Chapter 3

I stepped out of Mom’s sedan, the gravel crunching under my sneakers, and squinted at the Harrington mansion sprawled before us. The place was a goddamn palace—white columns gleaming, hedges trimmed to perfection, and the faint hum of wealth practically vibrating through the air. The annual fall barbecue was in full swing, with nearly a hundred people milling around the sprawling backyard, laughter and the sizzle of burgers mixing with some upbeat country tune. My stomach churned, not from hunger but from the memory of Natasha’s hands, her mouth, her relentless fucking in the wine cellar yesterday. And in the guest bedroom the day before. My cock, still sore as hell, twitched traitorously at the thought.

My mother, Caroline, adjusted her sunglasses and smiled, oblivious to the chaos in my head. “Doesn’t Natasha always throw the best parties?” she said, her brown hair catching the afternoon sun as she hefted a tray of her famous potato salad.

“Yeah, she’s ... something,” I muttered, shoving my hands in my pockets to hide the growing bulge in my jeans. I’d worn a loose flannel over a T-shirt, hoping it’d mask any unwanted reactions, but Natasha had a way of screwing with my plans.

Before I could brace myself, Natasha swept toward us like a heat-seeking missile, her couture sundress a masterclass in barbecue chic—flowy enough to pass as casual but clinging to her gym-sculpted curves like it was painted on. The neckline dipped just low enough to hint at her cleavage, and the hem flirted with her thighs, screaming elegance and sex in equal measure. Her raven-black hair bounced in loose waves, and her emerald eyes locked onto me with a predator’s glint.

“Caroline! Ryan!” she purred, her voice dripping honey as she pulled Mom into a quick hug. Then she turned to me, squeezing my arm with a grip that sent a jolt straight to my groin. “Oh, Caroline, you have no idea how much help Ryan’s been these past few days. Such a strong, capable young man.” Her fingers lingered, tracing my bicep, and her lips curved into a sly smile. “He’s been absolutely tireless, handling all sorts of ... delicate tasks.”

I froze, my face burning. Was she fucking serious? Mom just beamed, oblivious, nodding like Natasha was praising my goddamn Eagle Scout credentials. “Oh, that’s my Ryan,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Always ready to lend a hand.”

Natasha’s eyes flicked to mine, her wink so subtle it might’ve been a trick of the light, but it hit me like a linebacker. “Oh, he’s lent more than a hand,” she said, her tone light but laced with enough innuendo to make my cock lurch painfully against my zipper. “We couldn’t have pulled this off without him.”

I coughed, shifting my weight to hide the evidence. “Just, uh, doing my part,” I mumbled, praying Mom didn’t notice the strain in my voice.

Mercifully, a caterer waved Natasha over, and she sighed dramatically. “Duty calls, but we’ll catch up later, Ryan.” Her hand brushed my lower back as she sauntered off, her hips swaying like a goddamn metronome. I watched her go, torn between relief and the sick thrill that kept my dick half-hard despite the ache.

Mom nudged me toward the crowd. “Go mingle, hon. I’ll drop this salad off and find the other moms.”

I nodded, grateful for the escape, and wove through the sea of neighbors, classmates, and random rich folks who always showed up to the Harringtons’ shindig. The backyard was a circus—long tables piled with ribs, coleslaw, and cornbread, kids chasing each other with water guns, and a bounce house wobbling in the corner. The air smelled of charcoal and sunscreen, and for a second, I almost felt normal, like I wasn’t Natasha’s personal fucktoy spiraling toward disaster.

I spotted Matt by the drink table, wrestling with a cooler of ice. “Yo, man,” I called, forcing a grin as I jogged over. My best friend looked up, his face lighting up despite the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Dude, you survived setup yesterday,” he said, slapping my shoulder. “Mom didn’t work you too hard, did she?”

My throat tightened, the memory of Natasha’s lips around my cock flashing like a neon sign. “Nah, just ... the usual,” I lied, grabbing a soda to avoid his eyes. “You know, hauling stuff, fetching wine. No big deal.”

Matt snorted, oblivious. “Yeah, she’s been a nightmare with this barbecue. Keeps sending me on dumb errands. Swear she’s trying to get me outta the house.”

