The thunder cracked like a whip, shaking the old house. Deepak, 20 and taut with youth, stood frozen in the doorway of the master bedroom. Abhi, his 30-year-old stepmom, was already under the covers, her curvy silhouette visible in the flash of lightning.

“The generator’s out in the guest room,” she said, her voice a husky murmur. “Just get in, Deepak. It’s just a bed.”

He slid in, the space between them charged. He could smell her perfume—something musky and expensive—mixed with the ozone from the storm. Another boom shook the windows. Abhi gasped, her hand flying out and landing on his bare chest.

“Sorry,” she whispered, but her fingers didn’t move. They traced the hard lines of his pecs. “You’re so… solid.”

Deepak’s dick, already half-hard from her proximity, thickened against his boxers. “Abhi…”

“Shhh.” Her hand slid lower, over his abs, her nails scraping lightly. “It’s so cold. Share warmth.”

He turned to face her. In the next lightning flash, he saw her hungry eyes, her lips parted. Her nightgown strap had slipped, revealing the full curve of one heavy tit, the nipple a dark peak against the fabric.

His own hand moved of its own volition, cupping that glorious weight. She moaned, arching into his touch. “Yes,” she breathed. “Touch me. I’ve watched you. Wanted this.”

He pinched her stiff nipple through the silk, making her gasp. His other hand found the hem of her