, the rush of the forbidden he confessed to craving on that beach. "You're a storm I can't stay away from," he'd told her then, and he'd told himself that earlier tonight he had sworn her off for good, but that storm comes immediately crashing back, and like he's always suspected of himself, he's too weak to outrun it.

Bob's tear-streaked face flashes, and he shoves it down, buried under the sight of her tan, womanly moon, the thong--a whisper to her flesh.

Amelia saunters closer, agonizingly slow, each step a tease--her hips swaying, the robe slipping further, pooling at her elbows, framing her like a curtain about to drop. "You want my body, don't you..." she purrs, seeing the hunger flare in his eyes, his breath quickening. "You want it bad...?" Her fingers tease the bra clasp, daring him to imagine it snapping free.

He shakes his head, quivering with lust, his hands twitching on the sheets--the scratches still stinging under his skin, a reminder of how she clings.

"Are you gonna be my little good boy?" she whispers, leaning in, her breath stale and intoxicating, her lips hovering inches from his.

He nods, a jerky surrender, his resolve crumbling under her gaze.

"Say it," she demands, voice firm, stepping back just as he reaches for her--drawing out the torture. "Say you're my good boy... You're mine."

The robe drops. She turns--45, flawed, but a goddess now, chestnut curls wild, eyes smoldering. The leopard thong swallowed by her ass, framing its tan heft in the mirror.

"I'm your good boy... I'm yours," he rasps, voice hoarse, breaking under her spell. He'd fought it--sworn it was over--but her storm's too strong, and he's drowning again.

She smirks, triumphant. She's close enough that his morning breath--smoky, raw--takes over her nose, mingling with her own stale wine tang. He reaches up for her, hands trembling, but she jerks back, a playful dodge, drawing out the game.

"You..." she purrs, her fingers slipping under the leopard bra's clasp, popping it slow--one hook, then two--the fabric peeling away inch by inch, her tits spilling free, nipples extended in the humid air.

She drops the bra to the floor, cupping herself, squeezing just enough to make them bounce, a taunt that has him groaning low in his throat.

"Can..." She moves closer, straddling his legs, hovering over him, her thighs brushing his boxers, the heat of her pussy radiating through the thong as she grinds the air above him--close, but not touching, a cruel tease.

He can't take it anymore, his dick straining, a thick, throbbing beast, but she grabs his wrists, pinning them to the bed with surprising strength. His phone clatters to the floor, forgotten, as she leans in, her tits swaying inches from his face, her voice a husky whisper.

"Put it..." She's so close they're practically fused--his hands restrained, denied the pleasure of groping her, her curves waved in his face like the truest temptation, a forbidden fruit he's tasted too many times to resist.

"Anywhere..." her voice a throaty moan.

And that's it--he breaks, surging up from her grip, on her in a breath. His hands are rough, grabbing hold of her, yanking her down onto him, their mouths crashing together--tongues violently fighting for dominion, a feral dance of teeth and spit, her nails clawing his neck as she tastes him, smoke and lust and desperation.

She drags him up, out of the bed--he drops his boxers--fully revealing his nakedness--his cock floating free, head glistening, bouncing with every step as she pulls him toward the balcony door he'd left cracked open earlier.

The sea breeze hits them, salty and chilly, as they stumble outside, a storm of lust and ruin brewing. "You can't leave me," she hisses, yanking him close, her nails digging into his neck as she kisses him--feral, desperate, tasting of wine and tears, sucking his bottom lip until it swells.

"Fuck, Mel," he rasps, hating himself as he spins her, bending her over the railing, her tits pressed into the splintered wood, nipples scraping as she arches back. He groans, hands wildly exploring her body--gripping her ass, squeezing its thick meaty swell. Tracing the dip of her spine--he rips at the leopard thong, the fabric snapping with a sharp tear, sending a vibration through her pussy that rolls her eyes back in ecstasy as he bends her over the railing. It's like the first time all over again.