I forced a laugh, my gut twisting. “Sounds like her.” I popped the soda tab, the hiss covering my unease. Matt rambled about the Bluetooth speakers finally working, and I nodded along, grateful for the distraction. For ten minutes, we shot the shit about football, senior pranks, and whether the new history teacher was a total hardass. Normal stuff. Safe stuff.

But then I caught Natasha across the lawn, flitting between guests like a social butterfly on steroids. Her dress caught the breeze, flashing a glimpse of thigh, and my cock stirred again, sore but defiant. She paused to adjust a tablecloth, her eyes finding mine through the crowd. She winked, deliberate this time, and my heart stuttered as my dick throbbed, the ache a cruel reminder of her grip, her heat, her fucking relentless pussy.

I turned away, pretending to check my phone, but the image of her was burned into my brain. I drifted through the crowd, nodding at neighbors who’d known me since I was in diapers, high-fiving classmates from the team. Even Natasha’s husband Richard was out of his cave, standing by the grill in a polo shirt, chatting with some suit who probably owned half the town. He laughed, his voice carrying, and I wondered how the hell he stayed so clueless while his wife turned my life into a porno.

Natasha kept moving, a blur of charm and control, refilling drinks, directing caterers, laughing at some old guy’s joke. But every so often, her gaze flicked to me, like she was keeping tabs on her prey. Each look sent a fresh wave of panic and arousal through me, my jeans tighter than I’d like, my mind screaming to get a grip. This was a barbecue, for fuck’s sake. My mom was here. Matt was here. Half the goddamn town was here. But Natasha’s pull was a fucking black hole, and I was already too far gone to break free.

An hour later, I was leaning against a picnic table, a Coke in hand, chatting with Sophie Turner—no, not the Game of Thrones chick, but a junior from my chem class who could’ve given her a run for her money. Sophie had this sun-kissed blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail, hazel eyes that sparkled when she laughed, and a smattering of freckles across her nose that made her look like she belonged on a beach somewhere. Her denim shorts and flowy tank top showed off tanned legs and a lean frame from years of track, and the way she grinned, all easy confidence, had me hooked. For the first time all day, my mind wasn’t stuck on Natasha’s curves or the ache in my cock. Sophie was normal, fun, and—fuck, maybe my ticket out of this mess.

“So, you’re telling me you actually like Coach’s suicide sprints?” Sophie said, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her lemonade. “Ryan, that’s masochistic.”

I laughed, scratching the back of my neck. “Nah, I just like winning. Sprints make me faster, and faster means I’m not eating turf when some blocker’s gunning for me.”

She smirked, leaning closer, her arm brushing mine. “Okay, hotshot. What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done to win a game?”

“Dumbest?” I grinned, sensing an opening. “Freshman year, I dove for a fumble and ended up with a mouth full of dirt. Looked like I was auditioning for a zombie flick.”

Sophie burst out laughing, her hand landing on my forearm. “Oh my God, I need to see pictures of that.”

“No way, those are locked in a vault,” I said, my chest loosening. This was good. Easy. I could see us grabbing coffee, maybe catching a movie. If I could lock down a girl like Sophie, regular dates, regular pussy, maybe I’d have the strength to dodge Natasha’s claws. My dick was too sore to even think about sneaking off with Sophie today—Natasha’s wine cellar marathon had seen to that—but I was already picturing a first date, something chill, something that didn’t involve risking my life in a mansion.

“You’re trouble, Coleman,” Sophie teased, her eyes flicking to mine, and I felt a spark of hope. I opened my mouth to ask if she was free next weekend, but then I caught movement across the lawn.

Natasha. She was standing by the dessert table, her sundress catching the sunlight, whispering something to my mom. Her emerald eyes locked onto me, a slow, predatory smile curling her lips. My heart sank like a fucking anchor. That look wasn’t just trouble—it was a goddamn five-alarm fire. Mom nodded at whatever Natasha was saying, her face all smiles, clueless as ever, and I knew I was screwed.

Sure enough, Mom started weaving through the crowd toward me, her potato salad tray long gone. I straightened, forcing a grin as she reached us. “Hey, Mom, this is Sophie,” I said, gesturing. “From school.”

