The front door whispered open on expensive hinges. The house was silent. Too silent. The kind of quiet that makes your instincts prickle.
“Vivica?” My voice echoed through the marble foyer.
Nothing.
I moved deeper into the house, my footsteps muffled by Persian rugs that probably cost more than a luxury car. Headed toward the living room, already irritated that I’d have to?—
I froze mid-step.
The living room wasn’t empty.
Oh, it definitely wasn’t empty.
Vivica was on the leather couch—the expensive Italian one she’d bragged about at that charity dinner last year. But she wasn’t sitting. She wasn’t reading. She wasn’t doing any of the buttoned-up, politician shit I expected.
She was face-deep in pussy.
A woman—younger, maybe mid-thirties, thick in all the right places—was spread out on those cushions like a feast. Naked from the waist down, her skirt bunched around her hips, legs thrown wide open. Her head was tilted back, mouth forming a perfect O, throat exposed as she gasped at the ceiling. Beautiful brown skin glowing with sweat under the chandelier light.
And there was my mother—Mayor Vivica Banks, pillar of the community, champion of family values—with her silver-streaked head buried between those thick thighs like she was starving. Her manicured fingers dug into soft flesh, nails leaving little crescent marks on that butter-brown skin. The woman’s legs trembled, thighs quaking, ankles locked behind Vivica’s back. Her stiletto heels dangled off her feet, swaying with each roll of her hips as she ground herself against my mother’s eager mouth.
A champagne bottle lay tipped over on the marble coffee table, expensive bubbles soaking into what looked likesilk panties—probably the woman’s—and spreading across the surface in a wet, decadent mess.
The sound was what really got me. That wet, rhythmic sucking. The stranger’s breathless moans. Vivica’s hungry groans vibrating against sensitive flesh.
My brain completely short-circuited.
“Fuck,” I said out loud, the word ripping out of me before I could stop it. It was the most disturbing shit I had ever seen.
Vivica’s head snapped up like a puppet on strings.
Both women jumped apart like they’d been hit with a cattle prod.
The younger woman—and oh shit, I recognized her now—scrambled for her clothes. Indya Coleman. Vivica’s assistant. The one who was always in those perfect tailored suits, hair in a tight bun, walking three steps behind the mayor with a tablet and that professional smile that never quite reached her eyes.
Not so professional now. Not with her lipstick smeared, hair wild, thighs still glistening.
Her face went from post-orgasm bliss to mortified in half a second. She grabbed a throw pillow, trying to cover herself, hands shaking as she reached for her blouse, her skirt, anything to hide what I’d just witnessed.
I couldn’t help it.
I laughed.
A real, deep, genuine laugh that bounced off the high ceilings and probably carried through the whole damn house.
“Prime!” Vivica’s voice cracked like a whip—sharp, deadly, furious. She’d grabbed a silk robe from somewhere and was tying it around her waist with violent efficiency. Her face was a warzone of emotions—fury, embarrassment, and something that looked like fear. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You said one o’clock.” I was still grinning, enjoying every second of her discomfort. “I came early. Clearly not as early as y’all though.”
Indya had managed to get her skirt on and was clutching her blouse to her chest like a shield, looking like she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. Her eyes were anywhere but on me.
“I’m so sorry, Mayor Banks,” she stammered, backing toward the door. “I should—I need to—this was?—”
“Go,” Vivica snapped. “We’ll talk later.”
Indya didn’t need to be told twice. She practically sprinted from the room, one heel on, one in her hand, her dignity left somewhere between the couch cushions. The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
Vivica turned back to me, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead three times over. “You’re two hours early.”
