I 🫶🏻 hot moms.

Your mother being a sweet but respected woman by the others always called it a community, except that on the way she used to say it. A little sarcastic on the edges, like it tasted sour in her mouth. It sounded more like a warning than a comfort. Community here meant a chain of watchful eyes, mouths that never stayed shut, and stories that moved faster than truth. It meant knowing everything about everyone, whether you wanted to or not.

Especially about the mysterious woman next door, who both your mom and father always referred to as the devil itself.

Melissa Schemmenti. She was fifty years old and the kind of woman who made everyone talk without even opening her mouth.

She’d been living on this neighborhood longer than almost anybody you knew aside from old Mrs. Hernandez, who hadn’t left her house in three years due to the pandemic but somehow knew who was pregnant before their boyfriend or restrictive parents did. Melissa wasn’t just a fixture on the street; she was a presence that made everything feel a little heavier when she stepped outside.

The redhead taught second grade at Abbott Elementary, know as the local and unfounded public school. It was the same school where some of your cousins and half the neighborhood kids had cycled through at one point.

She drove a beat-up red sedan that rattled but never failed, and when it stalled she’d fix it herself in the driveway with a wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Just like her cousin Rocco taught her in early adulthood years. Frank Sinatra would be blaring from an old boombox. Never Billy Joel, she hated that man.

Melissa also cursed like it was a second language and laughed with her whole chest when she needed to, like the world had to hear her joy just as loudly as her rage.

Her clothing choices were also a talk around the whole neighborhood, leather was almost a second part of herself. Tight pants, worn smooth at the seams, paired with biker boots and zip-up jackets that clung to her arms like armor. Blazers too, sometimes on development days at work, or a random morning.

Even in the heat her beautiful hair, wild and copper-red, was always done up like she’d just rolled out of a dive bar and dared someone to say something about it. Her lipstick was blood-red, never smudged. Her eyeliner? Sharp enough to cut glass.

There was something about her. Too much, maybe. Too loud, too brash, too unapologetically her. And that made people nervous. Especially your mom, who treated her like a punching bag any chance she got.

“Red? She’s got a reputation,” she would hiss with others on the phone next to the living room, pulling the blinds just enough to peek through when the second grade teacher walked by. But she never explained what kind of reputation. She didn’t have to. The implication lingered in the silence, in the way her lips tightened, in the way her voice dropped to a whisper like the very air might tattle.

On the other hand, even the worst of the gossips had to admit something. The red shiny tomatoes came in perfect condition every year, despite the overgrown garden and mess of weeds that grew like they were invited, every fruit she touched seemed to thrive. Same with the neighborhood kids, come to think of it. Even the roughest and rebellious teenagers straightened up when Ms. Schemmenti talked.

Probably was the teacher in her. Or probably was the way she walked without bending her knees like she’d seen it all, lived through it, and dared the world to try again.

She wasn’t what your mom wanted near her daughter. Which, of course, only made her that much harder to ignore.

The biggest problem was that you felt attracted to her by nature, your hot older neighbor was the woman who didn’t need to try to be noticed, her presence alone demanded attention. She carried herself with the effortless magnetism of an old Hollywood actress.

Earthy sensuality wrapped in confidence. Her heart-shaped face, with its high cheekbones and stubborn chin, was framed by wild, untamed curls.

One of her most arresting features was her green eyes, intense and capable of delivering a scolding with one glance or an invitation to mischief with a single smirk. They always seemed to be laughing at some internal joke, like she knew secrets the world wasn’t ready for. Thick, natural lashes cast of someone who spent hours under the sun whether tending her unruly garden or grading papers on the porch.

And her lips, full and expressive, made for sly smiles and sassy comebacks. When she talked, you couldn’t look away from the way they moved, shaping every word with a theatrical flair honed from years in classrooms and late-night family fights. If she ever slicked on red lipstick (usually on rare nights out when she’d wink and say she was going to misbehave), the effect was downright lethal.

Her body wasn’t build for delicate and pretty fragility, the siclian was curvy and that made sundresses look like some statement. Jeans looked like a sin, her shoulders carried a posture that never slumped, and her hips swayed with a rhythm that betrayed her Italian roots, even when she was just grabbing the mail to see the bills.

There was a unapologetic sexiness to her, a presence that didn’t need heels or tight dresses (though when she wore them? Damn.)

But what made her truly irresistible was the way all of it came together with her personality.

A arched eyebrow could shut down nonsense, her hands, always with short, boldly painted nails gesturin when she told a story or how her laugh burst out loud and unfiltered, like she had no time for polite pretenses. She wasn’t pretty. She was hot.

On a Friday night, after a peaceful dinner with your father and mother, the sink gurgled as she with a wrist deep in soap water scrubbed at a dish that obviously didn’t needed any scrubbing. The tiny window over the sink looked straight out toward the fence line, toward Melissa’s yard. Of course, she didn't miss the opportunity to make a comment about the neighbor.

“That bitch thinks she’s cute,” your mom pointed out. “Smokes like a chimney on Christmas night and flirts with both genders like it’s a profession. There’s nothing wrong with liking men and women but look at her age! She needs to settle down.”

You’d leaned against the counter, nursing the last sip of iced tea in a sweating glass, lips twitching as the words settled.

“Mom, hush with the implications. I saw her at Anthony’s Italian Coffee & Chocolate House on Wednesday, she recognized me and offered to pay for my order. Melissa has been nothing but polite!” you retort suddenly. One soft, stupid response. Like you forgot, for a second, who you were talking to.

The dish towel in her hands went still, and twisted. Wrung out like a neck snapping.

“She’s got no business talking to girls your age!”she barked, enough to cut through the clink of dishes. She didn’t even have to look at you.

Your father was more calm when the subject was the redhead whose name could not be mentioned in your residence, but he agreed with his beloved wife’s attitudes and words. He sighed heavily without taking his eyes off the news article he was reading on the table.

“Y/N,” the older man begins in a reprehensive tone. “Listen to your mother. She isn’t wrong, that diabolical woman is not a good example for you.”

“Dad,” you started with a anxious tone but he cuted you off by zipping his mouth shut.

Not that the italian-american had ever said much to you. Not then, anyway. She wasn’t reckless. Not the way your parents and neighborhood assumed. But sometimes, in those long evenings when the sky went dark and the kids scattered like pigeons, she’d catch your eye from across the yard.

You didn’t know what to do with that back then. So you stopped looking. Kept your eyes down, your feet moving, your face neutral.

At twenty-seven years old, you’re still living at home (for now.) The converted sunroom is your makeshift office, your laptop perched on uneven towers of old textbooks, the spines cracked and pages yellowed with disuse. Your headphones are never fully on, one ear always tuned to the muffled sounds of the house, your mom’s footsteps in the kitchen, the distant snoring of your asleep dad and the occasional sigh of the floorboards settling. You tell relatives you’re just saving money, figuring things out, waiting for something better. You don’t tell them what that something is. You’re not even sure yourself.

