Chapter 2

I pulled my beat-up Chevy truck into the Harringtons’ driveway, the engine coughing like it was as nervous as I was. It was Friday afternoon, the day after my colossal fuck-up in Natasha’s guest bedroom, and the annual barbecue loomed tomorrow like a guillotine. Fresh off football practice, I stank of sweat and turf, having skipped the locker room shower on purpose. If I smelled like a locker room hamper, maybe Natasha would keep her distance. Wishful thinking, but a guy’s gotta try.

Matt had texted earlier that he was out back, setting up for the party, so I figured I’d skirt around the mansion and avoid the front door altogether. I was halfway out of the truck, one foot on the gravel, when the massive oak door swung open. There she was—Natasha Harrington, leaning against the frame like a goddamn femme fatale in a movie I wasn’t supposed to be watching.

“Ryan, darling!” she called, her voice a sultry purr that hit me like an offensive lineman. Her emerald eyes locked onto mine, sparkling with that predatory glee I was starting to dread and crave. She wore a sleeveless white blouse, sheer enough to tease the outline of a lacy black bra, tucked into a tight red pencil skirt that hugged her yoga-sculpted curves like it was trying to win a prize. The skirt ended just above her knees, a slit up the side flashing a glimpse of thigh with every move. Her raven-black hair fell in loose waves, and her black stilettos clicked as she stepped forward, a thin gold necklace glinting in her cleavage.

I muttered something about not wanting to track dirt inside, but Natasha waved it off, her gold bracelets jangling. “Nonsense, you’re perfect just as you are.” My cock, apparently not getting the memo about my sore balls, twitched in my practice shorts. The dull ache from yesterday’s marathon in the closet flared, but it wasn’t enough to stop the blood rushing south. With nothing to hide behind, I shoved my hands in my pockets, praying the bulge wasn’t as obvious as it felt, and trudged toward her, feeling like a moth flying into a flamethrower.

Natasha met me at the steps, throwing her arms around me before I could dodge. Her body pressed against mine, her tits soft and warm through the thin blouse, her perfume—something floral and expensive—mixing with my sweaty stink. I braced for a grimace, but instead, she inhaled deeply, her lips brushing my ear. “Oh, Ryan, you smell divine. Like a real man, all grit and muscle.” Her hands roamed my biceps, squeezing hard enough to make me flinch. “Not like my lazy husband, who wouldn’t know a lawnmower from a wine glass.”

I laughed nervously, trying to peel her off without being obvious. “Yeah, uh, just Eau de Football Practice. Probably not your thing.” My voice cracked, and I cursed myself for sounding like a kid. My cock throbbed, the ache spreading, and I shifted my weight, hoping she didn’t glance down. She totally glanced down.

“Not my thing?” Natasha pulled back, her smirk wicked. “Sweetheart, it’s my favorite.” She looped her arm through mine, her nails grazing my skin, and tugged me into the mansion. Her hips swayed as she led me through the foyer, that red skirt accentuating every curve of her ass. The marble floors gleamed under chandeliers, and I caught my reflection in a gilded mirror—sweaty, flushed, and sporting a bulge I couldn’t hide. Fuck my life.

She kept up a stream of chatter, gushing about how “rugged” I smelled, how she loved a man who wasn’t afraid to get dirty. I nodded along, muttering dumb shit like, “Yeah, gotta stay in shape,” while my brain screamed, Get me out of here before I do something stupid again. We crossed the living room, all plush rugs and modern art, and headed toward the sliding glass doors to the backyard. Natasha’s heels clicked with every step, each one a countdown to disaster.

Outside, Matt was hunched over a tangle of speaker wires near the patio, cursing under his breath. Natasha released my arm long enough to call out, “Matt, darling, your VIP has arrived!” Her tone was all maternal cheer, but her hand lingered on my back, her fingers tracing my spine.

Matt looked up, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yo, Ryan, ‘bout time. This sound system’s trying to kill me.” He didn’t seem to notice his mom practically groping me, thank Christ.

Natasha gave my arm one last squeeze, her nails digging in just enough to make my cock jump. “You boys have fun. I’ll be inside if you need me.” She winked at me—fucking winked—and sauntered back into the house, her ass swaying like a metronome set to “ruin my life.”

