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The gravel crunched under Simon’s tires as he pulled his dented hatchback into the driveway. The house ahead was two stories of beige suburban respectability, trimmed with tacky fall decorations–fake leaves in the windows, a metal turkey on the lawn, and a big wooden sign near the porch that read “Gobble Gobble, Y’all.”
Sarah exhaled slowly through her nose, her hands clenched together in her lap.
Simon didn’t notice. “Made it,” he said, unbuckling and kicking his door open. “Hope you’re hungry. Mom goes full try-hard with Thanksgiving.”
She nodded, but didn’t move yet. “So… what’s she like?”
Simon shrugged, already halfway out. “You’ll see. She’s loud. Big personality. Don’t worry–she’ll like you. She likes all my girlfriends.”
Sarah gave a small, polite smile, though the word all didn’t do much to help her nerves. She glanced at the side mirror, trying to smooth the travel-frizz from her long black hair. Her fingers trembled slightly.
“Coming?” Simon called from the front steps, already juggling both their overnight bags.
She stepped out, hugging her cardigan tight around her. The cold air bit at her cheeks. As they approached the door, Sarah tried to take deep, slow breaths–but her chest felt tight, her stomach fluttery. The porch smelled like cinnamon-scented something.
Simon raised a knuckle to knock, but the door opened before he could.
And then she was there.
Maria Castellanos stood in the doorway in a burgundy wrap dress that clung to her body like it had been stitched on with lust. Her thick brown curls were swept to one side, showing off gold hoops and a lush, creamy neckline. Her breasts looked like they were seconds away from escaping their fabric prison. Her waist gave way to wide hips and a generous, soft belly, and she stood with one hand cocked on it, like she knew exactly the effect she had.
Sarah froze.
“Oh my God,” Maria said, her voice rich, amused, and dangerously warm. “My boy brought me a painting. Come in, come in–don’t stand there shivering.”
“Hey, Mom,” Simon said, stepping inside like it was a gas station. “Where do you want the bags?”
“Upstairs, sweetheart.” Maria didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on Sarah–studying her like a puzzle she couldn’t wait to take apart.
Sarah tried to speak, but only made a tiny sound in her throat.
Maria held out her arms. “Come here, baby. Give me a hug.”
Sarah stepped forward like a wind-up toy, hesitating only a moment before Maria pulled her in. The hug was firm. And soft. And warm. And far too long. Sarah felt arms around her waist, then fingers lightly brushing her hair as Maria whispered, “You’re even prettier up close.”
Sarah’s breath hitched. She stepped back quickly and gave a little awkward laugh, her cheeks glowing red.
Simon, already heading up the stairs with his bags, called over his shoulder, “You’re laying it on thick already, huh?”
Maria didn’t answer. She just smiled–wide, slow, knowing–as her gaze drifted over Sarah’s curves like fingers.
Maria stepped aside, motioning grandly into the house. “Come in, sweetheart. Kick those shoes off if they pinch–I don’t stand on ceremony here.”
Sarah slipped inside, already too warm in her cardigan. The house smelled like butter and rosemary, and something sweet–brown sugar, maybe. Every surface was cozy chaos: throw pillows on every chair, cluttered bookshelves, the glow of scented candles flickering in glass jars. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting everything in soft amber light.
Maria shut the door behind them. “Long drive?” she asked, her voice still silky, still aimed squarely at Sarah.
“Uh, not too bad,” Sarah said quickly. “Just a few hours. He–Simon–he drove most of it.”
Maria’s eyes sparkled. “Of course he did. My baby never lets a lady do the heavy lifting.” She placed a hand lightly on Sarah’s lower back to guide her forward. “You must be freezing. I should’ve come out with a blanket or something.”
Sarah flinched slightly at the contact–not because it hurt, but because it felt so intentional. That hand was warm. Too warm. It didn’t move away.
“Let me look at you properly,” Maria said, stepping back just enough to take Sarah in from head to toe. “Mmm. You have such… graceful bones. And that skin. God, I’d kill for your skin.”
Sarah blinked. “Oh. Uh… thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank your parents. Though I bet Simon didn’t warn you his mom was such a flirt, huh?”
Maria’s smile was slow and wolfish. Sarah gave a small breathless laugh that barely qualified as a sound.
From upstairs came the muffled sound of Simon shouting something–probably about a charger.
Maria ignored it.
She reached for Sarah’s cardigan and gently, very gently, tugged it open just a bit. “You’re warm already,” she said, brushing one finger along the collar. “Good. I hate when guests come in here all tense and cold. You’re here to relax, baby.”
Sarah tried not to shiver, but she did. She folded her hands in front of her and stared karaman escort too hard at a ceramic turkey on the side table.
