Novel Full Chapter 983: Sex Talk with Daughter? How We Met
Chapter 983: Sex Talk with Daughter? How We Met
Genevieve flicked her gaze toward the bedroom door. The silence hung there like a polite fiction—post-sex hush, the kind that feels less like peace and more like the universe catching its breath before the next round kicks off.
"Where’s Eros?" she asked.
"Showering," Isabella replied, plucking another grape from the bowl with the casual air of someone discussing the weather or a grocery list. As if the man who’d spent the last forty minutes rearranging her internal geography was simply freshening up after a light jog.
"Oh." Genevieve’s eyes drifted back to the door, then slid to Isabella. "Would it be okay if I—"
"Please," Isabella said, flicking the grape stem toward the room like she was shooing a fly. "Just don’t hog him. We’ve still got bonding to do, yeah?"
Genevieve was already on her feet. She paused at the edge of the couch, threw a look over her shoulder, and flashed a smile that was equal parts mischief and warning.
"No promises."
She padded off barefoot, Peter’s oversized jacket still draped over her like a trophy she had no intention of returning.
The bedroom door clicked shut with the soft finality of a guillotine dropping halfway.
Maya and Isabella were left in the sudden, actual quiet.
No moans leaking through the walls. No rhythmic thumping of headboard against drywall. No Isabella narrating her own destruction in language that would make network censors reach for the mute button.
Just mother and daughter, a bowl of grapes down to its last sad survivors, and the distant hiss of shower water running behind two closed doors.
Maya turned slowly.
"You smell like sex."
Isabella blinked once. "Excuse me?"
"You reek. Like, aggressively. A quick rinse would’ve spared me the experience of inhaling my own mother’s post-coital aura from the couch cushions."
Isabella barked a laugh—loud, unrepentant, the sound of a woman who’d officially retired from shame sometime around the third time Peter had folded her in half over kitchen granite.
"Sweetheart, if I step foot in that bathroom right now, we’re looking at minimum two hours. Bathroom threesomes don’t come with a five-minute timer."
Maya stared. The long, slow blink of a daughter who had already swallowed several impossible realities in the last few months and was now being asked to wash down another one with tap water.
"Mom. Are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth?"
"What?"
"You just casually announced—to your daughter—that you’re considering a threesome. With your boyfriend. And another woman. On this couch. While still wearing the evidence. That’s a lot of—"
Isabella gave a one-shoulder shrug, the international signal for I-have-left-the-building-and-taken-societal-norms-with-me.
"What’s to hide? You already know he runs a harem. Pretending otherwise at this point would just be bad theater."
Maya opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, like a fish auditioning for existential crisis.
"That’s... not the point. I know about the harem. I’m saying you’re dumping a very specific visual on your daughter. Right here. Right now. While you smell like a crime scene."
Isabella glanced down at herself, then back at Maya. Considered. Nodded once.
"Fair." She reached over and stole the very last grape. "Still not showering."
Maya snatched a throw pillow and mashed it against her own face like she could suffocate the conversation out of existence.
****
Behind two doors, Peter heard the bedroom open and close. Bare feet whispered across tile. The shower curtain stirred—someone standing just outside the spray, weighing consequences they’d already decided to ignore.
Then she stepped in.
He turned. Genevieve stood at the edge of the water, his jacket finally shed, body exactly as he’d mapped it last night: long clean lines, dark hair already clinging wet to her shoulders from the steam, the faint purple thumbprints he’d left high on her thighs blooming under the bathroom light.
She looked at him the way she’d looked at that hairpin turn on Mulholland—equal parts thrill and certainty that whatever came next might ruin her in the best way.
He extended a hand.
She took it. He pulled her under the spray.
The cold water hit Genevieve like a slap—she gasped sharp and sudden, full-body shiver ripping through her as goosebumps raced from her scalp down to her curled toes.
Her nipples drew into tight, aching points instantly, dark and flushed against the pale stream pouring over her breasts. Before the chill could settle, Peter’s arms were around her, hauling her back against his chest with the kind of effortless strength that made her knees want to give out.
His body heat swallowed the cold in seconds. Water warmed where their skin met, steam curling between them like smoke.
Her shivering eased, but her breathing stayed quick—shallow little pants that fogged the air in front of her mouth.
She felt him everywhere: the solid wall of his chest at her back, the hard planes of his abs flexing against her spine, and lower—his cock, already thick and heavy, nestled snug in the cleft of her ass like it belonged there.
He didn’t thrust. Not yet.
Just rocked forward slow, deliberate, letting the fat length slide up and down her crack—hot skin dragging over sensitive flesh, the blunt head bumping the base of her spine on every upstroke, then gliding back down to nudge the tight ring of her asshole without pushing in.
The friction was maddening: slick from the water, velvet-hard against her, spreading her cheeks just enough that every pass teased the sensitive skin around her entrance.
Genevieve moaned—low, broken—head falling back against his shoulder.
Water streamed down her face, tracing rivulets over her collarbones, between the heavy swell of her breasts, dripping from her hardened nipples like they were leaking too.
Peter’s left hand slid up her ribs, cupped one breast fully, thumb brushing the underside before rolling the nipple between finger and thumb—slow pinch, twist, tug—until she arched into it with a whimper.
His right hand dropped lower. Fingers found her clit—already swollen, peeking from its hood—and circled once, lazy, then pressed firm.
She jerked, hips bucking back instinctively, grinding her ass harder against his cock. He kept the rhythm cruelly steady: slow circles on her clit, matching the drag of his shaft between her cheeks—up, down, up, down—teasing without mercy.
He kissed her neck first—open-mouthed, teeth grazing the pulse point—then moved to her ear. Lips brushed the shell, breath hot against wet skin.
"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low under the hiss of the shower. Another slow grind of his cock, the head catching just right against her asshole on the downstroke, making her gasp. "Not from the water."
She laughed—breathless, wrecked—hips rolling back to chase the pressure. "Blame yourself."
He nipped her earlobe, fingers pinching her nipple harder at the same moment he pressed two fingers flat against her clit and rubbed in tight, fast circles.
She moaned louder, thighs trembling, pussy clenching on nothing while his cock kept sliding, heavy and insistent, painting her crack with precum that mixed with the water.
He kissed along her jaw—slow, wet, possessive—then back to her ear.
"So..." His voice dropped darker, rougher, lips brushing skin with every word. "Bathroom sex. You in?"
She tilted her head back farther, water streaming over her closed eyes, mouth parted on a shaky exhale. Those obsidian eyes cracked open, finding his through the steam—dark, hungry, already half-gone.
"I seem to recall," she whispered, voice trembling with want, "that’s how we met."