When night falls, the residence follows its own monotonous routine. The telephone on the table after being used for gossiping and concerning, your refrigerator humming its steady drone, harmonizing with the oscillating quietness in your parents bedroom.

That’s when you move. To hookup with your prohibited neighbor.

Bare feet silent against the hardwood, you pad down the hallway, avoiding the floorboard you know will groan under your weight. The back door’s hinges sigh as you ease it open, just wide enough to slip through. The weather is always cold, carrying the scent of cut grass and the faint metallic tang of the neighbor’s sprinkler system.

Your shoes dangle from your fingers, soles brushing your thigh, until you’re at the white picket fence, its paint peeling, wood softened by years of rain and sun. You vault over it with practiced ease, landing in the ground on the other side.

Melissa is usually waiting for you in her house.

Sometimes she’s with a arm behind her back and a glass of expensive white wine cradled in her other hand, condensation beading and slipping down to pool between her fingers. On Saturdays and Sundays, she’s leaning against the side of her garage, arms crossed, one bare foot propped against the siding.

As mentioned before, her wardrobe is as unpredictable as she is. Some evenings, it’s an ancient Neumann University shirt its collar stretched wide from too many washes, the fabric thin enough that you can trace the slope of her shoulder beneath it. Other times, it’s a deep burgundy robe cinched haphazardly at the waist.

And then there are the nights she wears that jeans jacket, one that smells like rain and something faintly spiced thrown over a green tank top and pajama pants, as if she couldn’t be bothered to dress properly, as if she just grabbed whatever was closest when she heard you coming.

Her house is a sanctuary in the way of a life fully lived. Dog-eared paperbacks, half-finished crossword puzzles at the coffee table, a blue pen abandoned. A candle gutters in the corner, wax pooled around the wick, the last whispers of bergamot and cedar.

When she touches you it’s like she is committing you to memory. A palm on your wrist, her thumb tracing your jaw. You lean into the touch like a flower bending toward the sun.

No one knows about this prohibited relationship.

Not the old man three doors down, who waters his geraniums at precisely 6:15 pm every evening, eyes behind his bifocals. Not the kids who shout the redhead’s name from their scooters, who dissolve into giggles when she ruffles their hair and calls them gabortz.

Not even your mother, who still speaks of her in hushed, cautious tones, like the mere mention of that woman next door might summon something dangerous.

You’re aware of the precipice beneath your feet, the way the ground could crumble at any moment. If this gets out, the fallout won’t just be a scandal, it’ll be annihilation.

But then Melissa Schemmenti tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her fingertips brushing the shell of it, rough from years of twisting wrenches and scraping knuckles against metal. She looks at you like you’re something precious, like she’s spent a lifetime searching for a moment this soft, this real.

And suddenly, you don’t care about the consequences.

You only care about this. The gentle way she sways with you when a song drifts from the record player, there’s just enough space between the couch and the coffee table to sway. She pulls you close, one hand firm at the small of your back, the other tangling with yours. There’s no rhythm to it, just the drag of her hips against yours, the heat of her breath against your temple.

Melissa laughs when you step on her toes. “S’alright, bambi, I’ve had worse in my ex-marriage,” she jokes before spinning you under her arm.

“Sorry for being terrible at this,” you apologize with a flush of your cheeks.

She nips at your earlobe. “None of that, why don’t we chill for a sec?”

You care about the way, when later, when the record spins to silence, she tugs you onto the plastic covered couch, the old springs groaning under you. The Nintendo that once belonged to her ex-roommate Jacob Hill, shines to life, the pixelated rainbow of Mario Kart 8 bright against the room. She’s ruthless, elbows digging into your ribs as she leans forward, tongue caught between her teeth.

“Watch this,” your girlfriend grins, and then she’s slingshotting past you on the last lap, her kart spitting blue fire.

“Cheater!” you gasp, but she’s already laughing, triumphant, her head thrown back.

“Winner picks the prize,” Melissa declares, and you know what’s coming before she even reaches for the rolling tray. “You know the rules, babe.”

She’s meticulous about it, grinding the bud between her fingers. The paper crinkles as she licks the glue line, her tongue pink and quick. When she sparks the lighter, the flame reflects in her eyes, and for a second, she looks like something out of a myth.

Obviously, the first hit is always hers. She inhales deep, holds it, lets the smoke curl from her nose like a dragon’s flame.

“Your turn. C’mon, just like I taught you, sweetheart.”

When the smoke burns sweet down your throat, you cough, just a little, not being used to marijuana and the second grade teacher whistles, taking it back. She mocks you, calling you lightweight, but her thumb brushes your lip like an apology.

What you have with her isn’t meant for daylight. It’s a secret, sacred in its silence. If the world found out, if the block buzzed with gossip, if Melissa ever had to name this thing between you in the harsh light of day. It might not survive. Some truths are too fragile for the open air.

So you keep quiet, you stay late. And you tell yourself something:

“I will stop this whole secret situationship. Eventually, so mom doesn’t find out that I am ‘sleeping with the enemy.’”

“Just… not tonight. I don’t wanna hurt her or myself.”

“What people would do and say if they found out? Melissa’s been though a lot since her last marriage, I love her and the idea of making her suffer again, makes me want to scream.”

The next time you and her see each other again, it starts with an unharmful lie.

At the kitchen, you stand digging through the fridge like you’re looking for something important, vital or at least something to justify the way you’re hiding behind the door.

Your mother bustles around behind you, wiping down counters that don’t need wiping.

“You’re going out again?” she prompts, not looking up from the imaginary spot she’s scrubbing at with a dish towel.

“Yeah,” you say, muffled by the fridge door. “At Claire’s.”

After your confirmation, there’s a pause. The faucet drips once, twice, into the sink.

“On a Saturday?”

“Mm,” you grab a water bottle just to have something in your hands. “We’re gonna watch that new series she’s been obsessed with.”

She finally stops pretending to clean. She leans back against the counter, arms crossed, dish towel still clutched in one hand.

“Me and your father noticed that you’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately.”

It’s a accusation. You take a slow sip of water, buying time. Outside, a lawnmower starts up somewhere down the street. “Yeah, well,” you shrug, pretending that you aren’t sweating. “She’s been having a rough time with the divorce. You know how it is.”

A gamble. Your mother’s lips press into a thin line. She’d always liked Claire’s ex-husband. Said that he was a good example of a man.

“I just think it’s strange,” she explains her point of view. “That every time you go over there, you pack an overnight bag?”

You squeeze your fingers around the water bottle. “We drink alcohol, you won’t want me driving home after that.”

“If that’s the reason, you could take an Uber.”

“And leave my car at her place?” you force a laugh. “Come on, Mom. Since when do you care if I sleep over at a old friend’s?”

