Every time she bent forward just slightly, the skirt rode up just enough to tease the smooth, toned skin of her upper thighs, the shadow of her cleavage visible where her blouse dipped low.

Fuck.

I stepped closer, my cock already half-hard from the sight of her, my mind flooding with filthy images of grabbing that ass, spreading her cheeks, and slamming into her right here in this kitchen—while Emily watched, her mouth open in shock, her pussy dripping with jealousy.

Jennifer turned slightly, handing me a stack of plates, her dark, smoldering eyes flicking up to meet mine for just a second. There was disdain there—she clearly didn't like Mike—but there was something else, too. Something hotter. Something angrier.

"Here," she said, her voice sharp, her full lips pressed into a thin line. "Take these to the table."

I reached for the plates, my fingers brushing against hers—on purpose. She stiffened, her eyes flashing with irritation, but she didn't pull away.

Not yet.

As I took the plates, I shifted my stance, letting my cock—already thick and heavy—press against the side of her ass.

Just an accident.

Just a little brush.

But I made sure she felt it.

Jennifer's breath hitched, her body tensing for a split second before she forced herself to relax. She didn't turn around. She didn't scream. She didn't even say anything.

But I saw it—the way her fingers clenched around the next plate, the way her back stiffened, the way her thighs pressed together just a little tighter.

She felt it.

Emily, standing right beside her, didn't notice a thing. She was too busy arranging silverware, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder, her tight tank top stretching over her perky tits. "Mom, do you need help with—"

"I've got it," Jennifer snapped, her voice sharper than usual, her eyes burning as she handed me another stack of dishes.

This time, I didn't just brush against her.

I pressed my cock—fully hard now—against her ass, letting it grind against her for just a second before stepping back, my voice innocent. "Thanks."

Jennifer's breath caught, her shoulders tensing, but she still didn't turn. She didn't dare.

Because if she did, she'd have to admit it.

She'd have to admit that her son-in-law's cock was pressing against her ass.

And worse?

She'd have to admit that she liked it.

I walked out, grabbing the plates from the counter, my fingers brushing against the warm ceramic as I carried them to the dining table. Jennifer followed, her arms laden with dishes, her body moving with that same hypnotic sway—her hips rolling, her skirt clinging to the curves of her ass, the fabric stretching just enough to tease the shape beneath.

And then—

Her eyes flicked down.

Right to my crotch.

For a single, breathless second, her gaze lingered, her lips parting just slightly before she snapped her eyes up, her expression twisting into something angry, disgusted—but not fast enough to hide the flush creeping up her neck.

She didn't say anything.

But she didn't have to.

I saw it. The way her breath hitched, the way her thighs pressed together just a little tighter, like she was trying to ease the ache between them.

Oliver's presence dominated the room as he settled into his seat at the head of the table, his broad shoulders filling the space with an air of authority. His gaze swept over us—assessing, approving—like a king surveying his court.

Jennifer slid into the chair to his right, her skirt riding up just enough to reveal the smooth, toned skin of her thighs, her fingers drumming restlessly against the tablecloth. The way her legs crossed, the way her blouse clung to her full breasts, the cleavage just visible enough to be tempting—it was all deliberate. A tease. A challenge.

I took my seat to Oliver's left, putting me directly across from Jennifer. The tension between us was palpable, a live wire humming beneath the surface. She avoided my gaze, but I could feel it—the heat of her anger, the unspoken hunger she refused to acknowledge.

Emily broke the silence first, her voice soft but pleading, her eyes flicking between me and her father. "Dad…" She hesitated, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. "Why don't you help Mike transfer to some desk job?" Her voice trembled slightly, her concern for me—for Mike—genuine.

"You know it's dangerous out there. We don't know what those savages—or any other animals—might do…" Her eyes locked onto mine, worried, protective, her lips parting as she waited for her father's response.

Oliver chuckled, a deep, knowing sound, as he cut into his food. "I'll talk to people," he said, his voice firm, assuring. "Assign Mike to be in charge of Internal Security instead of going out."

I nodded, keeping my tone grateful, my eyes meeting Emily's for a brief, intimate moment. "Thank you."

Oliver waved a hand, dismissive, his gaze warm as it settled on me. "Don't make a fuss." His voice carried the weight of finality, of family. "You're family." His eyes met mine, approving, proud.

"And I'm quite happy that you're a part of our family." He glanced at Emily, a proud smile tugging at his lips. "You have good taste, Emily." His voice was warm and affectionate. "I have to say—my daughter has a good eye."

Emily's face lit up, her cheeks flushing with pride and happiness. She leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but firm, her eyes shining as she looked at her father. "Of course I do, Dad." Her fingers brushed against mine under the table, possessive, claiming.

"I am your daughter, after all." Her voice carried a playful confidence, a hint of defiance, as if daring anyone to question her choice. "And I know what I want." Her gaze flicked to me, heated, promising, before she turned back to her father, her smile sweet but knowing. "And I want Mike."

Oliver chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "That you do, sweetheart." His gaze softened as he looked at her, proud, affectionate. "That you do."

I glanced at Jennifer.

Her expression darkened.

Her fingers stilled on the table, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her fork. The way her jaw tightened, the way her eyes flicked to me—cold, bitter—it was clear.

She didn't like Mike.

And whatever he had done?

It had left a mark.

The question was—

What had he done?

And how was I going to use it to my advantage?

Emily's hand squeezed mine under the table, her touch warm, reassuring, her body leaning into me just slightly, as if claiming me in front of her mother. The tension in the room was thick, charged, the unspoken battle between mother and daughter playing out in silent glances and loaded words.

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