"Anywhere, huh?" he growls, his breath hot against her neck, stubble grazing her skin, and she nods, panting, pressing her ass against him--a ripe, trembling offering, the tan cheeks quivering, the tight pucker of her asshole winking in the fading light of the moon.

He spits on his hand, slicks his cock, teasing her rim with the tip--slow, deliberate, dragging it out as she gasps, her breath sharp against the intrusion into her asshole. His words from earlier that night, a lie--"I'm in love with Bea"--still rings in her head--she arches harder, daring him to take back what's hers, her body a defiant rebuttal to his rejection.

"You know I've always wanted to do this," he says, voice thick with need, his free hand spanking her lightly, a wet smack that makes her yelp turn to a moan.

"I know, baby, take this ass--it's all for you baby. Fill my holes." she begs--dripping with want, her hips rolling back to meet him. He presses in--slow at first, the stretch searing, her gasp loud and raw as he fills her, inch by throbbing inch.

Blood streaks her palms as she grips the splintered railing, a primal cry tearing from her throat--half-pain, half-ecstasy, the tight heat driving him wild.

He thrusts hard and deep, unrelenting, her body pinned between him and the wood, the railing groaning under their weight. His hands dig into her hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, leaving red marks she'll feel later.

She winces, mascara streaking anew, the pain sharp and biting, but she pushes back into him, moaning his name--"Connor, fuck, yes"--like it's a spell to bind him to her, her voice cracks, mascara streaking--she's not the storm now, just a woman losing him, offering everything, her control unraveling into a broken plea. Her voice bouncing off the dunes, raw and unashamed.

He loves it--the tight grip, the power--his fingers sliding around to tease her clit, slick and swollen, her pussy dripping down her thighs as he works her from both ends. Her cries rise--'Make me yours!'

The wind howling, tangling her hair. Her legs tremble, knees buckling as pleasure coils tight, her cries growing louder, trashier--"Fuck me, baby, make me yours!"--and he obliges, spanking her harder, the crack ringing out, her ass rippling like waves as he claims her, a final, unhinged collision of their forbidden lust.

--

Down on the beach, Bea walks alone, barefoot in the surf, the saltwater stinging her eyes--or maybe that's the tears she can't stop. The thong haunting her--lacy. Used. Her moms? She turns back early, realizing she's just left them alone together. She's hardening, determined to corner them now, to get the truth.

The beach house looms ahead, too quiet as she slips inside, her sandals dangling from one hand, her purse clutched in the other.

The silence is wrong, heavy, pressing against Bea's ears like a physical thing. She drops her sandals by the door, the soft thud swallowed by the stillness, and fumbles in her purse, fingers brushing past her phone, a crumpled receipt, until they close around the pepper spray canister. Instinct, not reason--her hand shakes as she grips it, the cold metal biting into her palm.

She listens, head tilted, breath held, and then it hits: a rhythmic creaking from upstairs, a muffled cry she knows too well, a sound she's made with him in that same bed, tangled in those same sheets. Her stomach lurches, bile scorching the back of her throat, and she creeps up the stairs, each step a hammer blow to her chest. The wood groans under her weight, her bare feet slick with beach sweat, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

The door's closed. She nudges it open with her foot, silent--and there they are.

Connor, balls-deep in someone, pounding against the balcony railing, the woman's legs splayed wide, her body arched in a brutal mix of agony and ecstasy. Bea can't see her face--Connor's naked back blocks it, his ass flexing with each thrust, sweat gleaming on his skin--the scene sears into her, a branding iron of betrayal.

The woman's hands grip the railing, nails digging into the weathered wood, splintering it, and a sob tears from her throat--half-pain, half-electric pleasure, a sound that twists the knife already lodged in Bea's gut. The balcony door swings lightly in the breeze, the Gulf's salt air mixing with the musk of sex.

"Connor?!" Bea's voice breaks, small and shattered, the pepper spray trembling in her fist, her thumb hovering over the nozzle. Her eyes burn, tears blurring the edges, but she can't look away--can't unsee him, mid-thrust, his body locked with someone else's... It can't be...

