**********
I had a lot of thinking to do the next day.
At first I blamed it on the wine but that excuse didn’t even last as long as the hangover, dismissed as bullshit of the highest order. Oh, I kissed him because of the wine, guilty as charged there, but that wasn’t why I’d liked it so much. It definitely wasn’t why I was one tweaked nipple away from stripping my panties off right there on the front step and getting his fingers as deep in me as I could.
There was no way, either, that the wine was why I was still horny just thinking about it. My sex drive is intimidatingly high but it’s usually also pretty indiscriminate. But I didn’t want to pick up the phone and make an early-morning booty call. I didn’t want to hook up with a friend or even a complete stranger.
Hell, I didn’t even want my husband. Teagan had crawled into my fantasies and started flicking at my metaphorical clit, without ever meaning to.
As I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling – Al hadn’t come home, which wasn’t all that unusual as Cora lived closer to their office – I started to think back. I needed to pin this on something, I didn’t care what, and so I tried to think of the first time I’d found Teagan even remotely appealing.
Attraction is a weird thing. It can slip by unnoticed, masquerading as other, more motherly instincts, until it’s examined thoroughly. All those excuses we make to sit closer to someone, to touch their arm, to keep them in eyesight.
The fact is that I couldn’t then – and still can’t now – point to any one event that caused myself to find Teagan sexy. Nothing spurred it. He’s just a damn good-looking guy and that magical safeguard that says, ‘Hey, perhaps fucking your adult son isn’t so great an idea,’ that instinctual block just isn’t there for me. Nothing stops me from looking at him as a man as surely as I do a mother; the two aren’t mutually exclusive.
I don’t know why this is. I might have a Masters degree in chemical science but I’m no psychologist. All I know is that the fact that he was pushed out of my cunt twenty-two years ago doesn’t in the least stop me from wanting him to shove part of himself back in there.
I’m not sure how long it was before I heard Tara yell out that she’d be back that night and the door slammed downstairs louder than it had any right to. I drank more than half of the bottle of water I keep my the bed and dozed off after that.
**********
When I woke up I felt better in as much as no longer having a hangover, but otherwise I was a hot, wet, swampy mess.
I got up, pulled on my stupidly pink fluffy dressing gown and headed down the hall. My destination was initially the bathroom – I wanted a shower – but I stopped when I saw Teagan’s door open a little. Feeling like a light-headed school girl, I peeked inside and saw my boy laying on his bed, spread-eagled, fast asleep. The boxers he had on – ridiculous Superman boxer shorts, I remember that very vividly – did nothing to hide the bulge inside.
Exactly three heartbeats. That is precisely how long it took me to throw away the last of my apparently flimsy decency.