He grips my hips in his large hands, slamming into me while I grasp the seat beneath me.
“Cannot—get—enough,” he says again.
He’s on the verge too.
I can hear it in the way his voice is straining.
Knowing that he wants me, that he wants me this badly—god, it’s addictive.
Heady.
Being wanted—being wanted beyond rational control—no onewants me that badly.
Except Rhys.
When he knows who I am. The lies I’ve been telling. The potential I have to hurt his friend.
But he still wants me.
He grips my hips tighter, his fingers digging into my skin, his cock hitting that sweet spot exactly right to?—
“Oh god, Rhys, I’m coming.” I gasp as the shock ripples through my body hard and fast, even harder and faster than my first orgasm.
He groans and stills behind me, buried deep, the spasms in his cock as he comes beating in time with my own release.
“You—so—everything,” he grunts.
I love you.
Oh, god.
Oh, god.
Surely not.
No, no, no.
I can’t.
I don’t knowhow.
This is—it’s infatuation.
Sexual satisfaction.
And I’m the asshole who’s mistaking it for love.
He sags behind me. “Fuck, Margot,” he whispers.
I gasp for breath, my eyes stinging, realizing how uncomfortable this stupid riding lawnmower seat is on my boobs.
And then I start laughing because I don’t know what else to do.
He sucks in a breath. “Jesus, not while I’m still inside you, please, for the love of my balls.”
“Why does this place even have a riding lawnmower?” I ask.
His cock slides out of me, leaving me feeling empty and exposed.
