Olivia was utterly captivated by her son, her eyes. shimmering with lovey-dovey adoration as she gazed at him, the revelation of his arousal, his cock throbbing in his underwear, provoked by her jealous, possessive words, filling her with a radiant, guilty pride.
Knowing that her love, her raw devotion, had stirred such a visceral reaction, while Abigaille's brazen acts had failed, made her feel victorious, as if she'd claimed a piece of Kafka's heart that was hers alone.
Unconsciously, she pressed herself closer, her body molding to his, her fat, milky breasts squishing against his chest, rubbing against him with a subtle, needy rhythm, as if she could imprint his love onto her skin, claim him with every brush of her curves. Her movements were instinctive, driven by a possessive hunger, her lower half tingling with a shameful thrill at the thought of his hardness, a testament to her power over him.
