I eased the kid’s door almost shut, just a crack of light left so the night-light could spill out like a secret. He was out cold, thumb wedged in his mouth, blanket kicked to the foot of the crib in a tangled heap.
My pulse still hammered from dinner, from the way Mr. C’s fingers had worked me under the table while Mrs. C talked about preschool registration and sippy-cup brands. My thighs were sticky, skirt clinging to the mess between my legs, his c*m and mine dried in flaky streaks that tugged every time I moved.
I turned to head downstairs, heels silent on the runner. The hallway was dark except for the glow under the bathroom door, steam still seeping out from her shower. Footsteps behind me, soft, deliberate. I smiled, thinking it was him again. Ready for round three. My p***y clen