“I just...” she hesitates, then shakes her head. “Never mind, Y/N.”

You watch as your mother turns back to the counter, rearranging the fruit bowl that doesn’t need rearranging. The bananas are too green. She moves them to the left.

“What time will you be home tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” you set the water bottle down too carefully. “Probably late afternoon or early in the morning.”

Late afternoon,” she chews her lip. “Y’know, Mr. Henderson saw you at the grocery store last week.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh?”

“Said you were with some redheaded woman. Looked... close.”

“Blanche!” you answered, too quickly. “She’s Claire’s older cousin. Was in town for a few days. She is from…California!” Another lie. Melissa has lived next to you for decades.

Her fingers pause on an apple. She doesn’t look at you. “Funny. He didn’t mention that.“

“Maybe because it’s none of his business?” you grab your bag from the chair. “Jesus, Mom. Since when do we report our grocery store companions to the neighborhood watch?”

A car honks outside. The mail truck, probably. “I’m just making conversation,” she tries to defend herself.

“Well,” you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”

“Eleven,” your mother says finally.

“What?”

“Curfew’s still eleven,” her knuckles are white around the dish towel. “Even on Saturdays.”

You stare at her. “I’m twenty-seven!”

“This is my house,” the eldest meets your eyes for the first time. “My rules, if you don’t agree, simply buy your own house and move out.”

“Whatever. I’ll text you.”

She doesn’t say goodbye as you walk out. The screen door slams behind you with finality.

Outside, the sun is too bright and your hands shake as you dig your keys from your pocket. You don’t look back, you never do. On the second your feet hit the pavement, the anger boils over.

“Curfew’s still eleven,” you groan under your breath as you stomp down the sidewalk. “Even on fuckin’ Saturdays.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. You kick a pebble harder than necessary, sending it skittering across the cracked concrete, the clack of stone against asphalt echoing in the quiet neighborhood.

You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders hunched, and take the long way around the block. Not because you need the extra steps, but because you know they’re watching. Mrs. Parker with her lace curtains twitching. Old Man Reynolds pretending to fiddle with his mailbox as you pass. The whole damn street, a minefield of nosy neighbors and prying eyes.

So you walk.

You loop past the park with its rusted swing set, past the Thompsons’ house where their golden retriever barks half-heartedly at you from behind a white picket fence. You take your time, letting the simmering fury in your chest settle into something manageable before you dare double back.

“Oh, but of course! ‘Cause I’m still fucking twelve, right, Stephanie?” you throw your hands up, talking to no one or maybe to the universe in general. A cyclist gives you a weird look. You give them the middle finger until they pedal faster.

By the time you make your way toward your street again you don’t go straight there, of course. That would be too obvious. Instead, you pause at the corner, pretending to check your phone, scanning for witnesses before slipping into the narrow alley between the Millers’ garage and the overgrown hedges that separate their property from hers.

The weather is cooler here, damp with the scent of earth and moss. Your black boots crush brittle leaves underfoot as you move silently along the fence line, fingers brushing the wood until you find the loose board. The one your girlfriend pried loose two years ago, just enough to squeeze through if you turn sideways.

You do.

The backyard is quiet. her garden is wild and untamed, nothing like your mother’s manicured flower beds. The back porch light is off, just like always. Your signal.

You don’t knock. The door is unlocked, the handle cool under your palm as you push inside, stepping into the warmth of her space.

Melissa is at the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron skillet, her back to you. She doesn’t turn around, but you see the way her shoulders tense slightly, the way her fingers tighten around the wooden spoon.

“Goodnight, bimba,” she greets. “I thought I wouldn't see mia principessa tonight.”

You drop your bag on the floor with a thud, the sound louder than you intended in the cozy space. “She’s annoying!” you snap, pacing the length of the kitchen, your boots scuffing against the worn hardwood.

Melissa doesn’t ask who. She just watches you, her green eyes tracking your movements, her expression unreadable as you rant.

“Eleven o’clock curfew. Eleven. Like I’m some teenager sneaking out to meet a boy. And the audacity! ‘the neighbor saw you,’ as if I need to fucking justify who I’m seen with now?”

Melissa sighs a heavy sigh. “You done cursing like a sailor?”

“No!” you whirl on her. “I’m twenty-seven, Lis. Twenty. Fucking. Seven. And she still treats me like, like…”

“Like her kid,” the redhead finishes softly. “That she insists on protecting.”

The fight drains out of you all at once. “Yep, and this pisses me off!”

Your girlfriend turns the stove off. Walks over. Cups your face in her hands. “Wanna know what I think about this?”

“What!?” you ask with a frown.

“I think,” she continues, leaning in until her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm and familiar. “That your mom can go fuck herself.”

A laugh bursts out of you. “Rude.”

“I don’t hate your ma. She’s just a pain in our fuckin’ ass. Now,” the older woman mouths, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lip. “How about we make sure you’re very late for curfew?”

“Yeah?” you give her puppy eyes and she nods kissing you.

You don’t realize you’ve moved that much until the counter presses into her hips and her hourglass body arches into yours, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, clinging like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. The stove makes a noise beside you, the forgotten skillet whispering with the sound of garlic and onions caramelizing.

Her teeth catches your lower lip and you shiver drifting your palms down to her waist, tracing the delicate ridges of her ribs beneath her green top.

“You’re gonna burn dinner.”

She laughs, a sound honeyed, vibrating against your mouth. “I don’t care about dinner when I have a beautiful angel in front of me.”

The wooden spoon clatters to the floor, forgotten, as she turns fully into you, her body aligning with yours like two halves of a perfect fit. Her hands rise to your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging just enough to draw a quiet groan from your throat. You kiss her deeper, slower, savoring the way her breath hitches when your tongue traces the seam of her lips.

Behind you, the onions let out a faint hiss, the sharp tang of smoke curling into the air.

Melissa breaks away with a gasp, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen. She reaches blindly for the pan, nudging it off the burner with a breathless laugh. “Fuck, maybe slightly care.”

You don’t let her go. Instead, you press your lips to the delicate line of her throat, kissing the flutter of her pulse there, nipping gently just to feel the way her fingers tighten in your hair.

“We could just order from that Chinese place,” you suggest. “Mm?”

The redheaded hums, tilting her head to give you better access, her breath coming in soft, uneven waves. “Or,” she counters, her grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your stomach swoop. “You could shut up and keep doing that while I finish cooking, smartass.”

You smile against her skin, pressing one last kiss to the hollow beneath her ear before obliging. Your lips trace the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her jaw, as she stirs the pan one-handed, her other arm looped around your waist, holding you close.

At one point, Melissa turns her head, catching your mouth in a kiss again, her tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your heart drop.

“You’re distracting me,” she scolds. “ I’m just a poor woman trying to make Friggionge. And you are being a pain in my damn ass.”

You nip at her lower lip, grinning when she shivers. “Sorry.”

