Mom and son first time

The house sat at the end of Briarwood Lane, a modest two-story colonial with peeling blue shutters and a lawn that hadn't been edged since Richard left three years ago. Summer heat pooled in the cul-de-sac like standing water, thick and inescapable, the kind of July evening where the air itself seemed to sweat. Cicadas screamed from the oak trees. The kitchen window glowed amber against the dusk. Inside, Diana Mercer stood at the sink rinsing a colander of cherry tomatoes from the garden, her back to the doorway. She was forty-one and wore it the way a woman does when she stopped caring what mirrors thought—loose cotton shorts that rode the swell of her hips, a thin ribbed tank top with no bra beneath it, her nipples pressing faintly against the fabric.