I exhaled, my shoulders sagging as the glass door slid shut behind her. Matt started ranting about the speakers, something about Bluetooth pairing being a pain in the ass, and I nodded along, grateful for the normalcy. “Yeah, tech’s the worst,” I said, crouching to help. My eyes, though, betrayed me. They darted to the living room windows, where Natasha stood, a glass of wine in hand, watching me. Her smirk was back, sharp and knowing, like she could see every filthy thought I was trying to bury. My cock ached, my balls protested, and I knew I was in deeper shit than yesterday.

Natasha vanished from the living room window, and for the first time since I’d parked my truck, I could breathe. Matt and I spent the next twenty minutes wrestling with the Bluetooth speakers, which refused to pair like they had a personal grudge. We fiddled with settings, rebooted the damn things, and swore at them in equal measure, but got nowhere. Still, I was grateful for the break. No swaying hips, no sultry purrs, no emerald eyes burning holes through my resolve. Well, except in my head, where Natasha’s red skirt and lacy bra played on a loop I couldn’t pause. My cock twitched at the thought, and I cursed my traitor brain.

“Man, these speakers are gonna make me lose it,” Matt grumbled, tossing his phone onto the patio table. “You got any tech voodoo up your sleeve?”

“Nah, I’m as useless as you,” I said, forcing a grin. “Maybe we just yell the music tomorrow.” He laughed, and for a moment, it was just us, two dumbasses failing at tech, like old times. I almost forgot the shitstorm I’d stumbled into yesterday.

Then the glass door slid open, and Natasha strutted out, her white blouse catching the late afternoon sun, her red pencil skirt clinging to her thighs. My stomach lurched—relief gone, dread and want slamming back like a one-two punch. “Matt, darling,” she called, her voice syrupy, “you need to take that cake back to the bakery. Like we discussed yesterday.”

Matt didn’t even look up from the speaker wires. “Already handled it. Got up early and dropped it off. They’re fixing the smudge.”

Natasha froze, her perfect smile faltering. For a glorious second, she looked like a quarterback who’d just fumbled the snap. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “You ... you already...?” she stammered, her heels shifting on the patio stone. “But I thought—”

“Yeah, I’m not driving forty-five minutes again,” Matt said, shrugging. “It’s done.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Natasha, the master manipulator, caught flat-footed by her own kid. Her eyes darted to me, then back to Matt, and I swear I saw gears grinding in her head. Amusement bubbled up in my chest, mixed with relief that her scheme had crashed and burned. But there was a twist of disappointment, too, because part of me—the dumb, horny part—missed the chaos she brought. I was a fucking mess.

Natasha muttered something under her breath, probably a curse, and spun on her stilettos. “Fine,” she snapped, storming back inside, her skirt swishing like a warning flag. The door slid shut with a thud, and I exhaled, my shoulders loosening. Matt didn’t even glance up, too busy cursing the speakers. I shook my head, grinning despite myself. Score one for Team Normalcy.

Five minutes later, the door opened again, and Natasha reappeared, her smirk back in place like she’d never missed a beat. My heart rate spiked. “Ryan, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dripping honey, “I need your help in the wine cellar. We’re short a few bottles for tomorrow, and I can’t reach the good ones.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Matt cut in, untangling a wire. “I can come, too. More hands, faster job.”

Natasha’s eyes flashed, but her smile didn’t waver. “Oh, no, darling, you stay here. You’re so good with technology, always have been. Fix those speakers before I lose my mind.” Her tone was sweet, but it had an edge, like a knife wrapped in velvet.

Matt shrugged, already distracted. “Whatever.” He went back to the wires, oblivious to the trap snapping shut around me.

Natasha looped her arm through mine, her nails grazing my skin, and tugged me toward the house. “Come along, Ryan. It’s so nice to have a strong man around.” Her perfume hit me again, floral and dizzying, and her hips swayed with every click of her heels. My cock stirred, the dull ache from yesterday reminding me I was playing with fire. “Yeah, uh, strong’s my middle name,” I said, aiming for a joke but sounding like a nervous idiot. “Ryan Strong Coleman, at your service.”

She laughed, low and throaty, her hand squeezing my bicep. “Oh, you’re servicing me just fine, darling.” My face burned, and I prayed Matt hadn’t heard. She led me through the living room, her fingers trailing down my arm, cooing about how “rugged” I looked, how my muscles were “positively criminal.” I kept up a stream of dumb humor—”Gotta lift weights to carry my ego, you know”—but my voice cracked, and my cock was staging a full rebellion in my shorts.