Maria leaned in just slightly and lowered her voice. “Would you like some cider, darling? Or are you more of a hot chocolate girl?”
“I–I–cider’s great.”
Maria turned with a flick of her hips. “Atta girl. I’ll warm it on the stove. Cinnamon stick or no?”
“Yes, please. That sounds… really nice.”
As Maria walked away toward the kitchen, Sarah glanced after her–and immediately dropped her gaze. The way Maria’s dress clung to her ass as she moved should’ve been illegal.
Sarah sank slowly onto the edge of the couch, gripping the cushion. Her heart was hammering, her thighs clenched tight. Her armpits were damp. She blinked hard at the fire, trying to calm herself down.
From the kitchen, Maria called, “You’re even prettier when you blush, sweet thing.”
Sarah closed her eyes and covered her face with both hands.
Maria reappeared carrying two small ceramic mugs, steam curling from each. She wore a different smile now–calmer, but no less dangerous. She handed one mug to Sarah with both hands, her fingers brushing Sarah’s for longer than necessary.
“Careful,” she said softly. “It’s hot.”
Sarah nodded, her voice apparently still in hiding.
Maria lowered herself onto the couch beside her–not into a nearby armchair, not on the other end of the sofa, but right next to her, their thighs nearly touching. The couch dipped under Maria’s weight, her curves nestling in, unapologetic and deliberate.
“I never get tired of cinnamon in the fall,” Maria said, exhaling dramatically as she sipped. “Makes everything taste better. Smell better. Feel warmer.”
Sarah sipped hers quickly, eyes on the mug. “It’s really good,” she murmured.
“You’re shaking,” Maria said.
Sarah froze. “It’s–just nerves. I mean, I’ve never really met someone’s mom before, not for like… a holiday.”
Maria tilted her head and laughed, low and throaty. “Oh, sweetheart. If I thought you were just nervous, I wouldn’t say anything. But you’re not just nervous, are you?”
Sarah blinked fast. “I–I don’t…”
Maria leaned in a little, her arm resting behind Sarah on the back of the couch. Her voice dropped to something warm and private. “I scare you. A little.”
Sarah’s chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm. “You’re… intense.”
“Mmm,” Maria hummed. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
Sarah bit her bottom lip.
They sat like that for a moment–fire crackling, cider steaming, the weight of Maria’s gaze heavy on Sarah’s cheek.
Then Simon’s voice rang out faintly from upstairs. “Mom, do we still have that HDMI adapter with the mini-port thing?”
Maria didn’t blink. “No clue, baby,” she called back, her tone syrupy. “Check the drawer with the extension cords.”
She turned back to Sarah, her expression untouched by the interruption. “Do you like pie?” she asked, suddenly light and casual again.
“Um. Yeah. A lot.”
“Good.” Maria took another sip. “I’ll let you help me roll the crust. You have gentle hands.”
Sarah laughed nervously. “I–I don’t really bake.”
“I’ll teach you,” Maria said. “It’s all about the touch. Pressure and timing.” She looked over the rim of her mug, her eyes glinting. “But I bet you’ll catch on fast.”
Sarah gripped her mug tighter and stared straight ahead.
Maria turned slightly on the couch, angling her body so she faced Sarah more directly. Her knee brushed against Sarah’s thigh. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even blink.
“You know,” she said, voice silky again, “I wasn’t sure what kind of girl Simon would bring home next. He’s gone through a few… let’s call them disappointments.”
Sarah managed a weak laugh.
“But you–” Maria reached out and brushed a lock of black hair behind Sarah’s ear. Her finger lingered on Sarah’s cheek. “You’re something else, sweetheart.”
Sarah’s breath caught again. Her throat felt too tight to answer. Her skin burned under Maria’s touch–embarrassed, excited, confused.
Maria let her hand fall to her lap. “You’re sweet,” she murmured. “And soft. And you blush so easily.”
“I’m just not used to compliments,” Sarah said quietly.
“Then we need to fix that,” Maria replied. “No one this lovely should go around thinking she’s ordinary.”
Footsteps on the stairs interrupted the moment. Simon appeared, holding a tangle of cables and looking mildly annoyed.
“Okay, so I think this might work if we plug it into the–oh, hey, cider!” he said, eyeing Sarah’s mug like a raccoon spotting leftovers.
Maria didn’t move. Her arm was still along the back of the couch, still hovering just behind Sarah’s neck.
Simon flopped onto an armchair and held up a cable triumphantly. “How awesome is this? They’re livestreaming the awards show with real-time polling this year.”
Sarah turned to him slowly, blinking, still pink-faced and rigid. She nodded with a strange kars escort smile.
