She's very quick -- unusually quick -- about making her coffee. There's a sense of urgency in all of her actions, and she doesn't conversate like usual. Instead, you spend the next few minutes almost forgotten about, other than her reclaiming you once or twice to relocate you to somewhere new inside of her field of view as she bustles back and forth in the kitchen. It might be your imagination, but her palm feels...sweatier...every time she comes back for you. She's perspiring intensely, and you can't begin to fathom why.
Eventually, your father stumbles groggily past, headed for his study at the other end of the house. Other than a terse "Good morning." she doesn't acknowledge him, and he responds only with a grunt.
No sooner does his office door click shut behind him than she springs into action.
Coffee -- down the sink. Grounds -- returned to cabinet. She seizes you with far less care than she usually exhibits and glides back towards the bedroom, her steps long and purposeful. She has you clutched into the pink fabric of her blouse, pressed firmly against the soft pudge of her stomach. It feels...warm, and safe, and it's the most physical contact you've had outside of her hands since that night. Your heart flutters in excited disbelief.
The bedroom door shuts behind you with a soft, almost inaudible click that clashes statedly with the speed of her movement. She's trying to be more quiet now...or are you overthinking it?
Her rapid breathing reassures you you are not. Almost unconsciously, and, when consciously aware, against your better judgement, you slowly begin to dry hump the fabric, pressing your throbbing penis into the folds, although you're almost positive she can't feel it.
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