On-screen, the mechanic fucks the customer’s mouth, snapping his hips and tugging his blond hair. The customer swallows him greedily, eyes rolling back while he gropes the mechanic’s ass, urging him even deeper down his throat. Wet noises and eager groans play through my laptop speakers, sending shivers down my spine.
I’m jerking myself in earnest now, lotion spread across my palm. My other hand toys with my balls, rolling them between my fingers. I stroke my cock as the mechanic grabs the customer beneath his armpits, hauling him up and manhandling him with ease.
Why does that turn me on so much?
The mechanic pins the customer against a workbench, shoving a toolbox onto the floor with a metallic clatter. He pushes between his shoulder blades and bends him over, rubbing his cock against his shorts. The customer moans and grinds back against him.
The mechanic takes off the customer’s shorts, practically ripping them from his slender body. The camera pans over to his hole, pink and glistening, probably pre-lubricated and stretched. I know pornography isn’t realistic in the slightest.
He pushes inside with one smooth movement, sheathing the smaller man on his cock. The customer grips the workbench while the mechanic plows into him, hips bucking with the sound of his balls slapping against his ass. The bottom gasps and screams in pleasure, rocking back to meet his partner’s thrusts.
Christ, what does that feel like?
I thought this part would make me cringe—that I would hate the idea of penetration—but to my complete surprise, my cock is practicallyweepingat the sight. Precome slowly slides down my shaft, and I rub my thumb against the leaking slit, moaning softly.
I don’t even last until the finale. Before the men on-screen climax, my orgasm rolls over me with toe-curling intensity. I come hard as I arch off the bed, gasping and fucking my fist. Come dribbles out of me in thick ropes, coating my fingers. My eyes clench shut as pleasure courses through me, wave after wave, and it feels like it’ll never end.
Struggling to catch my breath, I slam my laptop shut and push it aside. I stare up at the ceiling, mind numb as I lazily stroke my softening cock, riding it out.
Fuck, that was the most intense orgasm of my life.
I grab a tissue from my nightstand and start cleaning myself up. Halfway through, an unexpected sob rips out of me. Tears spill down my cheeks as my body trembles, completely out of my control. I can barely catch a breath, gasping for air as a sharp pulse of panic floods my chest.
The terrifying truth slices through me like a knife. I didn’t justlikewatching that—it altered my goddamn brain chemistry.
I’m never going to be the same.
Chapter Eight
Ashton
Olivia’sfinallyhomefromcollege for the summer, which means I’ve got an extra set of hands in the orchard.
I ease the forklift forward, the engine rumbling beneath me as a metal bin packed full of bright-red tart cherries rattles against its brackets. First harvest of the season. The cherries look almost unreal in the early afternoon light—plump, shiny, still beaded with dew.
Tremblay Orchards grows two kinds of cherries: sweet and tart. Sweet cherries are easy enough. They get shaken straight into wooden boxes, loaded onto trucks, and sent out the same day. Tart cherries, though? They’re high-maintenance. They have to hit the cooling pad after they’re picked, where they spend some quality time submerged in icy water before their long journey across the state to a processor factory. From there, they’ll be transformed into pies, jams, and juice concentrates.
I line the forklift up with the edge of the cooling pad, a wide concrete slab slick with water. Olivia waits beside it, boots planted in a puddle of mud, ponytail swinging as she motions me forward.
“Little more… little more—stop!” she calls, slapping the side of the bin.
I lower the lift, releasing the box with a teeth-rattling thud. Reversing until the forks slide free, I kill the engine and hop down. Olivia rises onto her tiptoes to hook up the piping, twisting the valve until a surge of icy water rushes through.
“God, that smell,” she laughs, scrunching her nose as the air fills with the sharp scent of cold fruit and metal. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”
I arch a brow at her, skeptical. “Youmissedthis?”
She grins. “Kinda. City folks are a different breed, Ash.”
I smile to myself, shaking my head. I know exactly what she means. The five of us Tremblay kids share a bond most people wouldn’t understand. We were the ones waking up at the ass crack of dawn every summer while other kids our age slept in, went to camp, or played video games. Instead, we spent our days under Dad’s sharp tongue, doing our best to keep the orchard running smoothly and obeying every order he threw our way.
As the cherries settle beneath the water, bobbing under the ripples, Olivia nudges me with her elbow. “Remember when we used to dunk each other in the tanks?” Her eyes gleam with mischief.
I shudder. “God, the water was freezing!”
“Felt nice on a hot day, though.”
I bark out a laugh. She’s not wrong. Summers back then were just a blur of sunburned shoulders, sticky fingers, and roughhousing behind Dad’s back.