Green eyes roll at you, but the corners of her mouth moves like she’s fighting a smile. She pulls the pot off the stove with a satisfied hum, plates up generous portions of the dish, then nudges you to sit down at the large dining table.

The recipe belongs to her grandmother, of course, rich with garlic and butter and that earthy sweetness only Melissa knows how to coax out of humble greens. She sits close, knees brushing yours beneath it, her hand never leaving yours even as she twirls pasta with the other.

“Eat,” she orders when she catches you staring at her instead of the food. Her thumb rubs circles over your knuckles, claiming. Every time you take a bite, she watches your mouth like she’s memorizing the shape of your satisfaction.

Every so often Melissa lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your fingers, soft and absentminded, like she can’t help herself. Between mouthfuls, she complains about you distracting her, but she doesn’t let go, not when the sauce drips on her top, not when you tease her about it, not even when you reach to steal a bite off her plate.

And under the table, her foot hooks around your ankle, keeping you there, close, tethered. Like she’s trying to make sure you never slip out of her grasp.

Melissa insists on putting on Real Housewives after dinner. It’s a ritual, really, something she calls her “one good guilty pleasure,” though you know it’s more than an obsession. It’s her way to unwind, to remind herself that other people’s chaos can be louder than hers, funnier too, in a way that makes her feel lighter.

The dramatic monologues of the characters make an interesting combination with a loud scratch of her pen as she grades mathematical tests. She’s tucked against your side, her legs draped over yours, the weight of her warm and familiar. Every so often, she lets out a soft snort of laughter at the show, or at whatever absurd answer one of her second graders scribbled down.

“Breanna wrote that she solved 8 + 5 by counting all the gummy bears in her lunchbox,” Melissa circles the answer and puts a smiling face next to it. “I mean, correct, but pretty sure she just wanted an excuse to tell me about food.”

You chuckle. “Innovative problem-solving. Future mathematician right there."

She swats your chest with the back of her hand, but she’s grinning. “Don’t encourage her. Next thing you know, they'll all be solving subtraction problems by counting the fake teeth in their grandmother’s dentures.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to her temple as the redhead flips to the next test.

“How was your day?” you ask, nuzzling into her hair.

Melissa sighs. “Exhausting. Isaiah tried to prove he could hold his breath for a hundred million hours during reading time. Passed out face-first into the cover of Peter Rabbit.”

“The boy’s got dedication.”

“Dedication? That’s literally no sense!” she corrects, but there’s fondness in her voice. “The nurse had to help me convince him humans do actually need oxygen.”

“So you didn’t actually consider letting evolution take its course?”

“Trust me I did,” the older woman admits, capping her pen and stretching her arms. “But then he looked up at me with those big puppy eyes and said he wanted to be like Spiderman. How do you stay mad at that?”

“You’re a good teacher, Schemmenti,” you compliment with a sweet expression.

She rolls her eyes at you, but her cheeks go pink. “I just hand out gold stars and bandaids.”

“Nah. You are magic,” your thumb brushes over the ink stain on her hand. “Even when you're explaining for the twentieth time why dog doesn’t start with wuh.

Melissa huffs, but she tucks her face against your shoulder. “That’s phonics! You know it.”

When the marathon ends almost an hour later and the credits of Real Housewives roll, the redhead shifts, about to make an ironic comment about the episode’s drama, when she feels the steady rise and fall of your chest against her side. She turns her head and there you are, completely out, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks.

“Y/N? Y/N! come on, you little shit!” she curses and pokes your shoulder. “You promised you wouldn’t fall asleep on me again.”

You don’t wake up and Melissa groans, running a hand through her auburn hair as she surveys the situation: your limbs sprawled in that boneless, deeply asleep way, one arm still loosely curled around her waist. The worksheets are abandoned on the coffee table, her red pen left uncapped. She should be annoyed. She is annoyed.

But she can’t feel annoyed when it comes to you.

So, your older neighbor shifts carefully, sliding out from under your arm. You make a quiet, protesting noise in your sleep, your mouth pouting, and she can’t help but smile. “Shhh, amore, I got you,” she coos, even though you can't hear her.

Melissa bends down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. She braces herself and hoists.

“Gesù Cristo!” your girlfriend stumbles a step, knees buckling slightly. “Why are you…oh my god…why are you so damn heavy when you’re asleep?!”

It’s the dead weight of it. The way you’re completely limp, like a sack of very affectionate potatoes. She huffs, adjusting her grip, your head lolling against her shoulder. “This is ridiculous. I told you to just go to bed at ten. But nooo, you had to…mmph, just one more episode, and now I’m the one..oof! playing goddamn bridal carry at midnight!”

Every floorboard that groans beneath her weight sounds like a gunshot. She can practically hear her mother-in-law’s–correction–her ex-mother-in-law’s- shouting hissing from the guest room down the hall: “I always knew you were a nasty bitch, Melissa Schemmenti.” As if the divorce hadn’t been mutual. As if she hadn't been the one to find the texts on his phone.

The green eyed woman kicks open the bedroom door (gently, because she’s pissed, not rude,) and barely manages to deposit you onto the mattress without dropping you. You immediately curl into the blankets with a sleepy sigh, completely oblivious to her suffering and the pain on her back.

She stands over you, hands on her chest, breathing hard. “The only girlfriend that I ever carried on my arms, even though my fucking back kills me.” She could leave you like this. Should leave you like this. The thing is that she will always provide comfort for her girl.

So Melissa leans down, carefully peeling your jeans off (because sleeping in jeans is criminal and uncomfortable), tossing them over the chair. She wrestles your shirt over your head with minimal grumbling, replacing it with one of her old sleep camisoles, the red one you always steal. You mumble something unintelligible, nuzzling into the cold side of the pillow, and she can't help but brush your hair back from your forehead.

“Sleep tight, mi amore.”

Then she disappears into the bathroom and squints at her reflection on the mirror, the smudged mascara, the worry lines between her brows. Her nighttime routine is simple, the rush of water as she washes her face, the click of her skincare bottles, while whatever song is playing in her head. When she finally emerges, her face is scrubbed clean, her hair piled into a messy bun, her pajamas hanging loose and soft on her frame.

You’ve shifted in her absence, one arm outstretched across her side of the bed like you were searching for her.

Melissa slips under the covers, careful not to jostle you. For a long moment, she just watches the rise and fall of your breathing and thinks.

She should go to sleep in the guest room next door, giving you comfort and privacy. The plastic-covered sofa isn’t a reliable option after all, she might wake up with a terrible neck pain. Dealing with her grade partner Janine Teagues while irritated from a bad night’s sleep is a nightmare.

Staying here in her own bed isn’t a bad idea, right? Hell, you’re the daughter of the neighbor who harbors a deep hatred for her. What else could possibly be a terrible idea?

