Caught After Curfew

Jane slipped her heels off at the door, pressing bare soles to cold tile as she crept past the grandfather clock. She made it two steps before a soft spill of light from Jessie's doorway caught her eye. She leaned forward, ready to keep moving, until voices threaded through the crack—Helena's low rumble and Jessie answering in that breathless half-whisper. Curiosity hooked her. She bent closer, one hand flat on the frame, and the floorboard gave a traitor creak. Through the gap she watched Helena cradle the back of Jessie's neck and pull her in. Their mouths met hard, tongues visible for a split second before Jessie whimpered and pushed closer. Hands moved—Helena's under Jessie's thin tank, Jessie's fingers sliding down the front of Helena's silk robe. Jane felt her own pulse slam between her legs, sharp and angry. She told herself to leave, but her feet stayed glued until the jealous burn finally shoved her forward. She kicked the door wide. "What the fuck?" Helena spun, robe gaping, nipples already tight from Jessie's tongue. "Jane. You're past curfew—" "You're fucking your stepdaughter," Jane shot back. "Or maybe she's fucking you. Either way, you two hid it from me." Jessie wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, eyes wide. Voices overlapped—accusations, denials—until Helena raised both hands. "Enough," she said. "We're all guilty tonight." Her gaze raked Jane from head to toe, lingering at the hem of her short skirt. "You're hurt because you weren't invited. So get in here. Take what you came for." The door clicked shut behind Jane like the hammer of a revolver.