Chapter 1

I pulled into the Harringtons’ driveway, the gravel crunching under my truck’s tires, still sweaty from football practice. The mansion loomed ahead, all white columns and manicured hedges, like something out of a movie where rich people secretly murder each other. Matt had texted me to come help set up for his family’s annual fall barbecue, a big fucking deal where they invited half the town—nearly a hundred people eating ribs and pretending they didn’t hate their neighbors. I hopped out, slinging my gym bag over my shoulder, and headed for the front door.

Matt’s mother, Natasha answered before I could even knock. “Ryan, sweetheart!” she purred, her voice like honey dripping over a blade. She stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other leaning against the frame. Jesus Christ, she was a knockout. Raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the afternoon sun like polished obsidian. Her emerald eyes sparkled with a mischief that made my stomach flip. She wore a fitted white blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans that hugged her yoga-sculpted curves—those hips, that ass, the way her waist cinched just right. Her lips, painted a deep red, curled into a smile that promised trouble. At forty-three, she was hotter than any girl at school, and she fucking knew it.

I’d been jerking off to thoughts of Natasha Harrington since I was thirteen, when I first noticed how her sundresses clung to her body at one of these barbecues. Every guy in our grade had the same problem. Matt’s mom was the MILF of all MILFs, the kind of woman who made you forget how to speak. We’d all lusted after her, whispering about her in locker rooms, trading dumb fantasies. Matt took it like a champ, but you could tell it wore him down, the way his friends drooled over his mom. I think that’s why he stuck with me. I never made a big deal about it, never cracked the obvious jokes. But fuck, I noticed. I noticed every damn curve, every glance she threw my way. I was just better at hiding it.

“Matt’s in the kitchen,” Natasha said, stepping closer. Her perfume hit me—something floral and expensive, like a garden you’d get arrested for trespassing in. “But I’m so glad you’re here. We need some muscle.” She winked, and I swear my knees buckled.

“Uh, yeah, no problem, Mrs. Harrington,” I mumbled, trying to keep my eyes on her face and not the way her blouse strained against her chest. Matt called her “Natasha” half the time, but I stuck with “Mrs.” to keep things respectful. Or at least pretend I was.

She laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Oh, Ryan, call me Natasha. You’re practically family.” Her hand brushed my arm as she turned, and I felt a jolt like I’d touched a live wire. I followed her inside, trying to adjust my shorts without being obvious. My dick was already staging a fucking mutiny.

Matt was at the kitchen island, sorting stacks of paper plates for the barbecue. He looked up, giving me a nod. “Yo, took you long enough. Mom’s got us on slave labor today.”

Natasha swatted his shoulder playfully. “Don’t be dramatic, Matthew. Ryan doesn’t mind, do you?” She turned those green eyes on me, and I nearly choked.

“Nah, it’s cool,” I said, shrugging. “Gotta earn my invite to the ribs, right?”

She grinned, and I caught Matt rolling his eyes. He knew his mom’s routine, the way she flirted with his friends. It pissed him off, but he never called her out. I felt bad for him, but fuck, it was hard to focus on his feelings when Natasha was standing there looking like a goddamn fantasy.

“We need the picnic tables from the basement,” Natasha said, leading us toward the stairs. “You boys are strong enough to handle it, aren’t you?” Her gaze lingered on me, and I swear she bit her lip.

“Yeah, we got it,” Matt muttered, already heading down. I followed, trying to shake the image of Natasha’s ass in those jeans as she walked ahead of us.

The basement was cool and dimly lit, stacked with folding tables and chairs for events like this. Matt grabbed one end of a table, and I took the other, hauling it toward the stairs. Natasha stood at the top, watching us. “My goodness, Ryan,” she called down, “look at you! Those muscles have really filled out. How long’s it been since I’ve seen you? You’ve grown into such a man.”

I laughed, trying to play it off. “What, since last month? I’m just trying not to pull a hammy carrying this thing.” Self-deprecation was my go-to. It usually got a chuckle and kept things light. But Natasha wasn’t having it.