Her fingers hover just above your skin, not quite touching. The pad of her index finger traces the invisible line of your brow first. Following the arch like she’s memorizing every curve. Then, feather-light, she brushes over the bridge of your nose, smiling when you scrunch it slightly in your sleep.

“A brat even when you’re out cold,” she teases.

Next, it’s over your cheekbone, following the curve down to the corner of your mouth. There’s a tiny scar there, barely noticeable unless you look closely, from when you fell off your bike at eight years old. She knows the story. Knows how your mom freaked out, how your grandma pressed a linen napkin to your face and groaned about “too much energy.”

The redheaded second grade teacher knows too much. That’s the problem.

When her fingers go lower, sliding along your jaw you smile faintly, your breath warm against her wrist, and she freezes but you don’t wake. You just turn your face slightly into her touch.

“Sap,” your girlfriend quips.

A sound creaks, a sharp pop from the hallway. Her head snaps up, her body going rigid. For one breath-stealing second, she imagines the door swinging open. Imagines your mother showing up through the darkness. I knew it. I knew you were fucking my daughter, you pervert! Get away from her right now! Or you’ll regret it!

But nothing moves. It’s just the house. Just Melissa’s paranoia.

When she looks down again, you’ve curled toward her, one hand weakly clutching the fabric of her nightshirt. The scene completely unravels her sarcastic redhead with a heart of stone persona.

She lets out a slow breath through her nose and finally, finally lets herself sink into the mattress beside you. She fits herself against your side, her head resting in the hollow between your shoulder and chest. Your heartbeat is strong beneath her ear. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, a rhythm she could set her watch to.

One of your arms drapes around her waist, pulling her closer even in sleep. Melissa closes her olive eyes and allows herself to believe, just for tonight, that this isn’t borrowed time. That she doesn’t have to tiptoe around her own home. That your mother won’t invade her property, look at her with that thinly veiled disgust while questioning the love the second-grade teacher feels for you.

She laces her fingers with yours. “Shit, we’re so screwed if anyone finds out,” she sighs against your collarbone. “But I’m not going to give up on you, mi amore.”

That was what Sundays meant.

First came Mass, a non-negotiable Schemmenti ritual and then, right after, a different kind of religion. Philadelphia Eagles football. It was sacred. Immutable. If there was a wedding or a funeral, you planned around the game. Rain, snow, heartbreak, power outages — nothing interrupted the flow of church and then football. The noisy family showed up in their jerseys like they were suiting up for battle, and she had never questioned it.

Because it wasn’t just a game. Not to her.

The Eagles were the one constant in a world that spun on chaos. When her parents fought. When her siblings were assholes with her. When uncle Archie talked about her weight gain. When her Nonna got sick. When Melissa, at twenty-four, got her heart broken by some cocky bartender who moved to L.A. and stopped returning her calls, when at thirty-nine, Joe cheated on her for the first time and just years later she was ready to sign the divorce papers — the Eagles stayed. Through losses and wins, through the highs of their Super Bowl run and the lows of a season riddled with injuries and disappointment, that team was her anchor. When everything else went sideways, she had those crisp fall Sundays. She had the cold beer in her hand, her name stitched on the back of a well-worn jersey, the sound of the crowd roaring on the television, and the pounding in her chest that told her hope wasn’t dead yet.

She didn’t just watch the games — she felt them.

Every touchdown was a shot of adrenaline that had her on her feet, shouting like she was on the field herself. When the refs blew a call, she’d erupt with muttered strings of colorful language thick with Philly accent and Italian roots. And when they lost — and they had lost, plenty — it wasn’t just disappointment. It was grief. It was mourning. She’d carry it around for days like a bad hangover, stewing in the injustice of it all.

Her whole life was mapped by the team.

Her papa lifting her up after a huge playoff win, spinning her in circles while she screamed with joy. Her sister Kristen Marie once painting her entire face green for a parade down Broad Street after the Eagles clinched the division, the pictures still framed on her mantle. Even Jacob, her ex-roommate and platonic soulmate, who knew jack shit about football. She could still remember the night he flopped beside her on the couch with a bowl of chips and said. “Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” just to distract her after a nasty breakup with that last guy who was easy forgettable. She’d explained first downs and holding penalties between shots of whiskey, and by the end of the game, he was pretending to be outraged at a bad snap just to make her laugh.

Months later even when Jacob Hill was able to move out to an adorable and dreamy apartment complex with his new long term boyfriend Elijah, the olive-eyed woman kept inviting him around to explain all the game and team lore for him.

Beacuse it wasn’t just football. It was family. It was tradition. It was stitched into her DNA.

So when it was game day, a big game, you didn’t interrupt Melissa Ann Schemmenti. You didn’t call her. You didn’t text. You didn’t try to schedule dinner or start a fight or invite her out. You especially didn’t try to seduce her out of it.

Unfortunately for her and, frankly, for the fate of the Eagles that Sunday afternoon you, her sweet and provocative girlfriend, hadn’t gotten the memo that clearly stated: during the game, the priority is football. Period.

You were the kind of woman who turned distraction into an art form. A dazzling threat, made of curves, dangerous intentions, and an annoyingly irresistible charm. And there you were, sitting on her lap like it was your rightful throne — wearing nothing but one of those oversized shirts.

The Eagles jersey you wore was one of Schemmenti’s oldest and most cherished. The fabric, already a little worn with time, carried that unmistakable scent of fabric softener mixed with the woody perfume she always wore. The knit, frayed at the shoulders and collar, hung loosely on your body, swallowing your curves with a careless ease that only highlighted what it left exposed.

It was a classic dark green, with white and silver accents, the number on the back, partially hidden by your bare back, belonged to a player she always cursed out, yet stubbornly refused to stop loving.

“Mi amore. Whatever you’re thinkin’ right now? Don’t.” she warned, without taking her green eyes off the screen, moving just lazily enough for you to see her white boxers. It was the kind of piece she only wore at home, comfortable, vulnerable in a way almost no one else ever got to see. The soft cotton hugged her strong thighs naturally. The elastic waistband, with the brand name nearly faded, sat a few inches below her belly button, exposing a sliver of hip whenever she stretched out on the couch.

The fabric was slightly wrinkled, hinting that she’d probably slept in them the night before. It was a simple, practical pair of boxers but on Melissa Schemmenti, with that mature, effortlessly sexy body, it became a kind of quiet provocation. The white stood out against the warm tone of her hydrated soft skin, and the way she moved — or didn’t move — made you want to tear them off with your teeth.

She was, in public, the picture of classic femininity. Low heels, flawless hair, manicured nails in rich crimson shades, and a confidence that could silence an entire room the second she walked in. She had that unbothered sex appeal. Tight dresses, fitted blouses under leather jackets, gold hoops that chimed softly when she moved, everything about her screamed woman.

At home, your girlfriend dropped the polish and slipped into a version of herself that was quieter, more grounded and somehow even more alluring.