"What the fuck!" she screams, voice cracking, mace raised. Connor turns, mid-thrust, eyes wide--sees Bea, then Amelia's face--and freezes, guilt crashing over him. "Bea, wait--"

Amelia twists, smirking through the haze -- her mom! It can't be... Her mom ass up, her boyfriend sliding his cock into her asshole like he owns it. It felt almost too fake to be real.

But Amelia's not panicked. She remains calm somehow... "Honey, I'm so so sorry--but he's mine," her voice a taunt, unhinged.

Bea's world shatters--her mom, her boyfriend, this grotesque tangle--and rage takes over. She sprays the mace, a wild arc hitting them both. Connor stumbles, eyes burning, coughing as the sting blinds him; Amelia shrieks, clawing at her face, the railing slick under her hands.

In the chaos, Amelia lunges--blind, drunk on fury, pain, lust--grabbing for Bea, but her foot slips--

And falls. Arms flailing. Thong ripping free as she drops. A sickening crunch echoes as her head smacks the edge of the SUV before the ground, blood pooling fast, her body limp, eyes open, staring at nothing.

"What did you do Bea! Oh my god! Holy shit--! That was your mom!" He's hyperventilating. The mace particles still making it a struggle to see. He's sobbing. Falls to his knees. "How could you do this!"

The leopard thong strap fluttering loose like a broken wing, landing atop her lifeless form.

It's Bea's turn to scream now. She screams out into the abyss, dropping the mace, collapsing against the railing, her sobs raw and guttural. "FUCK YOU!"

Connor staggers to the edge, mace-stung tears blurring the sight--Amelia, broken, gone. "Ahh---no, no, fuck! No!" he chokes, sliding down the wall, hands in his hair, the world spinning out.

Scared awake, Bob runs into the room as fast as he can, still out of it from his drunken slumber-- "What's a matter-- what's going on?!" Sees his stepdaughter's sobbing state, on her knees on the balcony. Connor groping at his eyes, on the ground naked.

He moves forward towards the balcony. Looks down: sees her--his wife, crumpled, blood streaking the gravel--and collapses, a wail ripping from his throat, "Amelia!" Forcing himself up and down the stairs--outside into the dark to check on his wife. Getting low, cradling her head, her mascara and lipstick smeared. Her naked body coated in blood.

The storm breaks, rain pounding the scene--Amelia dead, Bob shattered, Bea sobbing, Connor ruined.

Chapter 8

The beach house sits abandoned, a husk of peeling paint and scrubbed bloodstains, its windows dark as the Joneses flee back to Biloxi. The Gulf Shores tragedy clings to them like damp sand--impossible to shake, gritty in every crevice of their lives. Days blur into weeks, a haze of sirens and silence giving way to a suffocating normalcy none of them can stomach.

Bob never confront Bea or Connor--just got drunk. The dent in the beach house wall haunting him--a mark of his rage, his failure--shower screams of ecstasy in his head on a continuous loop--he sees her fall every night, her head cracking the SUV, blood pooling, his wail lost to the rain.

The funeral was a week ago, a grim spectacle under Biloxi's gray sky--rain-soaked, the church packed with pitying faces from their upper-class neighborhood. Amelia's closed casket hid her shattered skull, her beauty reduced to a glossy photo on the altar--smiling, 30-something, before the stretch marks and crow's feet she loathed. Bob stood by it, hollow-eyed, his Tommy Bahama swapped for a wrinkled suit, clutching Finley as she tugged his tie, oblivious.

He didn't speak--just nodded at condolences, his silence a roar over the preacher's drone about "eternal rest." Tori and Miranda, Amelia's "girls' night" crew, whispered "such a shame" between hymns, their mascara-streaked faces a mirror of his own. The burial was quick--Bob tossing a rose, hand shaking; Bea throwing sand, her sobs choking her; Lydia vaping in the church bathroom, avoiding it all.

Back home, the house feels like a tomb--Amelia's absence a ghost in every room.

