Kafka was still in a daze, his eyes locked on her glistening lips like they held every answer he'd ever wanted. He hadn't even touched her directly yet, but Olivia was already shaking.
He smirked, slow and crooked, and finally broke the silence.
"Damn, Mom…" He murmured. "You really are a squirter, huh?"
Her breath hitched violently.
"I-I am not—!" She started, cheeks burning, voice cracking from the sheer panic in her throat.
"Oh really?" Kafka's hands rose, warm palms sliding over her thighs, then inward, thumbs gently parting her slick folds. "You sure? Because I remember yesterday, you were soaked. Dripping. And all I did was talk to you. Barely touched you, and your panties were clinging like second skin."
His thumbs brushed her outer lips now, tracing the swollen outline of her entrance with a feather-light drag. She whimpered.