Her signature red hair was always thrown up in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her temples. Her face was bare, revealing freckles she usually covered up out of stubborn habit. And then there were the clothes.

She loved dressing masculine when she was off the clock not as a statement, but because it just felt right. Oversized t-shirts, worn soft from years of use, still holding the faint scent of laundry detergent and whatever beer she had spilled on them the last time she yelled at the television. Loose white or grey boxer briefs, stolen from some discount rack in a department store, hugging her hips with the easy intimacy of routine. No lace, no effort to be “sexy.” Just comfort.

That duality was part of what drove you wild. The same woman who wore heels and lipstick at work was the one who left the toilet seat up and swore at the screen like she was calling the plays herself.

Feminine by nature. Masculine by comfort.

“But you’ve been watching for hours,” came the sulky protest, breath warm against the redhead’s ear. Your fingers toyed at the neckline of her faded jersey. “C’mon, baby. Just halftime. Ten minutes. I promise I’ll make it worth it…”

Her pulse fluttered somewhere south of righteous.

“Listen, crybaby,” she quips. “I love you, but if you try to pull me away in the middle of a fourth-quarter red-zone drive, I will put you on the ‘do not disturb’ list next season.”

“Red...”

“No, be a good girl and wait. Mommy is busy and you wouldn’t dare interrupt her.”

You pouted.

Not a half-hearted, childish pout. No! this was a masterpiece of melodrama, crafted with intention. Your eyes narrowed, bottom lip pushed out just enough to make a statement, arms crossed tightly under the loose jersey hanging off your frame. It was way too big on you, practically a dress, brushing halfway down your thighs. But it did nothing to hide the way your entire posture screamed for attention.

Melissa didn’t budge.

She sat in the middle of the worn leather couch, leaning forward with the focus of a general mid-battle. The Eagles were in the red zone. Ten yards out. Third and goal. The game was on the line. Her breath came in shallow, sharp bursts, one hand wrapped around the neck of her beer bottle, the other clenched into a fist on her knee like she could will the quarterback into making the right damn play.

You couldn’t understand this kind of tension. It was a game. Just a stupid game. But for Melissa Schemmenti, it was religion.

And then it happened.

The ball was snapped. The defense flinched. A clean pass, fast and ruthless, cutting through the field like a bullet.

Touchdown.

She erupted like a volcano. She leapt off the couch as if jolted by electricity, arms shooting into a victorious V, her eyes bright with feral joy. Beer sloshed out of the bottle, splattering onto the old rug, the same one she refused to clean with anything but baking soda and vinegar but she didn’t even notice.

“GO, BIRDS! TAKE THAT, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!”

Her raspy voice boomed through the living room, loud enough to rattle the windowpanes.

You groaned. Not a subtle sound, but a deep, dramatic moan, as if your very soul had been personally betrayed. You let your body collapse against the back of the couch in despair.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Mels,” you whined, glaring at her profile like it had offended you. “This is ridiculous. We should be making out or cuddling or doing anything other than watching a bunch of guys fight over balls. Balls.”

She didn’t look at you. Didn’t even flinch. One hand lifted lazily in your direction like a traffic cop waving someone along.

“We’re down by three. Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. Do I look like I’m joking?”

You groaned again. Louder. And muttered, just under your breath but loud enough that she’d catch it. “You sound like an old lady who needs to get laid.”

Her jaw ticked. Just once. But those forest eyes still glued to the screen flashed with danger. Still, her response came out calm. Too calm.

“I need the Birds to convert this third down. Then we can talk about me getting laid.”

You let out a long, aggrieved sigh. And shifted in her lap.

Once. Then again. A little roll of your hips, subtle but deliberate. The warmth of your body pressing into her thighs, the curve of you brushing against her jeans.

The redhead didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” she spoke, “if you don’t stop wiggling around, you’re gonna make me spill my beer.”

That earned another pout. A new one. Smaller, sulkier. But when she didn’t so much as glance at your legs or the heat in your eyes, you gave up the game — for now — and stood up with exaggerated indignation.

“I am not sitting here, ignored and sober,” you huffed, backing toward the hallway, the jersey slipping up just enough to reveal your favorite pair of panties. The black lacy ones Melissa definitely had a thing for. You were all long legs and frustration. “You want another beer?”

Your girlfriend, still laser-focused on the screen, raised her bottle without looking. “Yeah, thanks, babe. Grab one for me while you’re back there.”

There was a pause. The tiniest glimmer of mischief sparked behind your eyes. Then, wordlessly, you pivoted and disappeared not into the precious kitchen of hers, but down the hallway to the bedroom.

Melissa’s brow furrowed a little. “Hon. The fridge is that way, y’know.”

No answer.

Another play on the screen. The crowd roared from the speakers. The Eagles pushed forward. She sat on the edge of the couch, vibrating with tension but something tugged at her. A whisper of doubt. She glanced toward the stairs, lips tightening.

“Babe?” the second grade teacher called out. “You okay?”

Then, faintly a soft thump. Like fabric hitting the floor. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. A quiet groan left her lips.

“…That better not be what I think it is.”

Melissa tried — she really did — to keep her attention on the screen. Another snap. Another pass. Another completed play. The Eagles were gaining ground.

click. The unmistakable sound of a drawer sliding open.

Her head turned toward the hallway.

“Y/N,” she warned, tone quieter now, like she was negotiating with a bomb. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing in there…”

Another cheer from the television. She sat up straighter, clutching her beer with both hands now.

“…you’d better bring me that beer first,” she murmured to herself, torn between lust and loyalty. “Jesus Christ.”

Melissa Schemmenti didn’t move. But her grip on the bottle had tightened.

Behind the bedroom door, you paused, barefoot on the cool wood floor, the dim light casting long shadows across your legs. From the living room, the muffled roar of the crowd continued — a distant pulse of adrenaline and tribal fury — but it was that warning, that made you insane.

If you’re doing what I think you’re doing in there..

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips. God, she was so damn stubborn.

Stubborn and beautiful and maddening in that irresistible, grown-woman way that made your skin tighten and your breath hitch in your throat.

You peeled your panties down with calculated slowness, letting the soft fabric brush over your skin as it slipped down your thighs. The air was cool, goosebumps rising along your legs, your core pulsing with the rush of what you were about to do. The cotton pooled at your feet, delicate and quiet. You stepped out of them, toeing them aside, your body now clothed in nothing but her jersey, hanging dangerously low over your hips.

You weren’t going to beg. Not tonight.

If she wanted to act like the game was her girlfriend, fine.

You’d just remind her of exactly what she was missing.

You pulled the hem of the jersey down a bit — not to cover yourself, but to tease — and stepped lightly back into the hallway. The cold ass air kissed your thighs, your pulse thudding just beneath the surface as you moved quietly, purposefully, toward her.

