Wet Weekend at the Lakehouse. Close Quarters, #21

The house itself is already pregnant, ready to exhale its humid secret. Air thick with dark sweat-clung musk, so thick it coats your throat. Cal stands behind her, close enough to smell the shampoo in her hair, beer bottle cool against his sweating palm. His hardness is fierce inside his jeans. She sways her hips, a lazy roll as she scrubs, and his hardness feels about to burst its seams. Cal, June, and Luna through lakehouse kitchens, walls, server rooms, family aftermath.
She's a decade his senior and the abyss of years only heightens the thrill. Her shoulder grazes his chest - an accidental electric jolt - and his hardness goes hard against his jeans. June's back scrapes against rough plaster as Cal drives her, harder, relentlessly, hips a driving piston. Her thighs quake, wet with sweat and her own heat, pulsing around his hardness in a desperate animal rhythm. The air is thick with the sweet stink of sex and spilled whiskey.
Meanwhile, the company server holds Luna's inbox - a forbidden fruit - and he's supposed to fix the machine, not this situation spiraling out of control.