Gloria and Skyler: A New Beginning

Gloria and Skyler: A New Beginning

Gloria and Skyler: A New Beginning

Chapter 3: Boundaries Blurred

Chapter 3: Boundaries Blurred

The suite's brighter than I remember. The overheads hit me full in the face, white-hot, and the buzz from the bar blooms in my chest all over again. Skyler follows me in, the door thumping closed behind him.

The hush after the lobby feels loaded, like the inside of a seashell, all our noises trapped together. I toe off my heels and pad across marble, hips rolling, body in full parade. If Sky notices the extra sway, he doesn't say it, but I catch him in the mirror. His eyes lock on my legs, slide up, and stall at the split in the dress. He snaps his gaze to the window and pretends to check the ocean view, like we haven't been staring at water all day.

The awkwardness is charming, but I love him anywhere, but this--this is gold. Stalking to the minibar, I bend at the waist, make a show of searching. Keeping my ass pointed at him, let the hem ride up to flash my thigh. A hum runs through my legs. The good kind. Plucking out two nips of hotel tequila, uncap both, and clink them together before handing one over.

"Last call," I say, and tip the bottle to my lips. The burn's friendly, immediate, and the aftertaste's all lime and memory. Skyler's hand shakes, but he gets it down.

The silence thickens, and Skyler gazes at me. Not directly, sneaking peeks through his lashes while he paces the room in circles. I watch him right back, eyes never blinking. He's wound tight, a livewire in a white button-down. I want to see what happens if I cut the current.

Crossing the marble, two steps, and pouring myself onto the edge of the couch, the dress stretching and creasing in all the right places.

"You seem tense," I say, and gesture for Skyler to sit. He takes the opposite end, elbows on knees, hands twined together. We're five feet apart, but the air zings with every breath.

He lifts his tequila, sets it down, wipes the rim with a thumb. I know that tic. I used to do the same thing, back when I cared about fingerprints.

Leaning in, voice low. "Nervous?"

Shrugging, he pretends it's nothing. "Not really."

"You're a terrible liar." Grinning.

He grins back, despite himself, and for a second it's us, the old us, laughing over nothing. The minute stretches, snaps.

I toss back the rest of the tequila, feel the heat bloom in my throat. Then I pour us both a glass from the minibar's sad bottle of chardonnay, swirl it, and settle deeper into the cushions. The dress bites into my hips. I run my hand over the fabric, smoothing it flat, and drag my nails across my thigh, slow, deliberate.

Skyler watches, not even pretending this time.

I raise my glass for a toast. "To surviving today. To making it through tomorrow." When our eyes meet over the rims, we drink, and I gaze at the flush creep up his neck, settle under his jaw.

I tip the glass again, tilt my head back, and let out a satisfied sigh. As I bring the glass down, the base clips the curve of my breast. Chardonnay arcs up, over, and splashes a cold trail right down the front of my red dress. The accident wasn't exactly pre-planned, more of a last moment improvazation.

For a moment, I stand there, the tumbler at an angle, ensuring the wine flows.

I gasp, not subtle, not quiet. The wine hits skin, soaks fabric. The dress goes two shades darker and clings in all the right places. With all frantic arms, I leap up and blot at the stain with cocktail napkins. Some of the paper disintegrates instantly, leaving in its wake little flecks.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Of course. Of course, this happens." Laughing, I pinch the fabric away from my chest, try to keep the stain from spreading, but the dress sticks like a second skin. Glancing at Skyler, catching his eyes locked on the wet patch, shifting to my face. He looks like he's about to combust.

Really putting on a show, I work the napkin against my sternum, dab and press. I know exactly what the wet fabric does to me--what it does to Sky. Making a tiny, distressed noise and sigh.

"Oh, my, I should rinse this before it sets. This stuff's brutal," I say.

Not trusting himself to speak, Skyler nods. With his ears cherry-red, he stares at his knees.

Heading for the bathroom, I toss the mangled napkin onto the table, bare feet slapping tile. I stop in the doorway, turn, and give Sky a little finger wag.

"Be right back."

Inside, I flip on the lights, let the vanity blaze like a runway. I turn the shower on full hot, steam curling up in seconds. The dress peels away with a sound like Velcro, sticky and tight. The air hits my skin, and goosebumps rush up everywhere. I ball up the dress, drop it in the sink, and step into the shower. The water needles my back, rushes over my chest, ice to fire in a heartbeat.

