"Are you sure you're okay? You sound—"
"I'm fine. I'm—I had to run for the phone. Sorry. What's up, Mom?"
I push my tongue deeper. Fuck him slow with it. Hands kneading the meat of his ass, holding him open for me, the bond between us pulsing so wide that every reaction his body has runs through me too—the clench of him around my tongue, the throb of his cock untouched against the duvet, the slick spreading down the inside of his thighs. He gasps audibly into the phone. Clamps his free hand over his own mouth a second later.
Margot, oblivious: "I've been thinking about Wren. I know you’re with her right now but I got to thinking about Sunday dinner specifically. I want to do something special. Should I cook? Should I hire someone? I've been going back and forth—"
"Mom—"
"—because I want her to feel welcome but I don't want it to feel staged. Do you know what I mean? Do you think she'd be more comfortable with—"
I lift his hips off the bed and bring one hand around. Slide two fingers up the length of his cock, slow, gathering the precum smeared down it, and bring my hand back to push the tip of one slick finger inside him alongside my tongue.
The sound he makes into his hand is not a word.
"Max?"
"Yeah—yes, Mom—"
"Are you sure you're alright? You sound short of breath."
"I—Me and Wren were working out. I forgot to mention. Just got back from a run."
I almost laugh. I hum approval into him instead, mouth still working, finger curling, finding the spot inside him that makes him jerk. He shudders so violently the bed creaks.
"At eleven at night?"
"It's a thing—college thing—everybody's doing it—"
"Honey, are you sure—"
"I'm fine, Mom, I just—what about Wren—what about Sunday—"
I let him go for one beat—lift my head just enough to press my lips to his thigh and whispergood boyagainst the skin there, fingers still buried in him, curling. He fully buries his face in the pillow at the words. His hand at his mouth has gone white-knuckled. His back is bowed. His cock is leaking onto the duvet under him, twitching every time my finger curls. The bond between us is roaring, and I can feel exactly how close he is to coming untouched from a tongue and a phrase, and I am, for the first time since I took my coat off, in the unfamiliar position of actively not being in control of the room.
Christ, I love this.
I lower my mouth back down. Slide a second finger in beside the first.
Margot's talking about lasagna. Or roast. She's choosing between them in real time, as is her right as a hostess, and Max is making sounds of agreement against the pillow that I would, if I were Margot, find concerning. He's been on the phone with his mother for somewhere between sixty and ninety seconds. It feels like an hour. He hasn't yet figured out how to end it.
"I think roast," he gasps. "Roast is good. Roast is—Mom—"
"Roast it is."
"Great. Great. I have to—"
"I'll let you go, sweetheart. Go to bed. You sound exhausted."
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"Love you, Mom."
He gets the phone away from his ear.
He drops it.
