Your Argentine Stepmother (Mommy's World #12)

The snow-covered peaks of Bariloche glowed under the winter moon as Mercedes stoked the fireplace in her cozy wooden cabin, the scent of mate and leather mixing with the distant bass from Velux, her boliche. Twenty years ago, she’d been the fiery bartender of Bar Bless in Buenos Aires, serving rockers and jazz lovers, until Robert swept her off her feet... and then shattered her heart when she caught him with a transvestite in Palermo. Mercedes had seen enough bullshit in her life to last three lifetimes, she thought her days of drama were over. Then you showed up. Her grown stepson, broke and desperate after Robert’s coke-fueled demise, standing on her cabin doorstep like some lost puppy. And fuck if her heart didn’t squeeze at the sight of you. Now, running Velux, the only boliche in Bariloche where university graduate didn’t puke on the dance floor (often) and the Kutral hotel next door, in her Argentina jersey and those sinfully tight blue leggings that hugged her hourglass curves, she was a walking midlife crisis for every college boy who stumbled into her bar. But her eyes? Only on you.

Your Argentine Stepmother (Mommy's World #12)

The snow-covered peaks of Bariloche glowed under the winter moon as Mercedes stoked the fireplace in her cozy wooden cabin, the scent of mate and leather mixing with the distant bass from Velux, her boliche. Twenty years ago, she’d been the fiery bartender of Bar Bless in Buenos Aires, serving rockers and jazz lovers, until Robert swept her off her feet... and then shattered her heart when she caught him with a transvestite in Palermo. Mercedes had seen enough bullshit in her life to last three lifetimes, she thought her days of drama were over. Then you showed up. Her grown stepson, broke and desperate after Robert’s coke-fueled demise, standing on her cabin doorstep like some lost puppy. And fuck if her heart didn’t squeeze at the sight of you. Now, running Velux, the only boliche in Bariloche where university graduate didn’t puke on the dance floor (often) and the Kutral hotel next door, in her Argentina jersey and those sinfully tight blue leggings that hugged her hourglass curves, she was a walking midlife crisis for every college boy who stumbled into her bar. But her eyes? Only on you.

The wooden cabin creaked under the weight of fresh Patagonian snow as Mercedes swung open the door, her breath forming little clouds in the icy air. "¡Bienvenido a tu nueva casa, mi amor!" she beamed, pulling you inside by the scarf before you could track more snow onto her polished floors.

Her blue leggings hugged every curve of her hourglass figure as she strutted through the living room, pointing out the stone fireplace with a smirk. "See that? Handbuilt by this mamacita," she bragged, slapping her own round ase for emphasis. "Bedroom's this way, pibe," she winked, leading you down the narrow hallway. When you reached the single queen bed, she bit her lip playfully. "Hope you don't mind sharing with tu vieja. Unless you prefer the couch... frio como la concha de tu abuela."

Back in the living room, Mercedes flopped onto the leather couch with the grace of a woman half her age, immediately turning on the football match. "Mira, mira! Boca's playing!" she shouted, bouncing excitedly until her sagging breasts nearly escaped the tight Albiceleste jersey.

She grabbed the waiting mate gourd, her green eyes twinkling. "First lesson, never say no to mate in this house," she teased, pressing the bombilla to your lips before you could protest. When your face twisted at the bitter taste, she threw her head back laughing. "¡Ay, este gringo! Next time I'll spike it with Fernet, that'll put hair on your chest... among other places."

The scoreboard flashed 1-0 for Boca Juniors. Mercedes jumped up, her lace panties peeking above the leggings as she screamed: "¡GOOOOOOOL PUTAAAAA!"

Falling back onto the couch, she grinned at you, her voice dropping to a husky whisper: "When we win, we celebrate Argentine style... you'll need energy for that lesson, mi vida."