I keep the door cracked, a sliver, allowing a finger of steam to leak out and fill the suite. I know the mirror's pointed at the angle where anyone sitting on the bed can catch my silhouette, ghostly and soft behind the glass. I reach for the soap, lather up, and scrub the wine from my skin, slow, savoring the slide of hands over body.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head and let the water do its work. The world outside blurs into a low hum: air vent, distant TV, maybe the soft footfall of Skyler pacing the bedroom. I picture him out there, perched on the bed, replaying the moment over and over, locked in a loop.

The water drowns all thought. Allowing myself to drift, I'm weightless, and imagine the suite's empty, that nobody's watching. I lean into the tile, hands braced, and stand there a long time, not thinking about anything except the next move.

When the water turns lukewarm, I snap out of it. Squeezing myself dry with a towel, I wrap it tight around my chest and wring out the dress in the sink. The stain's lighter now, but not gone. I debate wearing it again and decide to stay wrapped in the towel. More honest, less fuss.

Opening the door wider. Steam billows into the bedroom, haloing everything in gold. I catch Skyler's shape, hunched on the bed, back to me, head bowed. When I step out, water still dripping from my hair, and pad over, the towel clings to my hips.

He turns at the sound, eyes wide, mouth open a little. The sight of me--wet, undone, wrapped in nothing--hits him square in the chest. He looks away, tries to speak, but the words stall.

Silent, dripping, I stand there and let my son stare as long as he wants. The only sound is the tick of the clock and the hiss of the shower winding down. I cross my arms, tighten the towel, and lean against the doorframe.

"Sorry, I made a mess," I say.

Still not finding words, he shakes his head. Keeps gaping, through, hungry, helpless eyes.

Allowing the moment to stretch, I gaze him back, and fill with all the things we're not saying. That's how I know we're both alive, for the first time, we're more than mother and son.

The towel's thinner than Kleenex, but it does the trick. Barely. I hug it under my arms, tight enough to leave little tracks in the skin. I can feel my pulse in my neck, wrists, thighs, the places Skyler keeps sneaking glances. While squeezing droplets from my hair and dragging them down my collarbone, I cross the suite in slow motion. The air's cooled off, goosebumps ripple up both arms, but the wine and the shower and the look on his face keep me warm.

I stand inside the door, one foot propped on the rug, a wet patch spreading under me. frozen on the bed, I watch him studying me, hands braced on the comforter. With his limbs splayed, he looks like a crime scene, blue eyes wide, chest rising and falling like he's sprinted a mile.

I wait for him to say something, anything, but he doesn't, with his gaze darting from my face to the towel to my thighs, back again. As if he's trying to memorize every inch before it vanishes.

Cute, sexy, hotter than ever, my son, whom I love and want.

"Oh, I, uh, forgot to bring my pajamas in," I say. My voice does that thing, the lower register, soft and almost shy. The words come out real, I didn't have to practice. I let the words hang, and they hit Sky, a punch into his yearnings.

With his Adam's apple bobbing, Skyler swallows.

"You can...take your time."

"Could you--" I pause, like I'm thinking it over. "Could you help me find the robe in the closet? I can't reach."

Caught off guard, he blinks, and he nods. Shaky, he stands and pads to the closet. Rummaging through silk and terry, somewhat afraid they'll bite. Following, my towel shifts with my steps. When he finds the robe, I step close, so close our feet touch. I don't take it from his hands.

"Thanks, baby," I say, and rest my hand on his wrist. His skin's warm, a little clammy. He tries to pull away, but I keep hold, gentle. I slip my fingers up his forearm, over the corded muscle, until I reach his shoulder. He freezes.

"You're tense," I say, and squeeze. Skyler's deltoid jumps under my palm. "You need to relax." I move behind him, wrap both hands around his shoulders, and knead. Standing there, rigid, but he doesn't move to stop me.

He smells like soap and hotel shampoo, with a trace of old cologne. Digging my thumbs into the knots near his neck, working out the tension the way I used to when he got growing pains. His body's different now, all lean muscle and sharp angles. Gliding my hands down his back, around to his chest, flat-palmed.

Then he shudders, barely.

Still close, I move to face him again. The towel slips a fraction, exposing the tops of both breasts, but I don't adjust it. Skyler's eyes follow the line, flick back to mine, desperate not to be caught. I let him think he's hiding it.

