The rental house was charming—just the right mix of modern and rustic.
We’d been there two days already, tucked into the countryside and settling into the rhythm of nowhere in particular. Slow mornings, sun-warm afternoons by the pool, late nights filled with wine and laughter. It was exactly the kind retreat we needed.
But if I’m being honest, I hadn’t picked the place for the view, or the quiet. I insisted on it because of him.
His photo on the website left a bigger impression on me than any of the rentals.
He owned the place, living in one of the detached studios surrounding the central courtyard. He stayed out of our way for the most part, but we saw him around—gardening, fixing things, cooking, hosting friends.
And somehow, every time I noticed him, I felt it deeper. There was something about the way he moved—unhurried, physical, quietly capable. I grew fond of his presence. I found myself watching him whenever he passed, eagerly waiting for the next excuse to catch him doing something with his hands.
That last night, he invited us to join their company for drinks.
Over cocktails on the patio, my friend and I giggled about the way he carried himself—the kind of man who probably had stories to tell and the hands to back them up.
“I mean, did you see his arms?” my friend whispered dramatically. “I would climb him like a fucking tree.”
I laughed, swirling my drink as I pictured his arm pinning me to the wall, his press heavy and sure. “You think this is, like, his routine? Hosting women, being all charming, seducing them one by one?”
She snorted. “Oh, a hundred percent. He’s got the whole ‘laid-back, rugged man’ thing down to a science.”
I let my gaze linger on him as he leaned against the counter, a drink in his hand, smiling as he talked to one of his friends. Effortless. Confident. A man who never had to ask twice.
I fought to keep my expression cool, pretending my thoughts weren’t already spiralling, already picturing my hands on him.
It started as a playful obsession—but now, I wasn’t leaving without a story.
Later that night, the place was still. My friend lay sprawled out beside me, already fast asleep, her breathing slow and steady.
My body had other plans. Heat simmered beneath my skin, my mind looping through every detail that had burrowed in over the past two days.
I exhaled slowly, pressing my legs together, trying to will the feeling away. But it didn’t fade. It only grew—thick and insistent, pulsing between my ribs. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, my mind spiralling with images of him—bare skin, rough hands, his voice.
I knew exactly what I wanted. I could picture it in vivid, breath-stealing detail.
But acting on it? That was insane.
If my friend hadn’t been there beside me, I would’ve already slipped a hand between my thighs, gotten myself off, and tried to sleep it off. But now, the urge wouldn’t let up. It twisted low in my belly, sharp and restless, building with every breath.
I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t ignore it.
My body moved on instinct—slipping out from under the covers, onto the cool floor.
The cold shocked my feet, grounding me for a moment. But the motion had already started.
The decision, had already been made.
The air outside was warm and thick. My hesitation melted with each step through the courtyard. My hunger didn’t just stir now; it spread, settled, became something steady.
By the time I reached his door, I was moving with purpose.
I knocked—the weight measured, deliberate.
Silence—
I heard a rustle. A pause. Then, his voice, low and groggy. “Yeah?”
The darkness swallowed me as I stepped inside.
I closed the door behind me, the click sharp in the silence, and stood still as my eyes adjusted—slowly picking out the outline of his body in bed, his startled expression now coming into focus.
“What’s—”
I pressed a finger to my lips, silencing him. “You want this, right?”
His expression softened, then shifted—a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Confident. Certain. He hummed a yes.
Without hesitation, I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head. Off came my shorts too. I just left my thong on—that part was his to remove, when the time was right. The rest pooled at my feet, my bare skin prickling in the cool air.
I stood there for a moment, revelling at the weight of his gaze as it dragged over me. I could see his throat move as he swallowed hard, his breathing already shifting.
I knew the effect my body had on men. Still, this wasn’t confidence—just exposure. Vulnerability that turned hot under attention, electrifying in its own right.
The linen sheets felt cool as I crawled onto the bed, my bare skin brushing against the fabric. It was sensory bliss—the cool brush of linen against my thighs, the heat radiating from his body, the sharp intake of his breath as I settled between his legs. Every inch of me felt alive, primed, and in control.
A beat of stunned silence.
His breath came faster. “Are you—”
“Shhh. Just let me.” I traced my finger over his lips as I said it.
He sat up against the headboard and the sheets fell, pooling low over his hips. His bare chest now illuminated, his muscles highlighted by the soft glow of moonlight. I leaned in, kissing his stomach, feeling the warmth just below his navel, the shock and tension in his muscles.
This was it. I was here, exactly where I wanted to be.
My desire no longer lived in fantasy. It was tangible now—breathing, pulsing beneath my hands and mouth.
I had taken the leap, and now, I was claiming what I’d wanted.
He reached for me, his hand trailing softly along my back, fingers tentative but eager.
He didn’t understand—not yet.
So I paused, caught his wrists, pinning them above his head against the headboard. I held him there for a moment, looking him in the eyes—sharp, clear, steady. No words. Just the weight of intent, and the quiet certainty of control.
Only then did my grip shift, hands gliding slowly down his arms, revelling in the feel of him—the very muscles I’d been fantasising about for days. His biceps were solid beneath my palms, warm and flexed with restraint, and the contact sent a sharp shiver racing through my body.