“Oh, don’t be modest,” she said, descending a few steps to meet us. Her blouse gaped slightly as she leaned forward, and I had to force my eyes to the table. “You’re so handsome now, all chiseled and hunky. Isn’t he, Matt?”

Matt grunted, his jaw tight. “Mom, can you not?” He shoved his end of the table harder than necessary, and I nearly stumbled.

Natasha ignored him, her hand grazing my bicep as we reached the top. “So strong,” she cooed. “You must have all the girls at school chasing you.”

“Ha, yeah, not exactly,” I said, my face burning. I glanced at Matt, who was glaring at the table like it had personally insulted him. I knew this shit bugged him—his mom fawning over his friends, especially me. I tried to keep it chill, make it seem like harmless banter. “Just, uh, trying to survive senior year, you know?”

“You’re too cute,” Natasha said, her fingers lingering on my arm before she finally stepped back. “Let’s get these tables to the yard.”

We hauled the table outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the lawn. Natasha directed us where to place it, her voice all sweet and commanding. “Right there, boys. Perfect.” She clapped her hands, her eyes locked on me. “Ryan, you’re a lifesaver. So reliable.”

Matt dropped his end of the table with a thud. “Can we just get the rest of these?” he snapped, already heading back inside.

I shot him a look, trying to telegraph that I wasn’t encouraging this. “Yeah, let’s knock it out,” I said, jogging after him. Natasha’s laugh followed us, and I felt her gaze on my back like a fucking laser.

We grabbed another table from the basement, and Natasha was right there again, praising my every move. “Look at those arms, Ryan. Your mom must be so proud of how you’ve grown.” Her voice was practically a purr, and I was fighting a losing battle with my dick. I kept my eyes on the table, muttering some dumb joke about needing to hit the gym more, but she just kept going, calling me “hunky” again, her smile wicked.

Matt’s face was a storm cloud by the time we got the second table to the yard. He didn’t say anything, but his eye-rolls were loud enough. I felt like shit, knowing how much this grated on him, but Natasha was relentless, and fuck, a part of me was eating it up. Her attention was like a drug, and I was already hooked.

Then her phone rang, the sharp chime cutting through the tension. “Oh, that’s the bakery,” she said, glancing at the screen. “I need to sort out the dessert for the barbecue. You boys keep going, okay?” She flashed me one last smile, then sauntered off toward the house, her hips swaying like she knew I was watching.

I was. And I was fucking hard, which was a problem. I adjusted my shorts, turning away from Matt as we headed back to the basement. He didn’t say anything, but the silence was heavy. I wanted to crack a joke, lighten the mood, but I knew he was pissed. Not at me, not exactly, but at the whole situation. I couldn’t blame him. His mom was a force of nature, and I was just trying not to get swept away.

Matt and I kept hauling those damn picnic tables up from the basement, one by one, my arms burning and my head spinning. Every trip back downstairs, I couldn’t help but glance at the kitchen’s giant windows. Natasha was still in there, pacing with her phone, but her eyes locked onto me like a fucking heat-seeking missile. Her silhouette was unreal—those jeans hugging her hips, her blouse pulling tight across her chest as she gestured. I tried to look away, focus on the table, on Matt, on anything else, but it was like my eyes had a death wish. She was so fucking hot, it was criminal. My dick was staging a full-on rebellion in my shorts, and I had to angle my body behind the table to hide it from Matt. Last thing I needed was him noticing me popping a boner over his mom.

She caught me staring once, her lips curling into a wicked smile. Then she fucking winked. My dick lurched so hard I nearly dropped the table, my foot catching on the stairs. “Shit, sorry,” I muttered, playing it off as Matt shot me a look.

“You good, man?” he asked, his voice tight. He was already pissed from his mom’s flirting earlier, and I wasn’t helping by acting like a clumsy idiot.

“Yeah, just, uh, tripped over my own ego,” I said, forcing a grin. Self-deprecation was my shield, but it wasn’t doing much to cool me down. Natasha’s gaze was still burning into me through the glass, and I swear she was enjoying my struggle.