Bob moves first, packing Amelia's things into boxes with mechanical precision, his hands trembling as he folds one of her blue strap-less dresses--the same one she wore in '05, her laughing in his arms at some dive bar, tequila on her breath. He finds it in the closet, buried under moth-eaten sweaters, and the memory guts him. He crumples it, sobbing into the fabric, the scent of her cheap CVS perfume--floral and sharp--cutting through the stale air of their Biloxi home. Finley's with his sister now, a two-hour drive away in Hattiesburg, her "Mama" babbles a knife in his chest every time he visits.

Now that he's gone the master bedroom is stripped bare. He can't face it--can't face Bea's red-rimmed eyes or Lydia's sullen retreat. He's with Finley, trying to rebuild something, anything, in Hattiesburg, but the alcohol follows him, a lifeline to numb the ache of her betrayal, her death, her blood on his hands from that gravel carport.

Lydia's at Jamie's most nights. She saw it all--the foot under the table, the carport kiss, Amelia's fall--and keeps it locked tight, too scared to spill. Her texts to Jamie are vague--"fucked-up vacay," "parents are a mess"--but the details stay buried, a secret she vapes away till her lungs burn. She's 15, moody, perceptive, and drowning--she drops out of group chats, skips school, fades into her own haze. The beach house scream replaying in her head--Amelia's body crumpling, Bob's wail--but she pushes it down, deeper, letting the nicotine blur the edges. Blaming herself for not stopping it.

Connor's long gone, a ghost who fled to Atlanta the day after the cops left. No goodbye, no explanation--just a single text to Bea: "I'm sorry," sent from a gas station on I-20, his Camaro roaring east. She didn't reply--deleted it, his number, him.

He crashes on a buddy's couch, a shell of the cocky 24-year-old who fucked his girlfriend mom on dunes and balconies. Nightmares plague him--her fall, her blood, her "You're everything" echoing like a lie that broke them all.

Bea's the last one standing in the Biloxi house, a fractured remnant of the girl who giggled over TikToks with Connor. She dropped out of Ole Miss. Booze becoming her crutch--tequila shots in the kitchen, Pinot Grigio from Amelia's stash, anything to dull the double loss: her mom to betrayal, then to death.

She finds a voicemail on her phone--"I can't wait to see you sweetie, only one more week till Summer!" Amelia's voice mundane and soft, recorded a month before Gulf Shores--playing it on loop, sobbing into her pillow, craving the mom she thought she knew.

The white thong sits in her drawer, a twisted relic she didn't burn--couldn't burn--after finding it in Connor's duffel. Still stained with Amelia's release days prior, a taunt of their affair she can't let go.

--

Weeks drag on, the house silent save for the hum of the fridge and the distant buzz of lawnmowers in the neighborhood. Bea's alone tonight, Bob gone, Lydia at Jamie's, the walls closing in. She stumbles to her room, tequila bottle half-empty on the nightstand, her reflection a stranger in the smudged mirror--pale, hollow, eyes red from crying and sleepless nights.

The drawer creaks as she opens it, the white thong staring up at her--a ghost of her mom's power, her lust, her ruin. Her fingers hover, trembling, the air thick with the Mississippi night pressing through the cracked window, cicadas humming a relentless dirge outside. She lifts it slow, the fabric rough and cool against her skin, stiff with dried sin--Amelia's sin, Connor's sin, their sin--and a sob catches in her throat, sharp and jagged like glass.

She holds it up, the lace dangling limp between her fingers, moonlight catching the faint stains--yellowed, crusted, a map of her mother's hunger from that first night in the Camaro. Her chest heaves, breath hitching as she stares, the thong a weight heavier than the tequila bottle beside her. "You don't win," she whispers, voice breaking, talking to it--to Amelia--like her mom's still there, smirking from the grave with those cherry lips and hazel eyes that snared Connor. Her hands shake harder, the lace quivering, and she presses it to her cheek, the texture scraping her skin--a sick, intimate taunt she can't escape.