Sophie smiled, extending a hand. “Hi, Mrs. Coleman. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, call me Caroline,” Mom said, shaking her hand with that warm, mom-next-door vibe. “You’re in Ryan’s class? He’s been so busy with football and helping the Harringtons, I barely hear about his friends.”

“Yeah, we’ve got chem together,” Sophie said, glancing at me with a playful smirk. “He’s not bad at it, either.”

I was about to jump in, keep the vibe going, but Mom’s expression shifted to that no-nonsense look I knew too well. “Ryan, Natasha needs your help with something. She’s run out of ice, and the freezer’s in the garage. Can you give her a hand?”

My stomach twisted, and I scrambled for an out. “Uh, can’t Matt do it? I mean, he’s probably around, right?” I glanced at Sophie, hoping she wouldn’t think I was blowing her off.

Mom’s brow furrowed, and she crossed her arms. “Ryan James Coleman, Matt’s busy helping with the grill, and you know better than to make excuses. Natasha’s been so good to us, letting you hang out here, asking for your help. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

I bit back a groan, my face heating up. Sophie was watching, and the last thing I needed was her thinking I was some lazy asshole. “Yeah, okay, fine,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Sorry, Sophie, I’ll catch you in a bit?”

“No worries,” she said, her smile softening. “Go be a hero. We’ll talk later.”

I forced a nod, my heart hammering as I turned toward the detached garage across the lawn. Natasha was already there, waiting halfway between me and the garage’s side door, her posture all casual elegance, but her eyes gleamed with that wicked spark that made my blood run hot and cold. My cock, sore as it was, started swelling, and I cursed under my breath, willing it to calm the fuck down. No way was I walking into another one of her traps with a raging hard-on.

As I approached, Natasha linked her arm through mine, her body pressing against me so tightly I could feel the heat of her through her dress. “Such a good boy, always ready to help,” she purred, her voice low enough that only I could hear. She led me toward the garage, her hips brushing mine with every step, and my dick throbbed painfully, ignoring my brain’s screams to abort mission.

She opened the side door, ushering me inside, and the click of it closing behind us echoed like a jail cell locking. The garage smelled of oil and leather, Natasha’s sleek BMW and Richard’s Porsche parked like trophies under the fluorescent lights. Natasha turned to face me, her smile all teeth and promise, and I knew I was in deep shit.

Natasha shoved me against the garage door, the wood clattering in its frame as her lips crashed into mine. Her tongue speared into my mouth, hot and demanding, tasting of mint and sin. Her body pressed flush against me, her curves molding to my chest, her hips grinding into my groin. Her hand shot to my jeans, groping my cock through the denim, and I groaned into her kiss, the ache in my shaft flaring even as it hardened under her touch. My head spun, overwhelmed by the onslaught—her perfume, her heat, the relentless way she owned every inch of me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, just drowned in the chaos of her.

“Oh, Ryan,” she moaned, breaking the kiss to nip at my jaw, her voice a husky purr. “I’ve missed this cock so fucking much. Less than a day, and I’m dying without it.” Her fingers squeezed my bulge, tracing its length as she pressed her tits harder against me. “My pussy feels so empty all the time now, darling. You’ve ruined me with that gorgeous, big dick, stretching me out like no one else can.”

I gasped, my hands gripping her hips on instinct, trying to ground myself. “Natasha ... fuck,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “It’s been, like, twenty hours. You’re killing me.” My cock throbbed painfully, betraying me as it swelled against her palm. I wanted to push her away, to stop this before it spiraled, but her touch was a goddamn drug, and I was already hooked.

She laughed, low and wicked, her emerald eyes glinting as she licked my earlobe. “Killing you? Oh, baby, I’m just getting started. You have no idea how wet I am, thinking about you splitting me open again.” Her hand slipped lower, cupping my balls through my jeans, and she moaned like she was tasting me already. “This cock is all I dream about, Ryan. Filling me, fucking me, making me scream.”

My knees buckled, and I leaned harder against the door, my sore muscles screaming as my dick begged for relief. “You’re insane,” I muttered, half-pleading, half-dazed. “I can’t ... I’m too fucking sore for this.” But even as I said it, my hips twitched, pressing into her hand, and I cursed myself for being so weak.