We dragged the table to the yard, setting it up with the others. Matt didn’t say much, just kept his head down, but I could feel the tension rolling off him. I wanted to say something to lighten the mood, but every time I opened my mouth, I caught Natasha watching me from the kitchen. Her eyes were like fucking magnets, pulling me in no matter how hard I tried to resist. I adjusted my shorts again, praying Matt didn’t notice me squirming like a perv.

It took us half an hour to get the last table up. My shirt was sticking to my back, and I was ready to collapse, but Natasha chose that moment to strut out of the house, still yammering on her phone. She was in full boss mode, her voice sharp but dripping with that rich-lady charm. “No, I’ll send my son right away to pick up the cake,” she said, her free hand waving like she was conducting an orchestra. I couldn’t hear the baker clearly, just a muffled voice, something about free delivery. Natasha wasn’t having it. “No, I want it today. Matthew will be there soon.”

The baker said something else, and Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not, I’m not waiting. For the money I’m paying, you can stay open fifteen minutes late for my son to pick it up.” She hung up with a flourish, a smirk spreading across her face like she’d just won a fucking chess match. That look sent a shiver down my spine—and not the good kind. Or maybe it was the good kind. Fuck, I was losing it.

She turned to Matt, all business. “Matthew, you need to drive to the bakery and get the cake. Now.”

Matt groaned, slumping against the last table. “Mom, it’s a forty-five-minute round trip. Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’m beat.”

“No, it can’t wait,” she snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I want everything perfect for the barbecue. Go, before they close.”

Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at me, his expression half-apologetic, half-annoyed. “Yo, Ryan, you wanna come with? We can grab some food on the way back.”

I opened my mouth to say sure, anything to get out of this pressure cooker, but Natasha cut in before I could. “Oh, no, Ryan’s staying here,” she said, her voice suddenly sweet again. She stepped closer to me, her perfume hitting me like a fucking tidal wave. “I need his help with some decorations.”

Matt frowned, his eyes flicking between us. “Decorations? Like what?”

Natasha waved a hand dismissively. “Things, Matthew. Stop wasting time and go. The bakery’s waiting.”

“Seriously?” Matt’s voice had an edge now, and I felt a pang of guilt. He knew something was up, even if he didn’t want to admit it. I wanted to back him up, but Natasha’s green eyes were on me, and my brain was short-circuiting.

“It’s cool, man,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I’ll knock out whatever she needs. You go get that cake. Don’t want your mom yelling at both of us.” I flashed a weak smile, hoping it’d ease the tension.

Matt sighed again, louder this time. “Fine. Sorry, dude, I’ll be back soon.” He grabbed his keys from his pocket and headed for his car, muttering under his breath. I caught the word “bullshit” as he walked away, and my stomach twisted. He was my best friend, and here I was, stuck in his mom’s web like a fucking fly.

Natasha turned to me, her smirk softening into something dangerous. “You’re such a sweetheart, Ryan,” she purred, her hand brushing my arm again. “So helpful. Let’s get those decorations sorted, shall we?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just sauntered toward the house, her hips swaying like a goddamn hypnotist’s pendulum. I followed, my heart pounding, my dick still refusing to behave.

I tried to crack a joke to calm myself down. “Hope these decorations don’t involve heavy lifting. I’m, uh, running on fumes here.” It came out lamer than I meant, but Natasha laughed, glancing back at me with that wicked glint in her eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, her voice low. “I’ll make sure it’s ... manageable.” The way she said it made my throat go dry. I was in deep shit, and I knew it.

Natasha led me into the house, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor like a fucking countdown to my doom. The Harringtons’ place was ridiculous—chandeliers sparkling overhead, walls lined with art that probably cost more than my truck. I tried to lighten the mood, mostly to keep my brain from short-circuiting. “So, uh, these decorations,” I said, my voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. “We talking streamers or, like, full-on Martha Stewart shit?”

She glanced back, her emerald eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, Ryan, you’re adorable,” she purred, her lips curling into that dangerous smile. “Just a few things to make the barbecue perfect. You’ll see.” Her tone was all honey, but it sent a jolt straight to my dick. I was already fighting a losing battle down there, and she was just getting started.

