The instant the last thug hit the pavement, Liu Yiru spun around.

"Ye Fei—are you hurt?" Her voice cracked on his name.

"I'm okay, Mom." He gave a shaky grin, but his face was chalk-white and his shoulders trembled just enough to make her heart clench.

Sirens wailed up the block; Times Square on a Saturday night is never short of cops. Five minutes later they were all in the back of a squad car—muggers cuffed, mother and son riding up front like VIPs. Paperwork took twenty minutes tops, either because the NYPD loves tourists or because Ye Fei's fixer had already greased the gears.

Back at the rented townhouse she marched him straight upstairs: shower, pajamas, lights-out. She'd promised him daily "stress relief," but tonight he looked rattled, not horny—so she tucked him in without a word. Ye Fei played the docile patient: quick rinse, zombie-walk to the guest-room bed, eyelids fluttering like he could barely keep them open.

Liu Yiru shut her own bedroom door, exhaled, and slid under the covers. Sex—once you sample it—turns into a drug. Thirty-eight, single, and freshly awakened, she was already hooked. Her fingers drifted south before she could stop herself.

Nothing. No spark, no climb, no release. She was annoyingly dry, as if her body now refused to be satisfied by anything less than the thick, living heat of her son's cock.

The forbidden image slammed into her: Ye Fei standing over her, sculpted chest heaving, that impossible erection jutting toward her mouth. Lust surged, vicious and immediate. She rubbed faster, tiny moans leaking into the pillow, teetering on the edge when—

Knock. Knock.

She jerked upright, heart hammering. Robe on, quilt yanked to her chin, breathing steadied—then:

"Come in, Ye Fei."

He slipped inside wearing only boxer-briefs, head down, face pale under the bedside lamp.

"Mom… I'm scared. Can't sleep."

Mom-guilt sucker-punched her. The hold-up had been Tuesday-night noise to her; to him it was a first brush with real violence. She patted the mattress.

"Climb in. Mom's got you."

He dove like a five-year-old escaping a thunder-storm, landing so hard the bed bounced. The sudden heat of his bare chest—and the unmistakable ridge behind his shorts—sent her pulse sprinting. She shoved the feeling aside and stroked his hair.

"Shh. Nobody's getting past me."

He nuzzled closer, voice muffled against her neck.

"Can I stay here tonight?"

Half a second's hesitation—then maternal instinct steam-rolled propriety.

"Of course."

He rolled off, flopped beside her, and for thirty seconds they lay face-to-face, breathing in sync. His gaze turned liquid, worshipful.

"You're so beautiful, Mom."

Heat crawled up her throat. She flipped onto her side, spine to him.

"Sleep, baby. Long day tomorrow."

Darkness, silence—then the mattress dipped. An arm slid around her waist, palm landing square on her breast through thin cotton.

"Oh—!" A startled moan popped out before she could cage it.

"Mom, they're perfect… let me touch them, please?" He was already kneading, gentle but sure, fingertips tracing her nipple into a stiff peak.

Her brain fired every warning—He's your son!—but her body answered with a slow roll of her hips. The second time was easier: He's scared, he needs comfort… and it feels incredible.

She bit her lip to muffle a groan when he slipped inside her robe and filled his hand with bare flesh—warm, heavy, skin-on-skin. She arched instinctively; her ass bumped the rigid bar behind his shorts.

Instead of pulling away, she pressed back, a soft, wicked grind.

"Little brat—thought you were scared?"

"Not when I'm with you," he whispered, voice thick. He kept one hand on her breast, the other guiding his hips so his shaft rode the cleft of her cheeks through the fabric.

She should stop this—should. Instead she heard herself murmur,

"You promised no more confessions…"

"I'm not confessing," he breathed against her ear. "I just love my mom—so much it hurts."

The words detonated low in her belly. She squeezed her thighs together, but that only trapped her clit between slick folds. Each lazy thrust of his hips painted filthy pictures in her mind: He's behind me, inside me, taking me…

The illusion felt so real she whimpered—an honest, hungry sound.

Ye Fei answered with a low groan, cock flexing against her ass, and for one reckless heartbeat she almost reached back, tugged those shorts down, and let nature finish what they'd started.

"Oh—!" The sound escaped her before she could swallow it—half gasp, half moan. Heat flooded Liu Yiru's cheeks. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Mom, your breasts feel amazing… let me keep going, please?" Ye Fei murmured, thumb circling the stiff peak he'd just discovered.

Women are strange creatures: the first time feels monumental—after that, repetition becomes routine. This was only the second time her son had cupped her bare flesh, so her brain filed it under *already happened, no harm done*. Besides, the gentle tug of his fingers sent sparks straight to her core. She bit her lip to cage another whimper.

Thin silk still separated them—too much fabric for his liking. Ye Fei slipped his hand inside the neckline and closed around warm, velvety skin. He kneaded slowly, teasing the swollen nipple until it stood proud against his palm.

Liu Yiru's whole body lit up. She rolled her hips, instinctively seeking friction—and bumped the hard bar she'd come to know these past two nights. Without thinking she pushed back, pressing her soft curves against him. "Little brat—you said you were scared. What's this, then?"

"I'm scared when I'm alone," he breathed, never stopping the lazy massage. "But with you I feel safe… and this is what happens when I hold the woman I love most."

Her breath hitched. "You promised not to… *like* me that way."

"I didn't say I liked you," he whispered, lips brushing her ear. "I said I love you—like a son loves his mom." It was legalistic nonsense, and they both knew it—especially when his cock twitched between them, rock-solid proof of exactly how filial his feelings had become.

She should call him out, shove him away. Instead she wriggled closer, savoring the illicit throb against her backside. Ye Fei took the invitation: hips rocking, he slid his shaft along the cleft of her ass—slow, deliberate strokes that mimicked the rhythm of a much dirtier dance.

In the dark it was easy to pretend. For one heartbeat the thin layer of cotton vanished and she felt him *there*—pushing, claiming, fucking her from behind while he palmed her breast. The image should have horrified her. It didn't. It made her wet, made her ache, made her wonder how much longer she could blame comfort before she admitted she craved the real thing.