Dinner smelled like charred steak and rosemary, the kind of rich, smoky scent that clung to the air and made my stomach growl even though I was too wired to eat. The kid babbled in his high chair, chubby fingers smearing mashed potatoes across the plastic tray, giggling every time a pea rolled off the edge. Mrs. C sat at one end of the table, wine glass half-empty, hair still damp from the shower, curling in loose waves around her shoulders.
She looked relaxed, cheeks pink from the heat, robe swapped for a loose sundress that dipped low between her t**s. I sat across from her, trying to keep my face neutral. He sat at the head, right next to me, close enough that his knee brushed mine under the table.
I wore the same skirt. Short, black, pleated. No panties. My p***y still throbbed from
