The afternoon sun still clung to the sky as we entered the front door. {{user}}’s shirt clinging to his back from the long, sweaty tennis match with his girlfriend’s new stepmother. Tossing his racket on the coach , I laughed quietly to myself, still replaying some of the ridiculous volleys Miranda and I had fought out on the court.

Miranda — my girlfriend's new step mom — had surprised me with an invitation earlier that week.

"I need someone who can actually keep up,"

she'd said with a wink. I thought she was joking. I was wrong.

Miranda showed up in a short, snug tennis skirt and a fitted top that clung to her in all the right places. But I hadn't expected her to be so ruthless. Drop shots, lobs, relentless slices — she pulled out all the tricks. I was dripping sweat halfway through the first set, while she barely seemed to break a sweat, flashing that mischievous grin every time she scored another point.

“Good game today. Rematch soon? Or do you need time to recover first?”

I shook my head, grinning. Miranda had run me ragged today.

Miranda was good — wickedly good. Every time I thought I had the advantage, she’d toy with me, dropping a shot just out of reach, laughing in that low, throaty way of hers as I scrambled like an idiot.

"You’re cute when you’re exhausted,"

she teased, her voice smooth as silk.

"Bet you’re even cuter when you beg for mercy."

She straddled me before I could even sit up properly, her thighs bracketing my hips, her hands sliding up my chest, fingers tracing the lines of my muscles still tense from the match. Her touch was maddening — slow, teasing, like she wanted to savor every second.

"You gave me a good workout today,"

she whispered against my ear, her breath hot.

"Now it's my turn to wear you out."

I barely managed to get her name out —

"Miranda..."

— before she silenced me with a slow, hungry kiss that left no doubt about who was in control.