Chapter Twelve 853

Chapter Twelve

Edward

Mom has been acting weirdly since this morning. My stomach twists at the thought she might have realized it was me in her room last night and not my dad. I figure that it must be something else that’s playing on her mind. She never let me get away with crap when I was a kid, and I doubt she’d start giving me leniency now, just because I’m an adult. In her eyes, I’m still her baby, her little boy.

My lips curve up when I think about how I showed her how grown up her little boy has become, even if she doesn’t know it. I’m not under any delusions that she’ll never put the pieces together, and no way she’ll ever find out the truth. I’m not sure how to be subtle about this, and a lot can change over the next two months. I doubt I’ll be able to keep it completely under wraps while we’re both under the same roof.

I wish I could know what she would think about this, to find out whether she’ll reciprocate my feelings, or shun them. I don’t even want to contemplate her rejection of them —it would be absolutely unbearable to have her love me any less or hate me for how I feel .

I’m half-tempted to tell her—to admit to everything—just to see what she says. Mom loves me, but will it be enough?

***

Dinnertime rolls around, and Dad still isn't home. Mom doesn’t seem too worried, but she’s visibly disappointed. I can see it in the slump of her shoulders and tightness of her smile as she tries to play down how hurt she is by his absence.

Shuffling my chair closer to hers, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her in for a hug.

“Don’t worry, Mom. He’ll be home soon I expect,” I reassure her.

“I know, I’m just sad that he’s gotten so caught up in work that he’s missing out on spending time with you—with us.”

“I’m here all summer, there will be other times,” I say, giving her a kiss on the forehead. I wink before continuing, “It just means he’ll miss out on dessert again.”

My stomach growls at the thought of dessert, but it’s not the cream donuts from the bakery that I’m hungry for. I’m craving a different kind of dessert—a cream pie of my own making.

It would be too much of a risk to try and repeat the fun I had the previous night. Though she still has no idea that the man she made love to was her own son, she seemed to thoroughly enjoy what I had to give her. Being with her came so naturally to me—the way she responded to my touch, the feel of my body on hers, and how she came so hard around my dick when I was deep inside her sweet pussy—it makes me want to do it all over again.

Dad doesn’t appreciate what he’s got. If he did then she wouldn’t have come apart as easily as she did. She seemed so surprised at the level of passion I showed in our coupling, and it makes me angry when I realize how neglectful he has been of her. I’ll take care of her, worship her, make her feel like the beautiful and sultry goddess she is.

I don’t know how I could convince her that we’re so much more compatible, more perfect for each other than her and Dad ever were. The urge to recreate exactly what we shared last night is at the forefront of my mind, but I don’t know how I could initiate it without raising suspicion. It would seem strange for someone who is practically devoid of passion like Dad to suddenly develop an interest in her two nights in a row .

I want her so badly, and it’s difficult to weigh the reward versus the risk with a clear head. There’s a sizable absence of reason and cognizance. All sense has been overwhelmed by the insurmountable desire I feel, combined with the desperate need for her love. I want her to want me too, and it stings that I have to take a cloak and dagger approach to getting what I want most in this world—her.

I groan and do my best to remain composed, but I’m so consumed by everything about her that it takes a conscious amount of extreme effort to maintain it. Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I attempt to appear visibly calm and unfazed by her presence and the obvious lack of my dad being around.

Popping my head through the door to the living room, I get her attention. “Hey, Mom. Want to have another movie and wine night?” I ask, mentally kicking myself for going down this destructive path while simultaneously hoping she’ll enable me to do so—even if she has no idea what she’s really agreeing to.

“Sure, that sounds great,” she agrees, smiling so warmly at me that blood rushes south.

My heart is pounding wildly in my chest and my breaths grow heavy with anticipation. I’m too far gone to stop now. I’ll see this through, no matter what the end result may be from taking such a wild risk.