She headed for the grand staircase, and I followed like a dumbass moth to a flame. Her ass swayed with every step, those tight jeans leaving nothing to the imagination. Her heels gave her this strut that was pure fucking torture, each click echoing in my head like a warning I was too stupid to heed. I tried to focus on the banister, the paintings, anything but her, but my eyes kept betraying me. “Jesus, Coleman,” I muttered under my breath, “get it together.”

Upstairs, she led me down a hallway lined with plush carpet and more fancy-ass art. She stopped at a guest bedroom, pushing the door open with a flourish. The room was straight out of a magazine—king-sized bed with a million pillows, windows overlooking the estate, everything screaming money. “In here,” she said, her voice low, like we were about to rob a bank instead of grab some decorations.

I cracked another lame joke to keep things normal. “What, you hiding a party store in here? I’m not carrying a piñata downstairs, just saying.”

She laughed, a throaty sound that made my shorts feel tighter. “No piñatas, sweetheart. Just a box in the closet.” She opened a sleek wooden door, revealing a walk-in closet stuffed with shelves. “Up there,” she said, pointing to a cardboard box on the top shelf, way above her reach. “You’re tall enough to get it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, no problem,” I said, stepping inside. The closet smelled like cedar and her perfume, a combo that was doing nothing for my self-control. I stretched up, my shirt riding up as I grabbed the box. It was heavier than I expected, and I had to balance on my toes, arms flexed.

That’s when I heard her moan. Like, an actual fucking moan. “Oh, Ryan,” she said, her voice dripping with heat. “Look at those muscles.” Her hands were on me before I could react, stroking my biceps, her fingers tracing the lines of my arms. “So strong. So sexy.”

I froze, the box wobbling in my grip. “Uh, it’s just, you know, football practice,” I stammered, my face burning. Her touch was electric, and my dick was screaming for attention. She stepped closer, her body inches from mine, her perfume drowning me.

“God, you’re such a hunk,” she said, her hands sliding down to my chest. “I bet you’re fighting off girls with a stick. Do you have a girlfriend, Ryan?” Her eyes locked onto mine, and I swear she was daring me to lie.

“Nah, no girlfriend,” I said, my voice barely working. Part of me wished I had one, just to throw her off. Maybe Sarah from chem class—she was cute, had those dimples I kept thinking about. I’d been too chickenshit to ask her out, always fumbling my words around girls. But right now, a girlfriend might’ve been my only defense against Natasha. Or maybe not. Fuck, did I even want her to stop? My head was a mess, but my body was all-in.

Then her hand moved lower, and I stopped breathing. She squeezed my cock through my shorts, her fingers wrapping around me like she owned me. “Mmm, maybe you’re interested in someone a little older,” she purred, her voice so nasty it should’ve come with a warning label. “Someone who knows what a man like you needs.”

The box slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor with a thud. I groaned, half from shock, half because my dick was raging, throbbing under her grip. “Mrs. Harrington—Natasha, I mean—shit, we can’t—” I was babbling, trying to find a way out, but my body wasn’t listening. She was right there, her curves pressed against me, her hand working me like she’d done this a thousand times.

“Oh, Ryan,” she said, her lips brushing my ear. “Look at you, so well-endowed. A teenage girl wouldn’t know what to do with all this.” She squeezed harder, and I bit my lip to keep from moaning. “You need a woman, don’t you? Someone who can handle every ... inch of you.”

I stumbled back, my shoulders hitting the closet doorframe. “I, uh, I’m not—fuck, I’m just trying to help with the decorations,” I said, my voice cracking. I sounded like a fucking idiot, but I was drowning in panic. Matt was my best friend. His dad could probably have me arrested. And yet, my dick was begging me to shut up and let her keep going.