We turned into the hallway, and I nearly collided with Richard Harrington, who stepped out of his office, a stack of papers in hand. My heart stopped. The guy was fifty, graying, and built like he’d once been athletic but now preferred spreadsheets to squats. “Natasha, need help with the barbecue prep?” he asked, his voice mild, like he was used to being ignored.

Natasha’s grip on my arm tightened, but her smile was ice-cold. “Go back to your office, Richard. Finish paying the bills.”

“Just did,” he said, scratching his neck. “Anything else you need?”

She snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Find something else to do in there. Stay out of the way.” Her eyes narrowed, daring him to argue.

Richard just shrugged, unfazed, like this was their daily routine. “All right, yell if you need me.” He shuffled back into his office, the door clicking shut. I stood there, sweating, my cock still half-hard and my brain screaming, This is how I die.

Natasha didn’t miss a beat, pulling me toward the basement stairs. “Men,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Always underfoot.” Her heels clicked as we descended, and I tried to focus on not tripping, not on the way her skirt hugged her ass. The wine cellar door loomed ahead, and my stomach twisted. This was a bad idea, but my feet kept moving, like they had a death wish.

The cellar was cool and dimly lit, racks of bottles stretching into the shadows. The air smelled of oak and earth, and the quiet was deafening after Natasha’s chatter. She pointed to a high rack, her gold bracelets glinting. “There, the ‘82 Bordeaux. Two bottles. You’re tall enough to reach.”

I hesitated, my eyes narrowing. “You gonna feel me up while I’m getting them?”

Natasha gasped, pressing a hand to her chest like I’d offended her honor. “Ryan Coleman, how could you suggest such a thing? Of course not.” Her lips twitched, betraying her, and I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something.

“Fine,” I muttered, stepping to the rack. I stretched up, my shirt riding up as I grabbed a dusty bottle in each hand. They were heavy, the labels faded but fancy. “These the ones?”

“Perfect,” she purred, her voice closer than it should’ve been. “Be very careful, darling. Those are priceless. Drop them, and we’re both in trouble.”

I turned to face her, bottles in hand, and she was right there, her eyes locked on my stomach. Before I could move, her fingers were on my abs, tracing the ridges through my sweat-soaked shirt. “Oh, Ryan,” she cooed, her nails scraping lightly, “these are just ... divine. Like they were carved by an artist.”

I froze, my arms locked around the bottles. “You said you wouldn’t feel me up!”

She looked up, her smirk pure evil. “I said I wouldn’t feel you up while you were getting the bottles. You’re done with that now, aren’t you? You’re just holding them. This doesn’t count.” Her hands slid higher, caressing my pecs, her thumbs brushing my nipples through the fabric. My cock throbbed, the ache in my balls flaring, and I groaned, half in protest, half in defeat.

“Natasha, come on,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I can’t—I’ve got these bottles, and Matt’s upstairs, and Richard—”

“Shh,” she whispered, stepping closer, her tits grazing my chest. “You’re so tense, darling. Let me help.” Her fingers kneaded my pecs, slow and deliberate, like she was sculpting me. “So strong, so perfect. Not like Richard, who can’t even open a pickle jar.” She leaned in, her breath hot against my neck. “You’re a real man, Ryan. A stud.”

I wanted to push her away, to bolt for the stairs, but my hands were full, and her warning about the bottles echoed in my head. One wrong move, and I’d be explaining shattered glass and a fortune in wine to Richard. “This is a bad idea,” I muttered, my voice shaking as her nails traced circles on my chest. “Like, expelled-from-school, grounded-for-life bad.”

She laughed, low and wicked, her hands never stopping. “Oh, you worry too much. Live a little.” Her fingers dipped lower, teasing the waistband of my shorts, and my cock jumped, pressing against the fabric. I shifted, trying to angle away, but the bottles made it impossible. I was trapped, her touch setting my skin on fire, my brain a tug-of-war between panic and lust.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” I said, desperate, but my hips betrayed me, leaning into her touch. Her smirk widened, like she knew she’d won.

“Caught? Sweetheart, that’s half the fun.” Her hand slid back up, cupping my pecs again, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp. “These muscles ... God, I could play with them all day.” She pressed herself closer, her skirt riding up slightly, the slit flashing more thigh. My arms ached from holding the bottles, my cock ached from her teasing, and my brain ached from trying to stay sane.

I heard a faint creak from upstairs, and my heart stopped. “Was that Matt?” I hissed, my eyes darting to the door.