Melissa hadn’t noticed you.

She was locked in. Elbows on her knees, jaw tight, those sharp green eyes glued to the television. The light from the screen washed over her face, casting her in flashes of blue and silver. One arm was slung over the back of the couch, her legs spread comfortably apart in that effortless way that drove you insane. Her beer, half-finished, sat abandoned on the table beside her. She didn’t even reach for it. Every muscle in her body was humming with focus, tuned entirely to the fourth quarter.

And that — that — was your opening.

Without a word, you crossed the room and climbed into her lap like you’d done it a thousand times before. Straddling her thick, jean-clad thigh, you settled your weight down with slowness, your naked flesh meeting the rough texture.

The older woman tensed beneath you, her spine straightening like she’d been shot. Her head turned sharply toward you.

“Babe,” she rasped, the syllables rough from yelling at the screen. “Don’t be a naughty girl.”

But her tone faltered, just barely. Cracked at the edges. Because now she felt it. The unmistakable truth that you were completely naked beneath that shirt.

You leaned in, giving her your best wide-eyed look, teeth catching the corner of your lip. “I didn’t do anything,” you murmured, pretending innocence you didn’t possess.

Her hands, those strong, capable hands that had scolded and held and ruined you before, twitched at her sides. But she fought back.

And then you moved.

Your hips rolled forward, dragging yourself across the muscle of her thigh in one sinuous glide. The friction was good, pressure building right where you needed it. You pressed your forehead to hers, your breath feathering across her lips.

“Fuck, mommy,” you moaned. “This feels so good.”

Melissa groaned, guttural. The kind of sound pulled from the chest, like she was trying to hold onto her last thread of sanity.

She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “I swear to God, baby. Don’t make me choose between you and the Birds right now.”

You leaned in closer, mouth grazing her jaw. “Then don’t.”

Your girlfriend didn’t push you away. So you kept moving.

Slow. Shameless.

The worn fabric of Melissa’s jeans was rough against your soft skin, but it was exactly what you needed. Solid. Textured. Unforgiving. Each lazy grind of your hips dragged slick heat across the ridge of her thigh, and the soft, wet sounds that followed was obscene — too quiet for the game to mask, too intimate not to notice.

Your hands clutched her shoulders, nails grazing the worn fabric of her jersey. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. Melissa Schemmenti, the most infuriating woman on the planet, kept her green eyes locked dead ahead on the television like her soul had money riding on this fourth quarter.

You whimpered her name once more — breathy, high-pitched, wrecked — and still… nothing.

She didn’t look at you.

Didn’t push you off.

Didn’t help.

But she didn’t stop you either.

And that restraint, that maddening stillness beneath you — only made it worse.

The heat pooled low in your belly, coiling, pulsing, threatening to consume you from the inside out. You rolled your hips harder now, grinding yourself down on the hard muscle of her thigh with a soft gasp, chasing relief that stayed just out of reach.

Finally, she moved. Not much.

Just one hand.

It lifted lazily from the armset and slid up your thigh, warm and calloused and super slow. Her fingers stopped at your hip, settling there — not to guide you, not to take control — just to feel you. Just to remind you that she was there. That she knew what you were doing. That she liked it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

She still didn’t look at you. Her posture barely shifted. But her mouth… her mouth dipped to your neck, brushing against the sensitive skin like a spark just waiting to catch. A soft exhale. Then lips — plush and hot and patient — pressed a kiss against your throat, right where your pulse fluttered like a warning.

And then… teeth.

She didn’t bite down. She didn’t mark.

She just grazed you. A promise. A warning. A tease.

“Better not cum before they make this field goal,” your girlfriend murmured and it felt like gravel sliding along your spine.

You whimpered — not just from the pressure, or the build-up, or the aching tension that had your thighs trembling — but from the audacity. Melissa Schemmenti was letting you ride her thigh like some desperate, ruined dog in heat, but hadn’t spared you a single full glance.

She was holding you. Kissing you. Letting you use her body.

And still watching the damn game.

“Mels!” you gasped, your voice thin and cracking, your forehead falling to her shoulder as your rhythm faltered for a second. “Shit. just—fuck, just do something.”

“I am,” she said. “I’m watchin’ the Birds win this goddamn game.”

Moans tumbled out of you without warning. You weren’t playing coy anymore. You couldn’t. And that damn woman… she just sat there.

Unmoved.

Unbothered.

“Jesus,” the older redhead muttered finally, dragging her lips from your neck to your collarbone, pressing a kiss to the soft curve there. “You’re makin’ more noise than the damn commentators.”

Your response was half-moan, a half-whine.

And Melissa? Didn’t look at you.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t stop.

The rhythm had turned desperate, no longer about teasing or playing. It was need, pure and simple, pulsing hot between your legs and climbing toward something unbearable.

Now, your clit throbbed, painfully sensitive, each pass of your damp pussy dragging over in a delicious, tormenting friction. The edge was there, right there, only to dart away again like smoke between your fingers.

You couldn’t take it. You couldn’t.

Your hand slipped down without thought, fingers diving between your thighs — slick and shaking — finding that swollen, aching bud. And when you touched yourself, really touched yourself, your entire body jolted.

“FUCK,” you screamed. Loud. “Please. I will be good. I will be so fuckin’ good for you, Mommy.”

Your hips bucked against Melissa’s leg, chasing the pressure. Your digits moved in tight, fast circles over your clit, messily coordinated with each thrust of your hips. You were panting now with your mouth parted. Moaning into the warm, familiar curve of her neck.

“Mommy...”

The one hand that had been resting lazily on your thigh, tightened. Her palm wrapped around your hip bone with practiced ease, steady and anchoring, keeping you locked in place. But her eyes never left the television. She sat there, beer resting against her knee, her expression calm, unreadable.

Like you weren’t losing your mind right there in her lap.

Like you weren’t soaking through her jeans.

Like you weren’t whimpering her name with every breath.

“You alright there, doll?” she asked casually — so casual — like she was asking if you needed anything from the store. “Soundin’ a little outta breath.”

“You evil bitch...”

Ignoring the fact that you just cursed her, calling her a bitch. Melissa made a soft humming sound. Thoughtful. Unhurried. Then leaned in and kissed your neck, like nothing in the world was more important than the skin just below your jaw.

“Field goal’s up,” she grinned, lips brushing your pulse point. “Fifty-five yards. No timeouts.”

Your back arched. Your thighs clenched around her. Your hand was working faster now — tight little circles that had your whole body shaking.

“Lissa—please—I’m so close.”

She turned her head, just slightly and let her mouth ghost over the shell of your ear. Her breath was hot when she spoke.

“Hold it for Mama, sweetheart.”

Your eyes rolled in pleasure.

The fucking climax was right there, shaking through your core, begging to break loose. You pressed your face into the crook of her neck, eyes squeezed shut, teeth catching your lower lip to stop yourself from screaming.