Maria gave her a slow side glance, like she’d just won a round of poker. Then she stood up, smoothing her dress over her hips. “I’m going to start prepping the pie,” she said. “Sarah, darling, you’ll help me, won’t you?”
Simon waved vaguely. “Yeah, go help. I’ll be like… an hour.”
Maria didn’t wait for a response. She simply looked down at Sarah, eyes gleaming. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me show you how we do things in my kitchen.”
Sarah stood slowly, hands still trembling. Her cider mug left a faint ring on the table. As she followed Maria toward the kitchen archway, she turned back for just a moment.
Simon didn’t even look up.
Maria pushed through the swinging kitchen door with a casual grace, the kind that said she didn’t move for people–people moved for her.
The kitchen was as warm as a fresh hug. Every burner seemed to be in use, pots steaming and pans glistening with butter. The overhead lights were dimmed, but flickering candles lined the windowsill, casting shadows across cream-colored cabinets. Somewhere in the background, a low jazz melody played, like a movie soundtrack on just the right volume.
Sarah hesitated in the doorway.
“Come on in,” Maria said, waving her over. “You’re not a guest anymore. You’re my helper.”
Sarah stepped forward slowly, hands clasped in front of her. “It smells amazing in here.”
Maria was already moving, unwrapping a chilled disk of dough from plastic wrap on the counter. “Family recipe,” she said with a wink. “Heavily guarded. Luckily for you, I’m feeling generous today.”
Sarah smiled, unsure where to stand.
Maria noticed. She patted the edge of the wide butcher-block island. “Here. You’re going to roll this crust out for me. I’ll be watching closely.”
Sarah took her place as instructed, the wooden rolling pin waiting like a relic in front of her. Maria stepped up beside her–no, not beside, behind. Close behind. Sarah could feel her before she even looked.
Maria’s voice purred next to her ear. “You ever worked a dough like this before?”
“I… I’ve done cookies. Once.”
Maria let out a low hum. “Totally different beast. Pie crust is all about finesse. You can’t be rough with her.”
Sarah laughed nervously. “Okay.”
“She’s tender,” Maria continued, stepping in just a little closer, “but she can take pressure. You just have to read her.”
Sarah’s throat dried.
Maria moved around the island, brushing past Sarah as she reached for a bowl of flour. She didn’t apologize for the contact. She never did.
“You want to flour the surface so she doesn’t stick,” she said, dusting the board. “Just enough. Too much and she dries out.” She smiled as the flour puffed into the air. “There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.”
Sarah tried to laugh. Tried to breathe.
Maria handed her the rolling pin, fingers grazing her palm. “Now, let’s see how those hands work.”
Sarah nodded and leaned forward. She gripped the pin, pressed into the dough, and began to roll.
Maria crossed her arms and watched, her head tilted slightly.
Sarah was sure she was doing everything wrong.
The rolling pin squeaked faintly against the board, uneven and hesitant. Sarah leaned forward, focusing too hard, her grip rigid and clumsy.
“No, no,” Maria said softly, stepping close again. “You’re manhandling her.”
“I–I’m sorry–“
“Don’t be. You just need help.”
Maria slid behind her, close enough that Sarah felt the warmth of her body without contact. Then–slowly, without asking–Maria’s hands came around and settled over Sarah’s, featherlight.
Sarah’s breath caught.
“Like this,” Maria whispered. Her voice was right against Sarah’s ear now, warm and low. “Gentle. Smooth. Let the pin do the work. Don’t force it.”
Their hands moved in unison, slow and fluid, the dough stretching obediently beneath their rhythm.
Sarah’s heart thudded, loud and irregular. She could smell Maria–vanilla, heat, something floral and earthy all at once. Her lips parted slightly.
Maria’s fingers adjusted Sarah’s grip. “There you go. See how she yields when you’re patient?”
Sarah gave a quick, shaky nod.
“Good girl.”
Sarah’s knees nearly gave out.
Maria leaned in just a touch closer–her chest now grazing Sarah’s back. “You feel that? You’re not pushing anymore. You’re coaxing. She likes that.”
Sarah made a tiny sound–somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.
“You’re a natural,” Maria whispered.
Then, just as suddenly, Maria’s hands slipped away. She moved back around the counter, eyes locked on Sarah like she knew exactly what she’d just done.
Sarah stood frozen, rolling pin still in hand, chest rising and falling like she’d run a mile.
Maria smiled and dipped a finger into a bowl of brown sugar, lifting it to her lips. “Now let’s sweeten things up a little.”
Maria reached for the mixing bowl of apple slices, already kıbrıs escort glossy with cinnamon and sugar, and stirred them lazily with a wooden spoon.
“I always taste as I go,” she said, dipping her finger in and lifting it to her lips.
