The sounds from the master bedroom sharpened into something cruelly intimate.
Eleanor's voice—always so measured, so perfectly modulated in boardrooms and at charity galas—cracked open into raw, animal need. Not screams, not yet. Just these broken, rising whimpers that climbed higher each time Mike drove into her. The headboard struck the wall in a slow, deliberate cadence at first, then faster, heavier, like someone hammering a verdict into place.
Fin hadn't moved from the armchair.
His hands gripped the armrests so tightly the leather creaked. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, in his throat, in the humiliating, thickening length trapped against his thigh. He hated how hard he was. Hated how the shame itself had become fuel, feeding the heat pooling low in his belly.
From the open doorway—he hadn't even realized Mike had left it deliberately ajar—Fin could see fragments:
Mike's broad back flexing, sweat gleaming along the carved ridges of muscle. Eleanor's ankles locked behind him, scarlet-painted toes curling helplessly in the air. Her fingers clawing down his shoulders, leaving thin red trails that would be gone by morning but right now looked like war paint. The way her head fell back against the pillow each time Mike bottomed out, mouth open in a silent cry before the next sound tore free.
Mike never rushed. That was the worst part. He fucked like he had all the time in the world to dismantle them both. Every deep, rolling thrust seemed designed to make Eleanor announce exactly how thoroughly she was being claimed. And she did.
"God—yes—there—harder—"
The words were slurred, almost drunken. Fin had never heard his mother sound like that. Never imagined it was possible.
Mike's head turned slightly. Not enough to break rhythm, just enough to find Fin's eyes across the shadowed distance. The corner of his mouth curled.
He slowed deliberately.
Pulled almost all the way out—Fin could see the thick, glistening shaft, could see how Eleanor's body tried to follow it, hips lifting instinctively—and then sank back in with punishing patience. One long, slow stroke. Then another. Eleanor keened, hips jerking, trying to force him faster. Mike simply pinned her wrists above her head with one hand and leaned down to murmur something against her ear.
Whatever it was made Eleanor's entire body arch like a bowstring. Her eyes flew open, glassy, unfocused—and locked straight on Fin.
For one endless second mother and son stared at each other across the room while Mike rolled his hips in a slow, filthy circle.
Eleanor's lips parted. No sound came out at first. Then, barely audible:
"Fin…"
It wasn't a plea for help.
It was an apology—and something darker. Something that said I can't stop this and I don't want to.
Mike laughed, low and rough. "See that, sweetheart? He's still here. Still watching." He picked up the pace again, harder now, making the bedframe protest. "Tell him how good it feels. Tell your boy how much better this is."
Eleanor's head thrashed side to side, but the words spilled anyway, fractured and desperate.
"So—full—oh god—he's so much—Fin, he's—ruining me—"
Mike growled approval, shifted his angle, and whatever spot he hit made Eleanor convulse. Her cry splintered the air. Her thighs trembled violently around his waist. Fin watched her come apart—watched the woman who had raised him, disciplined him, shaped every corner of his polished little life—shatter on another man's cock.
And he couldn't look away.
His own cock throbbed painfully against the confines of his trousers. He hadn't touched himself. Didn't dare. But the pressure was unbearable, a hot wire pulled tighter with every sound, every slap of skin, every broken moan.
Mike's rhythm turned brutal.
He fucked Eleanor like he was trying to brand himself into her bones. She sobbed his name now—Mike, Mike, Mike—like a prayer. Her nails raked his back again. He didn't flinch. Just drove deeper, faster, until her body locked up in a second, more violent orgasm that tore a scream from her throat.
Only then did Mike let himself go.
A guttural sound ripped out of him. His hips snapped forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt. Fin could see the moment he came—the way his shoulders bunched, the way his head dropped, the way Eleanor's legs spasmed as she was flooded.
They stayed locked together for long seconds, breathing hard.
Then Mike lifted his head. Looked straight at Fin again.
He didn't speak. He didn't have to.
The message was written in the lazy, satisfied tilt of his mouth, in the way he stayed buried inside Eleanor while she trembled through aftershocks, in the way he reached down and stroked her sweat-damp hair almost tenderly.
Mine.
Fin's chest heaved. His vision blurred at the edges. He felt sick. He felt electrified. He felt like something inside him had finally cracked open and let the darkness pour in.
Mike eased out slowly—deliberately letting Fin see the thick strand of come and slick that connected them for a moment before it broke. Eleanor whimpered at the loss, thighs falling open, glistening, wrecked.
Mike stood. Naked. Unashamed. Still half-hard.
He walked toward the doorway—toward Fin—without bothering to cover himself.
Stopped just inside the threshold.
Looked down at the boy in the chair who was shaking, flushed, visibly erect, eyes glassy with something between horror and hunger.
Mike's voice was soft. Almost kind.
"You can go clean her up if you want, Fin." A small, cruel pause. "Or you can stay right there… and wait your turn to thank me."
He reached down, gripped Fin's chin gently but unyieldingly, tilted his face up.
Their eyes met.
Mike's thumb brushed across Fin's lower lip.
"Choice is yours, kid."
Then he turned, walked back to the bed, and pulled Eleanor into his arms again—already murmuring something that made her laugh breathlessly.
Fin sat frozen.
The room smelled of sex and expensive perfume and ruin.
And he still hadn't moved.
He didn't know whether he ever would.