“Insane?” Natasha purred, her lips brushing mine as she unzipped my jeans, her fingers teasing the waistband of my boxers. “I’m addicted, Ryan. To this.” She gripped my cock through the thin fabric, stroking slowly. “To how you make my pussy clench just thinking about you. Don’t you want to feel me again? So tight, so wet, just for you?”

I groaned, my head thudding back against the door. “Fuck, Natasha, stop,” I said, but it came out weak, like I was begging her to keep going. My cock was rock-hard now, aching so bad I could barely think straight. “You’re gonna get us caught, and I’m ... I’m done, okay?”

She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, her smirk pure challenge. “Done? Oh, darling, that boner says otherwise.” She squeezed my shaft for emphasis, and I hissed, the mix of pain and pleasure short-circuiting my brain. “You’re practically bursting out of your jeans for me.”

I sucked in a breath, summoning every ounce of willpower I had left. “No,” I said, firmer this time, and shoved her away, my hands shaking as I put space between us. “I’m not fucking you today. I’m here for the ice, and then I’m gone.” My voice cracked, but I held her gaze, praying she’d back off.

Natasha chuckled, her laugh dark and dangerous as she stepped back, her eyes never leaving mine. “Fine, Ryan. Be a good boy.” She shrugged, sauntering over to the Porsche and hopping onto its hood, her dress riding up her thighs. “Get the ice.” She gestured lazily toward the large horizontal freezer against the garage wall, her smirk daring me to walk away.

I turned, zipping my jeans back up, my heart pounding as I stumbled to the freezer, desperate for a distraction. I yanked the lid open, the cold air hitting my face like a slap. Huge bags of ice were stacked inside, and I grabbed one, hefting its weight in both arms, the bag almost too heavy to lift. My arms burned, sore from days of hauling shit for the Harringtons and grueling football practices, but I welcomed the pain. Anything to keep my mind off Natasha’s hands, her voice, her fucking body.

I turned back toward the door, the bag heavy against my chest, and froze. Natasha’s dress was gone, pooled on the garage floor like a shed skin. She sprawled across the Porsche’s hood in nothing but lingerie—black, lacy, and so skimpy it barely qualified as clothing. A bra that pushed her tits up like an offering, a thong that left her hips and ass bare, a pair of heels, and nothing else. She leaned back on her elbows, one leg bent, her curves gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Her tongue darted out, licking her lips as she fixed me with a look that could melt steel.

My jaw dropped, the ice bag nearly slipping from my hands. My cock surged, tenting my jeans so obscenely I might as well have been naked. I couldn’t look away, her body a fucking masterpiece—tits spilling from the lace, hips curved like a fantasy, and that wicked gleam in her eyes promising every dirty thing I’d ever dreamed of.

“Isn’t this every teenage boy’s fantasy, Ryan?” she taunted, her voice a sultry drawl as she spread her legs slightly, the thong barely covering her. “Fucking a gorgeous, sexy woman on a sleek, expensive sports car?” She ran a hand down her stomach, teasing the edge of her panties, and smirked. “Come on, baby. Drop that ice and take what you want.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as Natasha sprawled across the Porsche’s hood, her black lace lingerie barely containing her curves. My hands trembled, the ice bag heavy against my chest, but my eyes were glued to her, my cock raging in my jeans, a painful, throbbing reminder of her power over me. She started moving, slow and deliberate, her body writhing like a goddamn siren calling me to crash. Her hips rolled, the thong riding higher on her ass as she arched her back, her tits straining against the lacy bra. She tossed her raven-black hair, the strands catching the fluorescent light like a dark halo, and her emerald eyes pinned me in place, daring me to look away.

Natasha cupped her breasts, squeezing them together, her thumbs teasing her nipples through the lace until they peaked, hard and obvious. “Like what you see, Ryan?” she purred, her voice dripping with heat. She slid one hand down her stomach, fingers grazing the edge of her thong, then turned slightly, shaking her ass so the firm cheeks jiggled, the Porsche’s sleek surface reflecting her every move. She licked her lips, slow and deliberate, her tongue tracing the glossy curve, and tossed her hair again, a wild, seductive flourish that made my knees weak.