For a moment, I wanted to drop the act, to give in. To let him flip me over, pin me down, do anything he wanted.
But I didn’t. I stayed on top of it. Let the thrill simmer, let the desire stretch.
My hands continued their path—over his chest, down his torso, skimming along the edges of his waist. I grabbed the sheets and pulled them back. Slowly. Deliberately.
No underwear.
A rush of heat coiled low in my belly at the sight of him—bare, waiting, mine to play with.
I looked back up at him, grinning as I caught the realisation in his eyes.
Holding his gaze, letting it stretch between us, I lowered myself slowly, inch by inch. I buried my face between his legs, inhaling deeply, letting my lips graze the sensitive skin along his inner thigh.
His scent set my body on fire.
My pulse was a shockwave, thudding in my ears, rippling through my limbs, erasing every ounce of patience I had left.
I had him exactly where I wanted him—bare, vulnerable, at my mercy—and I wasn’t going to waste it. I wanted to savour every second. Draw it out. Make it unforgettable.
I didn’t know if this was a pattern for him, if other women had done this before me. But I was going to leave my mark. I would be the one he thought about.
I took him into my mouth—still soft, twitching, vulnerable—slowly tracing his shape with my tongue, coaxing him to life. I suckled, teasing him with gentle pressure, my tongue exploring every inch.
As he grew, I felt it—the weight, the heat, the swell that filled my mouth with each pulse. The transformation wasn’t just physical; it felt intimate, thrilling. And I kept my eyes on his the whole time—watching him, letting him see every detail, letting him know exactly what I was doing to him, and how much I was enjoying it.
I kept at it until he was too thick to contain, pulling off with a deep gasp, breath catching as he throbbed against my lips. He was hard and straining, impossible to take in fully.
My body clenched with my own desire, but I stayed with it—anchored to the moment, unwilling to let go.
His head tipped back, a quiet curse escaping him. That was all the encouragement I needed.
I took him back in, now stroking with the rhythm of my mouth, the two building something raw and indulgent between us. It was intoxicating. I continued sucking, drunk on the feeling, power-hungry with the effect I had on him. Every twitch of his hips, every muffled curse from his lips only fed the deeper hunger, until his body trembled beneath me.
I loved it—savoured it—moaning around him, the vibrations traveling down my throat, urging me to go harder.
And I did.
In a desperate moment, I pressed my nose to his base, swallowing him whole.
It burned, it stretched, it tested me—and I loved every second. I held him there until my lungs screamed, until he groaned my name. It was a surrender. He was begging, like he couldn’t help it.
The sound lit something in me. I felt powerful, cherished, ravenous.
When I finally pulled back, spit trailed from my lips to his cock, glistening. I held still. Let him see the mess. Let him feel it—his eyes wild, chest heaving, undone.
That’s what I wanted. Not just to get him off, but to leave something behind.
I wanted more than just release—I wanted devastation.
I almost straddled him right then—let him feel what he’d awakened. He was sitting there, wrecked, breathless, and it would’ve taken nothing to climb onto him and finish us both.
But I didn’t. Not yet. The night was long, and I was barely getting started.
I dipped lower, taking one of his balls into my mouth, hand stroking him with slow, twisting intent.
He started to shake—violent, erratic, his whole body twitching under my mouth. His thighs flexed, his hips thrust up in stuttering jolts. It was hard to keep him steady, hard to stay on him. But I didn’t let up. I stayed with him. Pushed through it.
I knew he was close, I felt his pulses building. My mind raced, already a step ahead, already picturing his release. In that moment he was mine to use—and I wanted to finish the job. I wanted to break him.
I held firm, relentless.
A deep, guttural moan ripped through him—vibrating through me, stealing my breath.
I watched, dazed and drunk on it, as cum streaked his stomach. Felt it drip over my fingers.
Hot, thick, endless.
I waited until he opened his eyes to look at me. And only then, I let out a satisfied hum, running my tongue over my coated fingers. Part indulgence—part performance. I dipped my head again, taking him back into my mouth, softer this time, sucking the last few drops from him.
Before he could fully catch his breath, I crawled up his body, dragging my breasts deliberately through the mess on his chest, smearing it between us. I wanted him to feel it—the contact, the weight, the filth of it.
I pressed my lips to his, tasting salt and silence. I wanted him to feel it—not just what I’d done, but what it meant. A slow, deep kiss—lingering.
Our eyes locked again, and I held his gaze, unflinching, letting the moment stretch.
I’d done this—and I wanted him to remember.
The way his mouth parted, like he might speak but couldn’t find the words, sent a pulse of satisfaction through me.
I relished the silence.
I had won. And he’d remember me every time he closed his eyes.
Hours later, just as silently as I’d arrived, I slipped from the bed, gathered my clothes, and vanished into the night—my legs weak, sore from the long night.
The courtyard was still wrapped in silence, but the sky above had started to shift—soft streaks of colour breaking through the black. Morning light rising slow over the rooftops, casting everything in gold.
I climbed back into bed carefully, slipping under the sheets, my body still thrumming, my lips tingling with the ghost of him.
The sheets rustled beside me, and my friend stirred. “You’re a slut, you know?” she murmured. Then, after a beat: “How was he?”
I smirked, tracing my fingers over my stomach, stretching lazily under the covers.
“Incredible.”