The room spins, tequila buzzing in her veins, and she drops to her knees beside the bed, the thong clutched tight in her fist. She sees it all again--Amelia's ass up on the balcony, Connor's thrusts, the leopard thong snapping free as she fell, blood pooling on the gravel. Her mom's voice from the voicemail--"I can't wait to see you sweetie"--loops in her head, soft and mundane, clashing with the memory of "He's mine," that smug, unhinged taunt as Bea's world shattered. She squeezes her eyes shut, tears leaking hot down her face, dripping onto her thighs--the thong burning in her grip like a brand.

"Why'd you do it?" she mutters, voice raw, cracking on every syllable, rocking slightly as she presses the lace harder against her cheek, feeling the crust flake against her skin. "Why him? Why me?" Her breath comes fast, shallow, a panic clawing up her throat--she smells it now, faint but there, the musk of Amelia's release, the salt of Connor's sweat, a ghost of their betrayal trapped in the fibers. It's vile, it's hers, it's them, and she hates how it twists her gut, how it pulls her in even as it repulses her.

She flings it down, a sharp gasp escaping her, but her hands snatch it back just as quick, like it's a lifeline she can't let go. Her fingers trace the waistband, the thin string that dug into her mom's hips, framing that lush ass Connor buried himself inside of.

Bea's mind splits--half of her wants to burn it, shred it, bury it with Amelia's coffin; the other half needs it, needs to feel what her mom felt, to understand the power that broke them all. She stands, unsteady, the tequila sloshing in her stomach, and stumbles to the mirror, the thong dangling from her hand like a noose.

Her reflection stares back--pale, wrecked, a shadow of the girl who laughed in the Camaro, pink toenails on the dash.

She strips slow, deliberate--her T-shirt hits the floor with a soft thud, shorts kicked aside to pool by the bed, leaving her bare in the humid dark. The air sticking to her skin, sweat beading down her spine as she lifts the thong again, holding it up to the light. It's too small--Amelia's curves were wider, fuller--but Bea doesn't care. She steps into it, one leg, then the other, pulling it up slow, the lace biting into her hips, tight and unforgiving.

It cuts into her flesh, the waistband rolling slightly, pinching her skin where it doesn't fit right, but she forces it, yanking it higher until it settles, the stained front clinging to her mound, the string disappearing between her cheeks.

She turns, staring at her ass in the mirror--pert, youthful, a mirror to Amelia's ripe swell--and her breath catches, a sob mingling with a laugh, bitter and unhinged. It's wrong, it's sick, it's hers now--the thong, a second skin, a trophy of her mom's lust turned into her armor.

She twists, hips cocked, hands sliding over her stomach, up to her chest, cupping her breasts through the damp air. "You liked this, huh?" she mutters, voice trembling, talking to Amelia's ghost in the glass. "You wore this for him--fucked him in it, made him want you."

Her fingers dig into her skin, nails leaving red crescents, and she pulls the thong tighter, the fabric stretching, the back string disappearing into her ass, the stains smearing faintly against her. "Was it worth it, Mom? Was I worth it?" Her voice rises, cracking, a scream trapped in a whisper, and she spins, facing the mirror fully, her dirty blonde hair spilling loose, tears streaking her face like war paint.

She hates it--the way it clings, the way it makes her feel powerful and broken all at once, the way it's Amelia's victory and her defeat.

She loves it, too--the rawness, the claim, the way it ties her to them, to the wreckage they left her in. It's not purging--it's possession, a twisted inheritance she can't burn away. She sinks to the floor, back against the bed, the tequila bottle cold in her hand as she takes a swig, the burn sharp and familiar.

The voicemail plays again--"can't wait to see you sweetie"--and she laughs, a broken sound that fills the room. "Fuck you, Mom," she mutters, staring at her reflection, the thong a silent scream against her skin.

The house creaks around her, the night pressing in. She sits there--alone and fractured--the last Jones standing. Bound to her mothers wreckage by a stained string of lace.