Page 6 of Yearn

And she always noticed.

That was what ruined me sometimes.

I could feel her attention on me.

I could sense her gratitude rising within my chest, and I was unprepared for emotions like that.

I had moved in a year ago, and every morning since. . .she called me up for breakfast and slid my plate across the table like I belonged in that kitchen.

Like I wasn’t just renting a corner of her world.

Like she couldn’t stand the thought of me eating alone.

Last Christmas, she’d handed me a neatly wrapped box with a nervous smile, like she wasn’t sure it was enough. Inside was a navy wool sweater, soft and expensive, the kind she couldn’t really afford.

She’d said, “You don’t take care of yourself enough, Dominic. You need something warm. I don’t want you getting sick.”

She’d laughed it off, but I’d wanted to sink to my knees right there in front of her.

That sweater was proof.

Proof she thought about me when I wasn’t in the room.

Proof she worried about me.

But it was also. . .proof that I hadn’t become invisible in this world after my parents died.

Proof someone still thought I was worth keeping warm.

She’d even invited me to Christmas dinner, pulling out an extra chair, giving me the illusion of family. For a night, I had warmth, clinking glasses, kids shrieking with laughter as they tore open gifts.

For a night, I had the company of her.

But illusions always faded. And when the wrapping paper was tossed, when the tree lights dimmed, the ache came roaring back.

Because I wasn’t her family.

I just. . .wanted to be that and. . .so much more.

She constantly made me hard.

Even in the smallest moments—her hair falling loose while she packed lunches, the soft scrape of a knife spreading peanut butter across bread—was enough to wreck me.

It was more arousing than any porn I’d ever watched.

The swing of her hips as she reached for a juice box, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips when she concentrated—I wanted to bend her over the counter right then, to take her hard and deep until she forgot her own name. I pictured the sandwiches half-made beneath my fists as I spread her pussy open, her moans spilling louder than any child’s laughter had ever filled this kitchen. The house would smell like peanut butter, her pussy, and my cum, and the space would never recover from either.

God, I wanted to be in her bed so badly it hollowed me out.

But I was 25 and she was 39.

She was older, wiser, scarred by years that I hadn’t yet tasted. And still, all I wanted was to press my mouth to every place lifehad tried to wear her down and prove I could worship her better than any man her age.

She had lived, suffered, survived more than I ever had, and yet I couldn’t stop hungering for the impossible—her strength wrapped around my reckless youth.

She held this power over me without even knowing it. One glance from her could undo every hour I’d spent breaking my body into muscle and control in the gym.

No. This is okay. She deserves to be spoiled today.