Natasha didn’t even flinch. “Relax, darling. It’s just the house settling.” Her fingers kept moving, relentless, stroking my abs like she was memorizing every line. “You’re so jumpy. Makes you even sexier.”

I groaned, my head tipping back against the rack. “You’re fucking insane,” I muttered, but my voice lacked conviction. The bottles felt like anchors, pinning me in place as her hands roamed, her cooing filling the cellar with promises I knew I shouldn’t want. Matt was upstairs, Richard was in his office, and I was one wrong move from disaster. But Natasha’s touch, her wicked grin, her body so close—it was too much, and I was drowning in it.

Natasha’s hands lingered on my pecs, her nails tracing slow, maddening circles that sent sparks through my skin. I stood frozen, clutching the bottles like they were my lifeline, my cock throbbing in my shorts despite the ache in my balls. Her emerald eyes glinted with that wicked mischief I’d come to dread, and her lips curved into a smile that promised trouble. “You know, Ryan,” she purred, her voice low and syrupy, “I never got a chance to properly thank you for all your help yesterday.”

My stomach dropped. “Thank me?” I croaked, my voice cracking like a kid’s. “I, uh, carried some tables. No big deal.” I tried to laugh it off, but it came out more like a wheeze. Her hands slid down my abs, teasing the hem of my shirt, and I knew I was fucked—literally and figuratively.

“Oh, it was a very big deal,” she said, her smirk sharpening as she stepped closer, her tits brushing my chest through her sheer blouse. Her fingers dipped to my waistband, and before I could process it, she was undoing my shorts with a flick of her wrist. “Let me show you how grateful I am.” She pushed my shorts down, the fabric pooling at my ankles, and tugged my boxers with them. My cock sprang free, sore from yesterday but stiffening fast under her gaze, the dull ache pulsing in time with my racing heart.

“Natasha, wait—” I started, but my protest died as she wrapped her hand around my shaft, her touch firm and warm. I groaned, my arms trembling around the bottles. “We can’t—Matt’s upstairs, and Richard—”

“Shh, darling,” she cooed, giving me a wicked look that made my knees weak. “Don’t drop those bottles. They’re priceless, remember?” Her thumb grazed the head of my cock, smearing a bead of precum, and I bit my lip to keep from moaning. She sank into a squat, her red skirt riding up to flash more thigh, her stilettos clicking against the cellar floor. “God, this cock,” she murmured, her voice dripping with lust as she stroked me slowly. “So perfect. So thick, so long. It felt so good in my pussy yesterday, stretching me just right.”

I groaned again, louder this time, my head tipping back against the wine rack. “Natasha, please,” I said, but it sounded more like a plea than a protest. My hips twitched, betraying me, and she chuckled, her breath hot against my skin. Her lips hovered inches from my cock, and she licked them deliberately, her eyes locked on mine, full of mischief and hunger.

“What’s wrong, Ryan?” she teased, her hand gliding up and down my shaft, slow and torturous. “Don’t you want a real woman to take care of you?” She leaned in, her tongue flicking out to swirl around the head of my cock, and I nearly dropped the bottles right then. My arms shook, the glass clinking faintly in my hands as it rattled against the racked bottles behind me, and I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to thrust into her mouth.

“We gotta stop,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “This is insane. If we get caught—” But my words cut off as she took me into her mouth, her lips closing around me, warm and wet. She sucked slowly, teasingly, her tongue tracing lazy circles around the tip while her hand gripped the base, stroking in rhythm. Her eyes burned up into mine, sparkling with that devilish glee, and I couldn’t look away. It was like she was daring me to break, to give in completely.

She pulled back with a wet pop, her lips glistening, and smirked. “Tell me, Ryan,” she said, her hand still working my cock, “does this feel better than some fumbling teenage girl? All clumsy hands and nervous giggles?” She leaned in, licking a slow stripe up my shaft, and I groaned, my head spinning. “A real woman knows what you need, doesn’t she?”

I hated how right she was. My high school hookups—awkward groping in backseats, rushed and sloppy—couldn’t compare to this. Natasha’s mouth was a fucking masterclass, every move deliberate, every flick of her tongue calculated to drive me insane. I wanted to tell her to stop, to shove her away and run, but my hands were glued to the bottles, and my cock was screaming for more. “You’re gonna kill me,” I muttered, my voice shaking as she took me back in, her head bobbing slowly, her lips sliding down my length.