“I can’t,” you cried desperaely.

“You will,” it wasn’t a suggestion. It was a sentence. “The kick’s up.”

“F-fine.”

Hours later, the Philadelphia Eagles game ended with a roar. the stadium on television erupting, the commentator losing his mind, something about a miracle kick and playoff chances. Melissa barely reacted. Just a small grunt, a satisfied smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth as she leaned back against the couch.

You, on the other hand, were wrecked.

Still straddling her lap, still trembling, still soaked through and aching — your forehead pressed to her neck, your hand frozen between your legs, your whole body suspended in agonizing anticipation. Your cunt squeezed around nothing, and your legs were so shaky you weren’t sure they’d hold if you tried to stand.

The older woman reached forward lazily and clicked the remote. The screen went black.

Silence fell over the room. She looked at you.

Her green eyes were hooded, darker now. Her jaw clenched. There was a heat simmering there, something dangerous. And it made your stomach drop in the most delicious way.

She dragged her gaze down your body, the oversized jersey hanging off one shoulder, the sweat on your skin, the flushed pink of your cheeks, your thighs splayed wide across her lap, trembling. Her eyes landed on her own jeans, full of your wetness and she smiled.

“Good girl. Still holding it?”

You whimpered. “Y-yeah…”

“Let your Mommy take care of it now, baby.”

Without another word her hand slipped down, fingers sliding between your legs, through the slick heat she’d spent the last fifteen minutes building up. You gasped, nearly choking on it, your hips jerking forward.

She was soaked. You were soaked.

Her middle finger found your clit, circling it once.

“Babe—” you begged. “Don’t—don’t tease—don’t—”

But Melissa was already slipping lower.

One thick finger pressed against your tight entrance, then slid in with a smooth, practiced motion that made your back arch and your mouth drop open in a silent scream.

Then two.

Her fingers curled just right, dragging against that spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyes.

She started fucking you slow at first, deep and measured, her palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. You were melting, unraveling in her lap, clawing at her shoulders, sobbing her name into her throat.

And Melissa, strong, steady Melissa Schemmenti stayed in position, her legs still planted, her back pressed into the couch like nothing had changed.

Except now her mouth was on your neck again. Now her fingers were deep inside you, relentless and sure, each movement making you shake harder in her lap.

“That’s it, princess. Take it. You needed this, huh?”

“I tried to be good,” you sobbed. “I tried—”

“I know you did, honey.” Her thumb brushed your clit, and you could swear that your soul left your body. “You did so good for me.”

Without warning, she speed up. Her fingers thrusting harder now, deeper, wet sounds echoing in the quiet room, obscene and perfect.

“Come for me,” she licked your ear. “Now.”

And you did.

Your body seized in her arms, a cry torn from your throat, your whole world narrowing to the explosion behind your eyes. You came hard — soaking her hand, clutching her shoulders, your hips jerking erratically as she worked you through it.

“Jesus H. Christ,” you whispered, tears in your eyes from the intensity.

You hadn’t even recovered from the last orgasm when you rocked your hips again, grinding down onto Melissa’s hand.

She was still deep inside you. Thick fingers slick and buried to the knuckle, stretching you open. Holding you there.

“Mels..”

She didn’t move a muscle. Just watched you. Her focus on the way your hips rolled, her jaw tense, her breath catching just slightly.

And when you did it again, moaning softly this time, thighs shaking her lips parted with a dark, dangerous sigh.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

She adjusted the angle of her fingers inside you, just enough to make your breath catch in your throat and then her voice dropped.

“You really don’t know how to quit, do you?”

Her free hand gripped your thigh, firm and possessive, holding you in place as you started bouncing in earnest, fucking yourself on her fingers like you needed it.

Melissa bit down on her lip. Her nostrils flared.

“I swear,” your girlfriend growled, “next time, I’m putting my cock on, and you’re gonna ride it until you forget your own fuckin’ name.”

Your breath caught. She kept talking.

“Gonna bend you over the arm of that couch… pull your panties to the side… and push in slow, inch by inch, while you beg me to go faster.”

Your hands were clutching her shirt.

“Gonna hold you down by the throat,” she chuckled darkly, “while I pound into that pretty little pussy from behind and make you scream into the cushions while you take it like the desperate whore you are.”

“Yes, Mommy. Do it, I beg you.”

She grabbed your hips with both hands now, her fingers still buried inside you, and thrust up — once, deep and sharp.

You cried out.

“You want that cock so bad, huh?” she said, smirking darkly. “Want to sit on it like this — bounce those hips until you’re dripping all over me?”

You were so close again it hurt.

“I’ll make you watch yourself in the mirror,” the older woman promised. “Make you see the way you take it. The way I wreck you.”

That was it.

You came again with a full-body shudder — clenching around her fingers, mouth open in a silent scream as wave after wave crashed through you. You collapsed against her chest, gasping, dizzy, clinging to her shirt like a lifeline.

Melissa didn’t pull out right away.

She held you, fingers deep and still, rubbing gentle circles into your back with her other hand while your body spasmed and twitched in her arms.

“There you go. That’s it, baby. I got you.”

You whimpered softly, tears pricking at your eyes. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. She kissed your temple, then your cheek, slow and sweet — the sharp edge of dominance giving way to something so gentle, it made your chest ache.

After a moment, she finally, carefully, slid her fingers out, easing the stretch. You winced, and she cupped your thighs, soothing.

“Shh, I know. You’re okay. You did so good for me.”

You didn’t answer — too fucked-out to form words — but you melted into her chest with a tiny, breathless sigh. The redheaded woman held you close, wrapping one arm around your waist and burying her face in your hair.

A minute passed. Then two.

Your body was limp and sticky, your breathing uneven. She could feel your heartbeat against her.

Then, wordless and strong, Melissa stood and carried you. One arm under your thighs, the other across your back. She walked you up the stairs like it was nothing, her jaw set in that quiet, focused way she always got when she was taking care of you.

In the bedroom, your girlfriend laid you down gently on the mattress and disappeared for a moment. Returning with a warm washcloth, a soft towel, and one of your favorite oversized shirts.

The redhead cleaned between your legs with steady hands — careful, tender, not rushing a thing — her eyes flicking up every few seconds to make sure you were okay.

“You still with me, honey?” she asked gently.

You nodded, barely able to speak, and she kissed your knee before slipping the clean shirt over your head.

Then she stripped down to just her boxers — no fanfare, no performance and crawled into bed behind you, pulling you close into her chest.

Her hands never stopped moving. One rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles. The other tangled in your hair, her fingers carding through it gently.

“Proud of you,” she whispered into your skin. “You were perfect.”

You sniffled, eyes fluttering shut and pressed your face into the crook of her neck.

“Love you,” you whispered, barely audible.

Melissa smiled.“I know,” she murmured, brushing her lips across your temple. “I love you too.”