“Goddamn, it’s like I’m in a Whitesnake video,” she said, laughing as she struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other raised. “Here I go again, right?” She waited for my reaction, but I just blinked, my brain too fried to understand what she was saying. Her smile faltered, and she sighed, a mock pout on her lips. “Kids these days. No appreciation for the classics.”

That word—kids—hit me like a bucket of cold water. Sophie’s face flashed in my mind, her hazel eyes, her easy laugh, the promise of something normal waiting outside. I clenched my jaw, my resolve hardening even as my cock screamed for release. “Fuck this,” I muttered, ripping my eyes away from Natasha’s curves, the ache in my groin a dull roar. I turned toward the side door, hobbling under the weight of the ice bag, my legs shaky but determined. Behind me, Natasha fell silent, the air thick with her unspoken challenge.

I fumbled with the door handle, the ice bag slipping in my grip as I tried to balance it. My fingers, slick with sweat, struggled to turn the knob, but I was so close—freedom was on the other side, the barbecue’s noise filtering through the crack. Just get the door open, I thought, and I’m home free. Then I heard it: the sharp click of Natasha’s heels on the concrete, slow and predatory, closing the distance. My heart pounded, my breath hitching as I felt her presence just behind me, her heat radiating against my back.

I got the knob turning, the door creaking open an inch, when her arms snaked around me from behind. Her manicured fingers found my jeans, unzipping them with a swift, practiced tug. Before I could react, she fished out my raging cock, her touch electric as she wrapped her hand around my shaft. “Oh, Ryan,” she taunted, her voice a sultry whisper in my ear, “this feels so fucking good in my hands. So thick, so hard for me.”

I groaned, my head tipping back as her fingers stroked me from behind, slow and deliberate, her nails grazing the sensitive skin. Her arms hugged my thighs, pinning me in place, her grip firm but teasing, coaxing my cock to full, painful hardness. “Don’t you want me to suck you off, baby?” she murmured, her breath hot against my neck. “You know how good my mouth feels, don’t you?”

My knees buckled, the ice bag nearly slipping as I braced against the door, the half-open gap mocking my escape. Her hand moved faster in the reach-around from hell, slick with the precum leaking from my tip, her fingers gliding over every inch of my shaft. She twisted her wrist, her thumb circling the head, and I bit my lip to stifle a moan, the pleasure warring with the ache in my sore cock. “Fuck, Natasha,” I growled, my voice raw. “Stop it. I’m not doing this.”

She chuckled, her lips brushing my earlobe as she kept stroking, relentless. “Oh, you loved my blowjob yesterday, didn’t you? The way I took all of you, swallowing every drop?” Her other hand cupped my balls, squeezing gently, and I hissed, my hips twitching despite myself. “Come on, Ryan. Let me suck this perfect cock again. You know you want it.”

I snarled in frustration, my hands tied up with the ice bag, my cock throbbing under her touch. The door was right there, half-open, the barbecue’s chatter spilling in, but if I broke her grip and stumbled outside, my dick would be waving like a fucking flag for everyone to see. I stood frozen, her hands working me over, her taunts sinking deeper. “You’re such a good boy when you give me what I want,” she purred, her strokes slowing to a torturous rhythm. “So give me what I want, Ryan, and I’ll let you go back to the barbecue and your cute little blonde. Promise.”

My resolve cracked, the door still teasing freedom, but her grip was a vise, her voice a siren’s call. I yanked the door shut with a desperate jerk, the slam echoing in the garage as Natasha’s chuckle filled the air, dark and triumphant. “There’s my boy,” she whispered, her hand never stopping, stroking my cock like she owned it.

I turned, the ice bag heavy in my arms, my heart hammering as Natasha sank to her knees in front of me, her black lace lingerie glowing under the garage’s fluorescent lights. She pushed me back, my shoulders hitting the door with a thud, the wood rattling in its frame. Her face was inches from my cock, her breath hot as she blew a slow, teasing stream of air over the swollen head. My shaft twitched, aching so fiercely I thought I’d lose it right there, the mix of pain and pleasure frying my brain.