Forty minutes.

They’d been at it for forty minutes.

For context—andcontext is non-negotiablehere, because what you’re about to witness demands you perform an emergency factory reset on everymother-daughterdynamicyou thought you understood—forty minutes outlasts the entire sexual career of most Legacy boys from clumsy foreplay to post-nut collapse.

Longer, in fact, than Brett’s personal best,according to Paige, who once timed the full miserable sequence with a stopwatch app and dropped the screenshot into the group chat like war footage.

Three minutes forty-two seconds.

Caption:one solitary crying emoji😭. Not the laughing-crying one. The bleak, soul-has-left-the-chat one.

Forty minutes is also thirty-nine minutes beyond the Whitmore household’s all-time record for feeling embarrassed about anything.

TheWhitmoresdidn’t doembarrassment.

Never had. It wasn’t in the DNA. Somewhere in the family genome, the shame allele had been quietly snipped out, discarded like an unnecessary appendix, and the bloodline moved forward lighter and more reckless.

Which brings us here.

Maddie Whitmore’s bedroom, fifth floor of the Whitmore Estate. Bay windows staring down at gardens that hadn’t seen clippers in four days because the entire staff had been sent home and no one had bothered to hire replacements.

The room looked likeentropyhad been given a weekend project:clothes avalanche across the floor, snack wrappers colonizing the nightstand, pillows heaped into a structure that refused to commit—neither fort nor nest, just hostile neutral ground between the two.

Maddie sat cross-legged in the wreckage, drowning in an oversized black hoodie stolen from Phei’s closet during her last penthouse raid. It still carried that signature scent—cold pine undercut with something older, almost geologic—that had herburying her nosein the collar every few minutes like an addict chasing the last clean hit.

Hair:catastrophic.

Eyes:fever-bright.

Next to her,Daphne Whitmore—her actualwomb-originatingmother, forty-three, currently cradling her third generous pour of rosé insilk loungewear—was zoomed all the way in on a photo ofPhei’s cock.

On Maddie’s tablet.

With Maddie right there.

"Pinch to zoom,"Maddie supplied, ever the helpful demon spawn.

"I know how to pinch to zoom, Maddie. I’mforty-three, not comatose."

"You’re on the wrong part."

"I’m on theexactright part." Daphne’s fingers parted like Moses at the Red Sea. The imageswelled.Swelled again. And there it was: full, merciless, high-definition evidence of whatever cruel geometry Phei Maxton was smuggling in his trousers. "JesusChrist."

"Told you."

"You didnottell me this."

"I literally told you. Last week.Exact quote:’Mom, it’s inhuman.’Those were the words that left my mouth."

"Maddie,’inhuman’is vague.’Inhuman’could mean marginally bigger than average. ’Inhuman’ doesnotprepare a civilian for—" She waved at the screen with the weary grandeur of someone gesturing at an anatomical war crime. "—that."

Maddieunleashedthe grin.

The one.

The purechaos-demonessspecial that had earned her the nickname and—most damningly—mirrored the expression currently fixed on the woman beside her, who was now regarding aseventeen-year-old’serectionlike it had just insulted her entire education.

Now.

If you’re sitting there wonderinghow the hell we arrived at this tableau—mother and daughter cross-legged on a bed at two in the afternoon, casually dissecting explicit photos of a teenage boy like it’s Sunday brunch—you need to registertwo foundational truthsabout the Whitmore women.

One:Daphne had taught Maddieeverything.

Not the hygienic,pamphlet-approvedCliffsNotes version most mothers choke out through clenched teeth.Everything.

The proper mechanics of a kiss—not the sloppy, directionless face collisions teenage boys mistake for technique, but kissing with intent, anatomy, follow-through.

How to touch. How to receive touch.

What men generally want(simple, predictable)versus what women actually require (layered, specific, frequently contradictory),and the gaping, civilization-threateningchasmbetween those two lists.

Theory first.

Then supervised practice.

Because Daphne Whitmore believed—down to the marrow, with philosophical ferocity—thatsex education either begins at home or it never truly begins.

That any girl who receives her first real education in her own body from somefumbling boywho still hasn’t located his own prostate is a girl primed for a lifetime of disappointment.

That the planet isoverrunwith men who will go to their gravesnever having found a clitorisand never suspecting they missed it, and someone had to make damn sure her daughter didn’t end up legally bound to one.

So yes.They had touched each other. Mapped each other. Sat in this very bed and catalogued one another’s responses with the detached rigor of a med-school dissection and the easy, shameless affection of two people who had long ago agreed that bodies are not shameful and anyone whoinsists otherwise is the outlier.1

A formidable team.

One hell of a pair.

Trust me.

Onetechnically-should-still-be-virgindaughter and oneravenousmother who had funneled every scrap of carnal knowledge into that daughter—only to watch her walk straight into thearms and hands, and mouth, and apparently geometry-defyingcockof a boy built like a revenge fantasy carved by a resentful horny god.

While she herselfcontinued to starve.

Because — and this was the part that made the whole thing ache underneath the shamelessness — Daphne loved her husband.Genuinely.The man was sweet. Generous.

Would take a bullet for his family without thinking, would take a second one whilecomplainingabout the first.

Good father, loyal partner, the kind of person you could trust with your life and your children’s futures.

He was also, in the bedroom department, about as satisfying as a glass ofwarm waterwhen what youneeded was a fire.

—At least he could satisfy his mistresses, but not her anymore. She did not hate that at all. But shewas starving too.1

Years. Years since he’d made her come. Years of polite "that was nice"s, exhausted "I’m tired"s, and the grinding, quiet realization that the man who owned her heart had never cracked the code to her body.

Not malice. Not laziness. Just... anuncrossableceiling. A limitation no amount of patient instruction could raise.

The sort that leaves a woman staring at the ceiling at 3:17 a.m., thighs clenched around a pulse no toy could ever fully extinguish—because what she craved wasn’t vibration or pressure or clever angles.

What she needed was thesehands.

And now—by some cosmic joke her daughter got to have those hands.

Touched by those hands.Heldby those hands. Finger-fucked by those hands before his cock ruined her until she couldn’t walk straight—if Maddie’s stories held water, and Maddie’s stories always held water because Maddie didn’t know the first thing aboutexaggeration.

She didn’t embroider, didn’t inflate, didn’t polish for effect.

She simply laid out the sequence of events in merciless chronological order and let your imagination do the melting all by itself.

"Go back to the video," Daphne said.

"Which one?"

"The one."

"Mom, there are like eight—"

"Theone."

****

A/N:Brace your heart for the next Chapter.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by lotustale.com