Break Ups Are Hard... But Not For Stepson's Dick

Nickey bites her lip, not sure how far she’s willing to go. Then her whole plan crashes together at once. "Hey, buddy," she says, tapping the open sofa next to her. Tyler drops down, shoulders up around his ears. Nickey’s hand finds his knee, gives it a warm squeeze, then slides an inch higher like it just thought of something. "You look terrible," she teases, half smile. "Fix it with me?" Before the kid can answer she’s kissing the corner of his mouth, tasting the afternoon on his skin. Her fingers trace the zipper of his jeans and it parts without much fight, like it already knows what’s coming. She pulls him out, half-hard and a little surprised, cups him with palm heat that turns him the rest of the way. Nickey leans down, breath hot, and just takes him—slow, steady, tongue curling like it’s got a mission. Tyler’s head thumps the back of the couch; Nickey’s throat works with the rhythm, quiet wet sounds filling the room. She pops off for air, lipstick smudged, and peels her top down, one heavy tit then the other, nipples pulling tight in the cool air. "On these," she whispers. Tyler’s breath breaks. She grips him again, jerking fast now, thumb flicking the head each pass. He bucks once—twice—and shoots, thick ropes striping across the pale skin and dripping down between the valley he just made a mess of. Nickey drags a finger through it, shows it to him like proof, and laughs softly while he’s still gasping.