Rear Entrance

Rachael Cavalli stands at her own front door, digging through her purse like a woman possessed. No keys. She raps on the door, knuckles hard, expecting Chloe to answer. Nothing. Just silence. She circles to the back, slides open the glass door, steps into the hush of the living room. Chloe sits hunched over a textbook, headphones on, hips moving in lazy circles to some beat only she can hear. Her ass fills out those shorts like it has a mind of its own—round, tight, the fabric stretched so thin Rachael can count the dimples. Chloe swivels again, still lost in the music. She spins and locks eyes with her stepmom. Chloe smirks. "Caught you staring," she says, peeling the headphones off. "My ass looks that good, huh?" Rachael stutters, caught red-handed, but Chloe only laughs, stands up, bends over the table an inch too slow. "Go on then. Look your fill." The air snaps tight between them. Lips crash. Hands yank. Chloe's shorts hit the floor. Rachael drops to her knees, buries her face between those cheeks and tastes every inch, tongue greedy, Chloe arching back and moaning loud. They fuck like they forgot the word "family," hard and messy: Rachael bent over the couch, Chloe grinding down, then flipped, thighs spread, licking and biting until they both shake. Every slap of skin says they started this and they won't stop.