Chapter 22
Mom was changing in the bathroom, with the door locked. I waited anxiously for her, sitting on the bed, wearing the best I had. A pair of chinos. A button up shirt. Leather shoes. I even had product in my hair thanks to the mirror next to the bed. I did everything I could to look decent for my mom -- even if it meant it looked like I was a sex obsessed college kid trying to go a big boy dance club for the first time.
I heard the bathroom door clicking. Her hair dryer had been quiet for a few minutes, so I could only guess that she was ready, in as much as any girl could be ready when it was still light out.
But hot damn, mom was more ready than any girl I ever thought I'd see.
The first thing I noted were lips -- dark, red, a highlight against the soft curve of her chin. Flush, tastefully rouged cheeks. Dark eyes with lashes that were darker. Long, long hair that curved down in careful curls. Mom's lovely neck, the elegant lined collar bones of a queen, soft, light shoulders that held hints of tan lines.
And she wore a dress that could put any girl to shame, forever. Following the contours of her body, it curved up and around her in a way that made her ass look incredible -- firm, wondrously curvy, while tightening around her waist in a way that highlighted just how much she had tried over the years to keep fit. The dress itself was black, but it was woven through with gold colored threading that drew upward from her hips and along her sides, emphasizing the curve of her breasts. Low cut. High thigh. It made her legs look even longer than usual. Dark nylons stretched from her little shoes, and all the way up.
It looked like she came off the cover of Cosmopolitan -- dripping with sexual appeal. Like sexual royalty.
Mom looked at me expectantly. "Well?"
"Gorgeous," I admitted.
Mom gave a soft smile that broke the illusion, and once again, she was my mother. My sweet, lovely, beautiful mom. Except she was intensely sexy, and we were completely alone in a place that not even my dad knew about. Feelings swirled in me -- I wanted to hold her hand, to bend her over, to kiss her on the cheek, to fuck her senseless, to tell her I loved her, to make her scream in orgasmic delight, to tell her she was a great mom. All these things spun around me in a vortex. I couldn't decide what I wanted more.
It was time to take her dancing.
"Ready?" I asked, holding out my arm.
"Ready," she said, grinning.
We rode the elevator down, standing next to each other, her bare arm pressing lightly on my side, entwined in my own arm. Everyone we passed did a double take -- I wasn't sure if it was because mom was obviously much older than me, or if it was because she was so ethereally beautiful.
A short taxi ride took us into downtown Cancun, where we went to dinner, sipping wine, eating light food, eying each other through the entirety. There was a nightclub close by. Our thoughts were on it, and we kept our conversation minimal -- only a comment about the vinaigrette, the flavor of the oils, the delicate taste of spice and wine. Mom's eyes were so dark, so lovely. Between bites, her hand would move up to her cheek and her fingers would lightly touch at her ear, as she turned, looking at me, pondering.
My mother kept glancing at my arms. My neck. My chest. Time moved in slow motion as she drank one glass of wine. Then another. Her cheeks went pink as she finished it.
We finished, and she paid. The waiter glanced between us several times as he took mom's card, processing our age difference and the way we looked at each other.
We stepped out and walked down the street -- a nightclub was only a couple blocks away. Mom linked her arm in mine as we walked up to the bouncer, who did a single up and down look at mom's lovely curves under her dress, and then nodded, letting us in.
"I guess there's perks to having a mother like me," said mom in my ear as the club swallowed us up, the music deafening, the lights flashing, a crowd of gorgeous girls and well dressed men, blending together in a haze of drinks and dance.
The next hour was a blur -- Mom and I alternated shots with mixed drinks, periodically moving to the dance floor, where the gold thread shimmered on her -- her hair swinging back and forth, the elegant quality of her dress and makeup making her look leagues above the rest of the girls on the dance floor. Occasionally somebody would come up to my mom, offer her a drink. Guys with slicked hair. Open shirts. Watches. Mom put her hand up to each one and drew close to me each time. Elegant. Purposeful.
It felt so, so good to see them so disappointed.
After a round of tequila shots, mom and I got close on the dance floor and moved with slow purpose. It didn't matter that the pace of the music was high -- that mixed forms were grinding on each other, the scent of sweat and booze and the spice of bodies permeated the air. We moved close to each other, melting together -- I felt myself getting harder as she pressed the indent of her hip on me, pulling her arms around my neck, looking at me with dark, dark eyes.
"Do you want to get out of here?" A line I used at parties. Now boldly used on my mom -- my mother. If it were just two years ago, I would have asked her if she would just get out of my room, but now I was asking her to leave this club, with me, to go... somewhere else. Somewhere more private. A room.
Mom smiled at me. I could tell she felt like a girl in college again -- drunk, free, without a care. Her pink cheeks and her dark red lips mouthed the words, "let's go." We grabbed one more round of shots and stumbled out, drunk, the color and sound of the nightclub fading and the jealous looks of dozens of men in a line we completely skipped passing us by.
The taxi ride was a quick one back. Mom watched me from her seat, leaned back against the window, a finger gently hooked in the corner of her mouth. Our ears rang from the volume of the club, but when we exited the taxi by the entrance to the resort, the soft sound of the surf emerged, and we walked, warm, dizzy from the alcohol, urgently into the hotel.
I opened the door to our room as mom leaned against the wall, trying to keep her head upright. She looked at me, knowing what was coming. What we were about to do. Knowing that despite the fact that I was her son, we were about to touch.
To do more.
My mother's face didn't seem to have the guilt that it did before. It was flush with alcohol, with expectation. She had a look of acceptance -- drunk, loving acceptance.
We stumbled in as the door opened -- her body pushing against mine accidentally. I caught her side as she fell against the wall, trying to keep upright. The door closed, and we were entwined, were pressed together. I could feel her breath on my neck, my knee between her soft, lovely legs. Mom's breasts were pushed against my chest -- she looked up, her eyes half glazed. Her lips open. A forbidden look on her face.
