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The Golden Hour _The first thing Marcus noticed when he stepped into Aunt Eleanor’s lake house wasn’t the vaulted ceilings or the antique furniture—it was the way the late afternoon light caught the curve of her collarbone as she poured him a drink, the silk robe slipping just enough to reveal the swell of her breast. He’d looked away fast, but not fast enough. She’d smirked.__Now, hours later, the same golden light spills across the rumpled sheets of her bed, painting their sweat-slicked bodies in molten hues. Her robe is a forgotten puddle on the floor. His jeans are somewhere near the dresser. "You stared," she breathes, nails biting into his wrists as she rides him, her hips rolling with the ease of someone who knows exactly what she wants. The thick, veined length of him disappears into her again and again, her swollen labia gripping him tight. Her pubic hair—a wild, dark match to the curls spilling over her shoulders—brushes against his abdomen.____Marcus groans, torn between guilt and the kind of arousal that makes his vision blur. "I didn’t—"Liar." She leans down, her heavy breasts brushing his chest, her nipples stiff against his skin. Her breath is hot against his ear. "You stared all through dinner. All through dessert." A slow, deliberate grind of her hips punches the air from his lungs. "Now look at me." And he does.__The neon bioluminescence of her bedside lamp catches the sweat on her throat, the flutter of her lashes, the way her cunt clenches around him when she comes.__By the time the sun dips below the lake, Marcus knows two things for certain:__1. He’ll never look at Thanksgiving dinner the same way again.___2. Aunt Eleanor doesn’t believe in leftovers.
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