Sarah couldn’t look away.
Maria sucked the sugar from her fingertip with a slow, thoughtful hum. “Mmm. Needs more nutmeg.”
Sarah’s legs were locked together. Her fingers gripped the edge of the counter like it might float away.
Maria looked up, her lips glistening faintly. “Wanna try?”
Sarah blinked. “What?”
Maria dipped the spoon into the mixture and held it out. “Here. Just a taste.”
Sarah hesitated–then leaned forward, parting her lips carefully as Maria brought the spoon closer. The apple was warm, sweet, spiced. But the taste barely registered.
Because Maria hadn’t looked away. She held Sarah’s gaze the entire time.
Sarah swallowed, eyes wide. “It’s good,” she whispered.
Maria tilted her head. “You say that like you’re scared to like it.”
“I–I’m not.”
“Oh no?” Maria leaned on the counter across from her. “Then why are you shaking, sweet thing?”
Sarah started to answer, but Maria reached out again–this time to gently brush something from her chest.
“Flour,” she said, flicking it away.
Her fingers moved down slightly. Then again. She dusted imaginary residue from the swell of Sarah’s sweater, just above her chest. Slow, soft motions.
“There. Much better.”
Sarah exhaled sharply. “I think–I need some water.”
Maria smiled, stepping back. “Water’s by the sink.”
Sarah turned too fast and nearly dropped the glass when she grabbed it. She filled it with shaking hands and took a long gulp, her back to the room.
Behind her, Maria said nothing. Just the quiet sound of filling the pie pan.
And jazz playing softly. And the sound of Sarah’s breath.
Maria slid the last apple slices into the crust with methodical grace, smoothing them with the back of a spoon. She worked in silence for a few moments–unhurried, confident, humming softly with the jazz.
Sarah had returned to the island but kept her distance now, arms folded tightly, glass of water still in hand.
“There,” Maria said, laying the top crust over the filling. “Perfect.”
She crimped the edges, cut three delicate slits in the top, then brushed the surface with golden egg wash.
“Beautiful,” she murmured. “See what happens when you work gently?”
She looked up at Sarah again, her expression softer now–but still smoldering.
“You’re good in a kitchen,” Maria said. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“I just followed what you told me to do,” Sarah said, smiling faintly.
“Exactly,” Maria replied. She stepped forward and reached out, her fingers sliding through a strand of Sarah’s black hair, tucking it carefully behind her ear.
Sarah held still. Her breathing had gone shallow again.
Maria didn’t move her hand right away. Her thumb grazed Sarah’s cheek–so faintly it may as well have been imagined.
“You take direction very well,” she said.
Their eyes locked.
Sarah didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
The timer beeped suddenly, sharp and abrupt. Sarah jumped. Maria didn’t flinch.
“Pie goes in now,” Maria said gently.
She opened the oven, placed the pie inside, and closed the door with a decisive click. Then she turned to look at Sarah again–eyes calm, but dangerous.
“We’ve still got time before dinner. Why don’t you freshen up, sweetheart?”
Sarah nodded quickly. “Y-yeah. Sure.”
She turned toward the hallway, walking stiffly–like she was afraid her knees might betray her if she moved too fast.
Behind her, Maria smiled to herself and wiped her hands on a towel. Her eyes didn’t leave Sarah’s back until she disappeared around the corner.
**********
The dining table gleamed under the light of a hanging chandelier, set with ornate plates, golden napkin rings, and wine glasses that had probably only ever been used for guests Simon didn’t know existed. Steam curled from dishes placed across the table like offerings: roast turkey carved to perfection, glazed carrots, pillowy mashed potatoes, thick slabs of buttered rolls, and the just-baked pie cooling on a trivet nearby.
Maria moved gracefully from seat to seat, adjusting a fork here, pouring wine there. She wore a deep green dress now–stretchy, soft-looking, with a neckline that defied logic and gravity. It hugged her hips like it was afraid to let go.
Simon had taken the head of the table. Sarah sat to his right. Maria took the left–directly beside Sarah.
“This looks amazing,” Sarah said, adjusting her napkin in her lap to hide how clammy her hands had gotten.
Maria smiled as she filled her glass. “A feast for the senses, darling.”
Simon stabbed a slice of turkey like it owed him money. “She does this every year. Enough food to feed a raid group.”
Maria laughed politely, then turned to Sarah and tilted her wine glass toward her. “A little red?”
“Yes, please,” Sarah said quickly, grateful for anything to do with her hands.
Maria poured slowly. “Tell me, sweetheart. Do you cook?”
Sarah nodded, distracted by the scent of wine and the closeness of Maria’s body. “Sometimes. Um, nothing like this though.”
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