"You've gotten so strong," I say, hands on his pecs now, tracing the slope. "You know, your father never had shoulders like this."

Staring at the floor, he flushes.

"You're drunk," he says, but his voice cracks.

Leaning in, let my breath warm his cheek. I laugh.

"A little. But I'm serious." Putting my palm to his sternum, the thunder of his heart pleases me.

When he tries to back away, the beds behind him. He sits hard, and the mattress squeaks. Following, I stand between his knees. The towel barely covers me. His eyes lock on my thigh, above the place where the terrycloth stops.

I put both hands on his shoulders, slide them down his arms, over the biceps, to his wrists. I lift his hand, place it on my waist, and hold it there.

"You're allowed to touch me, you know. Believe me, you don't have to be afraid."

He tries to pull away, but I hold his hand with both of mine, soft at first, harder. I can see him fighting himself, torn between running and grabbing hold.

"Mommy--" he says, voice strangled, "what are you doing?"

Kneeling, face inches from his. No blinking, no flinching, I look him in the eye.

"Making sure you know how perfect you are. I wasted years with your father. Letting him make me nothing. But you, my darling son, you're better than he ever was. I wish he could see you now."

He doesn't answer, but his breathing picks up, shallow and ragged. I take his other hand, guide it to my waist too, slide both of them until they rest on my ribs, right under the edge of the towel.

Entirely on purpose, I shiver, leaning forward. Letting my hair fall around Sky's face. I rest my forehead against his temple, cheek to cheek.

"Honest Injun, you don't have to be scared," I whisper, breath warm against his skin. "Gonna take care of you."

He holds perfectly still, but his hands curl against me, fingertips pressing in. I can feel the need and craving roll off him, heavy and raw. Sliding my hands to his jaw, tilt his face to me.

"You're beautiful. Don't let anyone tell you different."

When he closes his eyes, a few tears fall. Kissing his eyelid, soft, the other, his forehead. Barely touching, I let my lips linger.

Finally, his hands move, slow and unsure. Climbing up my ribs, skimming the towel, stop. I press closer, until the fabric squashes flat between us, and he exhales a single, hot breath.

Then, I pull back to see his face. He appears lost, but not afraid anymore. I smile, the one I save for special occasions.

"You're allowed to desire things. I want you to lust, love, and have those things."

I slide my hands down his chest, over his stomach, stopping at his waist. I don't break eye contact.

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask, voice quiet, real.

Shaking his head, the movement tiny, unsure.

"No."

Satisfied, I nod and kiss him. Not a peck. A real kiss, slow and deep, with every bit of needing I have. Kissing me back, and for the first time all night, he grabs me like he means it.

I let him.

The second our mouths connect, all the old rules torch themselves and float away. Skyler kisses me rough, nothing like the safe, boyish pecks from grade school. He grabs my waist, pulls me closer, and the towel sags another inch, baring most of my left hip. His hands skate up my sides, trembling but strong, like he's desperate to map the terrain before it vanishes again. My nerves fire at once.

I taste him--salt, tequila, the sweet bite of fear--and I want more. I climb into his lap, straddling, balancing on his thighs. The terrycloth splits down the middle, and I let it, all of me hyperaware of where our skin connects. I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers twisting in the soft hair at his nape, and kiss him hard, bruising, until his breath hitches.

He breaks away first, gasping. His eyes are wild, pupils blown huge. His hands grip my waist, thumbs digging in, but he doesn't try to cover me up. He looks at my chest, my face, down again. He can't decide where to start.

"It's okay," I say, voice low and even. "You can touch me, Sky."

He does. He runs both palms up from my hips to my ribs, slow and cautious, like he's afraid I'll vanish. He stops under my breasts, fingers splaying, barely grazing the underside. I shiver and arch into his hands, make a sound I've never made before, a cross between a moan and a laugh.

He stares, fascinated, and touches me again, this time with purpose. His hands are big, bigger than I remember, and so warm they almost burn. He cups both breasts, thumbs brushing over the nipples, and I hiss at the contact. I roll my hips in his lap and feel him hard, already, pushing up against me.

"God, you're beautiful," he says, so raw I almost can't stand it.

I lean back, giving him the view, and let the towel drop all the way. I'm naked except for wet hair and a smile. I grab his hands, drag them down my stomach to the top of my thigh. He follows, almost helpless, like he's hypnotized. I press his palm between my legs, let him feel how wet I am.

