CHAPTER 392: WAVES OF DESIRES

The scent of garlic and basil hung thick in the air, a heady perfume as Linda descended. Her elegant nightwear—a silk shirt and matching pants, liquid cream against her skin—whispered with each step, a fragile veil over the primal chaos still roiling in her core.

The bathroom’s steam clung to her, but the memory of her own cries echoed louder. Peter watched my ass with desire. That same look he gives Madison before he devours her. The shame was a ghost; the desire, a living flame.

And there he was, in the kitchen—a domestic god carved from shadow and muscle, his back to her. The sight sent a fresh jolt between her thighs. He bought this mansion. He takes care of us. The gratitude warred with a darker, thrilling truth: He’s so hot. So rich. And he’s mine now. I want him to own me.

"Smells amazing, sweetie," she managed, her voice steadier than her pulse.

Peter turned. A smile—tired, fond, utterly lethal. He couldn’t imagine that I have been masturbating thinking about him. No, all he saw was his tired, hot mother who was hungry. "Just something simple. Sit." He served her, sometimes lifting a forkful to her lips himself. She laughed, soft, delighted.

"My handsome chef." For a moment, her thoughts went quiet, occupied only by how he was spoiling her and how she absolutely loved it. It was domestic bliss. A fragile mask.

Then she tasted it.

The world stopped. Her eyes flew wide, a choked gasp escaping. Rich tomato didn’t just bloom; it detonated. Sweet basil, garlic’s bite, and something... impossible. A depth of flavor that was transcendence. Alchemy on her tongue. It wasn’t food; it was release. Another wave of sensation rolled over her, fusing with the memory of her climax in the shower. Her thighs clenched under the silk. God... oh god...

"Peter... what... how...?" Words dissolved. This wasn’t pasta. This was a covenant.

His smile was slow, predatory. Knowledge honed to a knife’s edge. "Told you, Mom. Simple." He lifted another forkful. This time, she took it like communion. Her lips closed around the tines, a soft moan vibrating in her throat—pure, helpless pleasure. Her eyes locked on his, pupils blown dark.

The shame evaporated, burned away by the intensity of his gaze. He did this. For me.What else could he do? To me? The question was a physical ache between her legs.

Later, by half-past midnight, the plates were cleared, lights low. She curled against his chest on the vast sofa as he fought the fierce battle to not get hard. He fetched a soft blanket and covered her body. An Adam S*ndler comedy flickered on the TV, and she smiled, laughing, telling him jokes and her own comments about the movie.

Adam S*ndler yelled nonsense on the TV.

Here she was... Linda curled against Peter’s chest on the vast sofa—a blanket draped over them, a flimsy shield against the inferno. His heartbeat, a drum against her cheek. The hard planes of his chest were torture. Her nipples, tight and sensitive, rubbed against his torso with every breath—a sweet, constant friction. She ached. Ached.

They were a portrait of tranquility, each holding a secret inferno they wanted to unleash on each other.

His lips. God, his lips are so close. Soft, pink. She imagined them crushing hers, his tongue invading, tasting, claiming. The thought made her dizzy. She imagined those hands—hands that plated divinity—roaming her body, peeling away the silk, gripping her ass just like she’d fantasized in the shower.

Squeeze me. Spread me. Take me. The silent scream echoed in her skull: Do it, Peter. Touch me. I’ll burn the world for you tonight if you just... strike the fucking match. But she wouldn’t cross the line. Not first. Not yet. Cowardice? Or strategy? She couldn’t tell. Her fingers curled into fists against his shirt, knuckles white. Please. God, please.

For Linda, pressed against the hard planes of his chest, it was a war of restraint. She wouldn’t dare to kiss her son, as much as she wanted to have those soft pink lips on hers, sucking her and her tongue battling his. Those hands roaming her body, those lips on her hairy pussy. This was a forbidden bridge she wouldn’t initiate.

She couldn’t bring herself to cross that mother-son line, even though she could feel her nipples harden more on his broad chest while she wondered how he’d become so lean and hot as a Greek god. No, she thought, ’he’s better. Infinitely so.’

Peter, on the other hand, didn’t initiate anything. He felt that rushing would only bring ruin to her developing feelings—unfortunately, he didn’t know how infatuated she was that he wasn’t making a first move.

His composure was flawless. Monumental. He knew patience. Knew Linda wasn’t Emma or Sarah, whose desires crackled closer to the surface. She was a mother—a fortress of inhibitions and love. He didn’t hear the war inside her too for some reasons. Didn’t see the way she bit her lip to trap another moan when his hand ’accidentally’ brushed her hip adjusting the blanket.

Didn’t hear the silent litany: Touch me. Ruin me. Make me yours.-

He felt the tension humming through her, the rigid line of her body pressed against his. He felt the damp heat radiating from her core, even through layers of silk and denim. He knew she was balanced on a razor’s edge.

He didn’t know she was praying he’d push her over.

If he knew—curse the hidden thoughts he couldn’t hear—how much she was cursing herself for being a coward, and how much she wanted him to make a move even though she thought he wouldn’t... how fast she’d pounce on him if he asked. Linda, just for tonight, was willing to burn any bridge if Peter—gods bless him—dared to make a move.

He shifted, his arm tightening around her shoulders—protective, possessive. His thumb stroked her upper arm through the silk, a slow, deliberate circle. Innocent. Calculated. Linda closed her eyes, a tremor running through her. His touch was a branding iron.

Her hips shifted minutely, a silent, desperate plea against his side. Take me. Now. Here.

Peter’s gaze remained fixed on the flickering TV. Adam S*ndler tripped. The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on. Two people drowning inches apart.

One teetering on the edge of total surrender, willing to shatter every taboo. The other, a predator holding the key, choosing the exquisite torment of restraint. The predator smiled faintly into the dimness. He would break her. Soon. But not tonight. Tonight, he let her burn.

Linda buried her face against his chest, inhaling his scent—clean skin, spice, Peter. A muffled whimper escaped. The silk pajamas felt like a shroud. Her body throbbed, a desperate, neglected thing.

She wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t. She’d lie here, pressed against this impossible god of a man, and burn. And pray. ’Please, Peter. Touch me.’