Kitchen Apron Antics

Charlie Forde pinned her naked stepdaughter against the granite counter, tongue already inside her before Sophia could set her backpack down. They had ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before Charlie’s wife finished her errand. Then Charlie felt the slap of the front door and the sudden click of heels on hardwood. Sophia dropped to the tile. Charlie snatched the floral apron from its hook and tied it behind her back just as her wife walked in. Bare skin brushed the cotton lining; nothing else covered her. "You’re home early," Charlie said, voice level. The wife set groceries on the island, chatting about the short line at the store. Sophia’s warm tongue slid between Charlie’s thighs from below, tasting, probing, relentless. Charlie braced one hand on the counter and kept nodding while the other tangled in Sophia’s hair, a silent plea to slow down. Every sentence the wife spoke tightened something low in Charlie’s belly. Sophia refused to stop—soft lips sucking, tongue curling, breath hot against slick folds. Charlie’s thighs trembled. She smiled anyway, answering questions about dinner while her orgasm hovered, sharp and dangerous, one careless moan away from blowing their cover wide open.