the bath

Tom’s hand lifted before he could stop it, fingertips brushing the warm wood. His breath caught, his heart slamming like it might punch right through his chest. One tiny push—just one—and he could be inside the edge of her world.

He pressed.

The latch gave with a soft click, the faintest protest of metal, and the door shifted inward by an inch. Tom eased it wider, millimeter by millimeter, until the narrow slit became a window. He dared to look.

The bathroom glowed golden under the soft light overhead. The air was hazy, a dream made of vapor. Through the blur, Sarah reclined in the wide tub, her hair pinned up messily so her neck and shoulders were bare, gleaming with droplets. The water lapped high, milky with foam, clinging to her breasts as they rose just above the surface. Her legs shifted lazily beneath, long, pale shapes moving under the clouded veil.

She let out a sigh, long and content, her head tilting back against the porcelain. One hand trailed through the water idly, stirring ripples; the other rested against her thigh just above the surface, fingertips absentmindedly tapping a rhythm.

Tom froze, barely breathing, afraid any sound would shatter the spell.

From where he stood, the sight was maddening: her chest rising faintly with each slow breath, a slope of collarbone catching the light, the soft curve of her belly peeking just above the foam

Her belly rose and fell with each slow breath, and Tom’s eyes traced the slick outline of her waist where the bubbles thinned. Every tiny shift of her body felt amplified—the soft ripple of water against her breast, the faint parting of her lips as she sighed again.

His knuckles whitened against the doorframe. The steam clung to his face, hot and damp, carrying her scent deeper into him until his pulse thundered in his ears.

Sarah’s hand drifted lower, sliding lazily through the foam, fingertips trailing across her stomach before disappearing beneath the water. Tom’s chest tightened. The slosh of the bath masked the small movements of her arm, but he could imagine what those fingers were doing, what they were circling, what they were teasing.

A faint hum slipped from her throat—wordless, indulgent, the sound of someone luxuriating in her own skin. Her legs shifted wider under the water, bubbles parting just enough for Tom to glimpse the shadowed V where her thighs met before it disappeared again beneath the cloudy surface.

His breath hitched. The door creaked softly under the pressure of his shoulder, and for a heartbeat he thought she’d heard. But Sarah only tilted her head further back, exposing the line of her throat, eyes fluttering shut as her lips parted in another quiet sigh.

The sound—fragile, sensual, his mother’s—sent a brutal rush of heat through Tom. He knew he should shut the door

Her belly rose and fell with each slow breath, and Tom’s eyes traced the slick outline of her waist where the bubbles thinned. Every tiny shift of her body felt amplified—the soft ripple of water against her breast, the faint parting of her lips as she sighed again.

His knuckles whitened against the doorframe. The steam clung to his face, hot and damp, carrying her scent deeper into him until his pulse thundered in his ears.

Her head tilted back against the edge, hair damp and straggling down her neck, throat open in surrender. Tom caught the tremor of her breath, the way her chest rose shallow and quick. Then her hand moved—he could see the faint flex of her arm beneath the water, the rhythm building until it set the surface trembling.

A sound came—so quiet, so utterly private—that Tom felt the breath catch in his throat. A small, strangled moan that was both his undoing and the tether chaining him to this hiding place.

His eyes drank her in greedily. The curve of her breasts, glistening faintly where the foam thinned. The sweep of her stomach, rising and falling in ragged rhythm. The pale line of her thigh, sleek under the shifting water. He had been here before—her husband, her lover—and yet now, trapped in this body of her son, it felt illicit, forbidden, magnified until it threatened to consume him whole.

Sarah shifted again, a languid arch of her spine that lifted her breasts higher from the water, droplets spilling in rivulets down her skin. Her lips parted, catching the faintest breathy murmur, a broken whisper of pleasure she couldn’t hold back. Her toes curled against the porcelain edge, the water sloshing with her slow, insistent movements beneath the surface.

Tom’s nails bit into the closet doorframe, every muscle in his young body taut as wire. He could feel his pulse racing in his throat, wrists, temples—everywhere. The steam blurred her form just enough to keep him frantic, filling in the details from memory, from longing. He saw her mouth form a soft “oh,” the sound following a beat later, low and husky, vibrating straight into his bones.

Her hand moved faster now, the water breaking against her skin in faint ripples. Her head turned slightly, cheek against her damp hair, mouth slack in surrender.

And Tom—God, Tom burned. He remembered every time he had touched her as her husband, the weight of her hips in his hands, the warmth of her thighs closing around him. But this—watching her like this, unseen, forbidden, his mother lost in her own ecstasy—was sharper than any memory.

Sarah gasped, sudden and needy, her back arching higher, bubbles sliding down her chest. Her legs shifted in the water, spreading slightly, the soft slap of movement masked under the cascade of the faucet still running faintly.

Tom’s breath came too fast, too loud—he clamped a hand over his own mouth, terrified she might hear. Yet he couldn’t look away, not even for a heartbeat.

Sarah’s rhythm faltered, then built, **** now. Her free hand gripped the edge of the tub, knuckles white, while the other disappeared under the froth. Her sounds grew sharper, each one cutting into Tom like a blade, each one dragging him deeper into that forbidden hunger.

—and then—her body tensed, every line of her frame drawing taut as a bowstring. A sharp, trembling cry spilled from her lips, muffled by the steam but still piercing to Tom’s ears. Her chest heaved, breasts gleaming as the bubbles slipped away, her belly tightening as waves of release shook her. Her thighs quivered against the porcelain, toes flexing hard, then curling.

Water sloshed as her hips bucked faintly, a rhythm she couldn’t contain. She clutched the edge of the tub like an anchor, head thrown back, wet hair clinging to her neck and cheeks. Tom thought she had never looked more beautiful, more undone—never more completely his and yet impossibly out of reach.