She didn’t let up. Natasha tipped up on her toes, her heels giving her just enough height to close the gap. Her lips crashed into mine, hot and hungry, kissing me like she was trying to devour me. I’d kissed girls before—awkward, fumbling make-outs at parties—but this was something else. Her tongue teased mine, her moan vibrating against my mouth, and I was fucking lost. Her hand was still on my cock, stroking through my shorts, and she whispered against my lips, “Feel how excited you are, Ryan. You want this, don’t you?”

“No—shit, I mean, we can’t,” I gasped, my hands grabbing her shoulders to push her back. But my grip was weak, and she just pressed closer, her body molding to mine. “Matt’s gonna be back, and your husband—fuck, this is insane.” I was begging, but my erection was calling me a liar, straining against her hand like it had a mind of its own.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she taunted, her nails grazing my chest as her other hand kept working me. “You’re so hard for me. Don’t pretend you don’t want to fuck me right here.” Her voice was pure filth, each word chipping away at my resolve. “I’m so neglected, Ryan. Richard barely touches me. But you—you’re all man, aren’t you?”

I groaned, my head banging against the doorframe. “I’m just a dumbass high school kid,” I said, trying to laugh it off, but it came out desperate. “You don’t want me, I’m, like, a walking disaster.” I was grasping at straws, hoping my usual self-deprecation would snap her out of it. But she just smirked, her lips brushing my jaw.

“You’re exactly what I want,” she said, her hand tightening on my cock. “And I’m going to have you.”

I was fucked. Literally and figuratively. “Natasha, we gotta—fuck, we can’t do this,” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. “Matt’s my best friend, and your husband’s, like, somewhere in this house.” My hands were still on her shoulders, trying to push her back, but it was like pushing a goddamn tidal wave.

She pulled back just enough to look at me, her emerald eyes gleaming with that wicked mischief. “Oh, Ryan, you’re so cute when you’re scared,” she purred, her voice dripping with filthy promise. Then, before I could process it, her fingers moved to her blouse. One by one, she popped the buttons open, revealing a lacy black bra that barely contained her glorious tits. They were fucking perfect—full, round, straining against the lace like they were begging to be free. My mouth went dry, and my dick throbbed so hard I thought I’d pass out.

“Want to feel them?” she asked, her lips curling into a smirk. She arched her back, pushing her chest out, the bra doing nothing to hide how unreal she was.

I shook my head, but it was a lie, and she knew it. “No, I—shit, Natasha, this is crazy,” I said, my voice cracking like I was thirteen again. “We’re gonna get caught, and I’m gonna be dead. Or expelled. Or both.” I was babbling, trying to cling to the last shred of my common sense, but my eyes were glued to her tits, and my dick was staging a full-on mutiny.

She laughed, low and nasty. “Don’t play innocent, Ryan. I know how Matt’s friends talk about my tits.” She stepped closer, her perfume drowning me. “I’ve heard them, whispering in the locker room, wondering if they’re real. Betting on it.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, each word a fucking dagger. “Now’s your chance to find out. Don’t you want to know?”

I froze, my brain short-circuiting. Of course I wanted to know. I’d been jerking off to the idea of her tits since puberty, just like every other guy in our grade. But this was real, and it was fucking terrifying. “I—I don’t—” I started, but she didn’t wait for me to finish. She grabbed my hand, her fingers soft but commanding, and guided it to her bra-clad tit. My palm pressed against the lace, and I couldn’t stop myself. My fingers closed around her, squeezing, feeling the weight, the softness. It was real. So fucking real.

Natasha moaned, her head tipping back. “Mmm, that’s it, Ryan,” she said, her voice thick with heat. “Squeeze harder. Don’t be a pussy like my husband.”

I groaned, my resolve crumbling like a sandcastle. I squeezed harder, kneading her tit, my thumb brushing the lace. She was right—I wasn’t Richard, some workaholic who ignored her. I was seventeen, horny, and losing my fucking mind. My other hand moved on its own, grabbing her other tit, and I pushed her back against the closet wall. Her moan was louder now, vibrating through me as she kissed me again, her tongue tangling with mine, her hands running through my hair. I was molesting her tits, squeezing them like I’d dreamed of, and they were real, so fucking real, better than any fantasy.