He jerks, startled. "Jesus, Mom--"

I cut him off with a kiss. "Don't think," I whisper. "Just feel."

He nods, silent, and slides his fingers between my legs. He's gentle at first, barely touching, but I guide him, rocking my hips into his hand until he gets it. His thumb finds my clit, and I gasp, almost black out. He observes, wide-eyed, as I grind down on him, the contact perfect, dizzying.

"Harder," I say, and he does, pressing right, like that. I dig my nails into his shoulder, the world boiling down to the bright spot where our bodies fuse.

Coming fast, harder than I meant to, shaking apart in his lap. My vision blurs, the hotel suite wobbles in and out of focus. I laugh, giddy, wild, sag against him.

He holds me, stunned, hands still locked around my waist. I kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth, messy, hungry. I bite his lip, marking him, and he groans.

I slip off his lap, onto my knees, and tug at the waistband of his shorts. He hesitates, lifts his hips, lets me peel them away. He's so hard it's almost painful, the shaft standing out from his stomach, thick, flushed. I stare for a second, really seeing him for the first time.

"You're bigger than your dad, you know that?" I say, joking and serious. "He'd have died of jealousy."

Skyler snorts, but the noise gets strangled when I wrap my hand around him.

With fingers tight, I stroke slow, looser, tight again. Bucking into my fist, Sky's eyes roll up, hands fisting the comforter behind him. I lean in, let my tongue trace the head, licking up the bead of precum, and take him in my mouth. The taste is new, but not bad--salty, a little bitter, clean.

Low, animalistic, he moans, I want to hear it again. I hollow my cheeks, suck hard, work the shaft with one hand while the other fondles the heavy balls at the base. He twitches, his hips jerking, and I feel the shudder start in his legs.

He tries to pull me off, gasping, "Wait, I'm gonna--" but I don't stop. I want this, need to see what he looks like when he breaks. I bob my head faster, tongue flicking the sensitive spot underneath, and he loses it.

With hips slamming up, he groans loud and comes in a thick, hot rush. Taking the last drop, I swallow, only then letting him go. He sags, spent, staring at the ceiling like he can't believe it happened.

Crawling beside him on the bed, I wipe my mouth, nuzzle his neck. He's shaking, but it's not from fear anymore. I run my fingers up his chest, soothing.

"You did great. Baby, you have no idea how well," I whisper.

With his eyes still half-lidded, he grins, lazy.

"You're insane," he says, but he's smiling, I love him for it.

I stretch out beside him, bare skin against bare skin. The AC chills the sweat off my body, but I don't care. Snuggling into his arms, I pull the sheet over us and Sky softens, but hardens again as he realizes I'm not done.

I straddle him, this time slow, gentle, guiding him inside me with a practiced roll of my hips. Easily, he slides inside, stretching me in a way nobody ever has. The stretch is perfect, almost too much. To keep from screaming, I bite his shoulder.

Showing him what I want, he's timid at first, unsure. I rock back and forth, grinding down until he gasps. Digging my nails into his ribs for leverage. Thrusting into me, he gets the rhythm, faster, harder. As though it's the last thing I'll ever do, I ride him, lose myself in the way his hands grip my ass. The way his mouth chases my nipples, the way his cock fills me completely.

In a rolling wave of sweat, skin, and sound, we fuck for what seems hours. I come again, this time tighter, my whole body seizing up around him. He shouts my name, voice ragged, and I lose it completely.

When it's over, I collapse on his chest, both of us panting. With his fingers light, careful, he strokes my back. Skyler softens inside me, the wetness pooling between our legs, and I laugh, delirious.

Tangled, we lie there for a long time. The world outside the hotel doesn't exist. There's only this: the smell of sex, the echo of our breaths, the knowledge that we've crossed a line; there's no going back.

Kissing his forehead, hair, and the scar above his brow. He's half asleep already, boneless, content.

"Don't freak out tomorrow. This stays between us," I whisper.

With his eyes closed, he nods.

"Okay."

Watching him drift off, the curve of his mouth soft, happy, and I let myself feel proud. Not guilty. Proud.

Falling asleep on his chest, the sheet twisted around our legs, both of us wrecked, whole at the same time. Whatever happens next, we'll figure it out. Together.