“Still, I'm sorry, mom." He gave a mock shudder.

“I'm disgusted with myself."

“But that's the only time you thought of me? And it wasn't Like... detailed I hope?" She really did hope.

"I didn't get like....you know, graphic." He replied.

"Got mad at myself first."

"Good to hear." But not good the lawyer in her noticed he hadn't answered whether or not it was the first time.

“Well, I'm glad you're not mad about that and sorry for hitting that kid." He released a long breath.

“I'LL call and apologize, or better yet, go into town with you and do it."

“That would be the right thing to do." Emma put her hand in his thick hair and tousled it.

"You're a good kid, Eric."

"Got a great mom."

“Who's dying to be an even greater mom."

Emma rose from the bed, trying to ignore the way her thong was stuck to her once again oozing slit.

"So how about you be a great kid and help your great mom put the rest of our crap away so we can be officially settled in and call this place home?"

“Sure.”

Eric lifted the sheet and swung his legs from the bed. He was wearing sweat pants and Emma forced her eyes not to seek out his crotch. She did catch a glimpse of the book beneath the sheets, but it was still face down.

"Let's go slow poke." Eric told her as he headed out of the room.

"I'm not doing it alone."

“Right behind you." Emma replied, but leaning forward, quickly reached under the sheet and pulling out the book turned it over. She experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach as she saw the lurid photo of a woman bent over a kitchen table.

Her hands were pinned behind her back by the young man who from the look on her face was fucking her against her will. The title in big red letters did little to make her feel better.

“Ravaging my slut mother."

-Chapter Nine

Emma woke with a start and couldn't breathe. Panicked, she slapped at whatever was on her face and rolled her bleary eyes when she realized she'd fallen asleep reading an old issue of people magazine and as she'd dozed, it had fallen onto her face.

The magazine ended up on the floor, but not feeling like getting up to get it, she rolled over to shut off the lamp next her bed. Her shoulder ached in protest, and that was after she'd soaked for an hour in the tub.

They hadn't worked on getting everything in order, they'd practically attacked the task. Emma knew he was going at it that way, the same reason she was. They wanted to stay busy and not think of the eventful and strange first twenty four hours plus in the house.

But even as she unwrapped knick knacks and pictures and put them on the shelves and mantel in the living and dining rooms, her mind would wander back to the now two sexually charged encounters with her son.

Two encounters he didn't remember, but she did. Both encounters started when they had shared contact with the pendent and ended when that contact was broken. Did she remember them because she was wearing it?

Eric had admitted to more detailed dreams than he originally had and although he hadn't seen sexual encounters they'd been alluded to. He said it disturbed him, but he'd watched one of the movies left behind and she'd discovered him reading that raunchy paperback.

He'd been masturbating to both.

Was there something whispering things in his mind too? Were there things he'd heard and seen he wasn't admitting? Confessing he'd had vague sexual thoughts about her was far more worrisome than she'd let on because of her own thoughts.

She felt bad lying to him when she was demanding honesty, but what would he think if she admitted she'd thought of him? Would it fuel the fantasies he'd recently watched and read about?

She'd been thinking of the incest charged theme of Robin's cryptic remarks and the porn stash in the house along with their dreams.

Emma supposed she could see a son getting their wires crossed with their mother.

The man of the house theme was sort of plausible. Not wanting to see their mother alone-or in the case of prior occupants-with an asshole was feasible to a degree. The wanting to see their mother with someone who'd be good to them, then somehow thinking they could be that person seemed farfetched, but there were Oedipus complexes out there.

But for a mother to desire, and want to be desired, by their son? A mother was and always had been the adult and the one that knew better. The one who always had to have the best interest of their child, even their adult child at heart.