Jeremy

Saturday arrived with the weight of a guillotine. Jeremy sauntered in like he owned the place, his grin widening when Mom bent to take his bag, her blouse gaping just enough to reveal the shadow between her tits. I frowned, "He's a fucking asshole!" before realising that I had also just been staring at Mom's cleavage. "He can carry his own shit, Mom."

Mom shot me a warning look, but Jeremy just chuckled, draping an arm around her shoulders like they were old friends. "Relax, faggot," he said, his thumb brushing the bare skin above her collar. "Your mom’s just being hospitable." The way his fingers lingered made my jaw lock.

But Mom—fuck, Mom didn’t even flinch at the slur. She just laughed, swatting his chest playfully like it was some inside joke. "Ay, don't mind him," she told Jeremy, her voice warm. "Mi hijo’s just protective." Her fingers lingered on Jeremy’s bicep, squeezing slightly. The bastard smirked right at me over her head, his fingers trailing down her spine like he was marking territory.

"I need to freshen up," Mom murmured, stepping away—but not before Jeremy’s hand slid down her back, palming her ass. The bathroom door clicked shut, and his smirk turned predatory. "Bet she changes into something comfy," he mused, stretching out on the couch like a lion claiming territory. "Something… thin."

My teeth ground together. "Shut the fuck up."

Jeremy stretched, arms behind his head, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight over his chest. "Nah, I'm just saying—bet she's got those little sleep shorts. The ones that ride up when she sprawls on the couch." His tongue swiped his lower lip. "Or maybe that tank top she wears when it's hot. The one where you can see her nipples poking through when she forgets a bra." He exhaled, slow and theatrical. "Fuck, your mom's tits look even better without all that polyester in the way."