The Garden Where Forbidden Flowers Finally Bloom

A week had passed since that moment in the garden, but Jonathan's words—"Everything you touch just blooms"—still echoed in my mind, unwelcome and persistent. I'd been avoiding him, making excuses to be out when he came to work, leaving notes about what needed tending. Today, though, he'd brought his younger brother Nathan to help with some heavy lifting in the back corner of the yard.

From my bedroom window, I'd watched them working together. Jonathan giving instructions, Nathan nodding earnestly. I didn't need to be outside to know what Jonathan looked like shirtless. My imagination filled in the details perfectly.

Now, with afternoon sunlight filtering through half-drawn blinds, I lay on my bed, still in the jeans and plain t-shirt I'd worn all day. The house was quiet except for occasional sounds from the garden—the scrape of a shovel, muffled voices.

I shouldn't. Not with them here. But the ache between my legs had been building all day, a low persistent hum that wouldn't subside.

Just quickly, I told myself. They'll be outside for at least another hour.

I didn't bother removing my clothes—I never did. Something about being fully dressed made it feel less... intentional. Like I could deny what I was doing, even to myself. I unzipped my jeans just enough to slip my hand inside, over cotton underwear already damp with arousal.

My fingers found their familiar path, pressing against my clit through the thin fabric. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the sensation rather than any particular image. But unbidden, Jonathan's face appeared in my mind—his knowing smile, the way his eyes had moved over me.

"Stop it," I whispered to myself, but my hand moved faster.

I shifted my fingers beneath the elastic of my underwear, gasping at the contact with my slick pussy. I was wetter than I'd expected, my folds swollen and sensitive. I circled my clit with two fingers, my hips rising slightly to meet the pressure.

My bedroom door was ajar, but I didn't care. No one would come upstairs. I was safe in my shame, hidden behind closed blinds and half-open doors, grinding against my own hand like a teenager.

I slid my middle finger inside myself, curling it upward, thumb still working my clit. My free hand gripped the bedspread, knuckles white. I was close already, embarrassingly so. The pressure built low in my belly, that familiar tightening that signaled release was near.

Just as my breathing quickened, just as I teetered on the edge, I heard a creak. My eyes flew open in time to see my bedroom door swing wider, revealing Nathan standing in the hallway.

Our eyes locked. His widened in shock as he took in my flushed face, my obvious position—hand buried in my jeans, rhythmic movement suddenly frozen. For a suspended moment, neither of us moved.

Then Nathan's face flooded crimson. "I—bathroom—sorry—" he stammered, slamming the door shut so hard the wall shook.

I lay paralyzed, hand still inside my pants, pleasure evaporating instantly. Footsteps pounded down the stairs. A door slammed somewhere below.

Oh God. Oh God.

I yanked my hand from my jeans, fumbling with the zipper, though it was far too late for modesty. White-hot humiliation coursed through me. He'd seen me. He knew. The most private, shameful part of myself—exposed.

I curled onto my side, knees drawn to chest, heart hammering against my ribs. What would he tell Jonathan? The thought sent another wave of mortification through me. Jonathan would know I wasn't the composed, professional woman I pretended to be. He'd know I was just another horny, desperate body, touching herself while thinking of—

No. I couldn't even complete the thought. The shame was too overwhelming, a physical weight crushing my chest. I pressed my face into the pillow and wished desperately for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

I couldn't sleep. Three hours after Nathan had fled from my bedroom doorway, I still lay rigid beneath my sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The house was silent now. They'd finished the gardening work and left without a word—at least none that reached me through my self-imposed exile.

I'd spent the rest of the afternoon hiding, pretending to be on an important call when Nathan and Jonathan finally packed up their tools. I'd watched from behind my curtains as they loaded equipment into Jonathan's truck. Nathan had kept his head down the entire time. Jonathan had glanced up at my window once—just once—but it was enough to send me ducking back into the shadows, heart pounding.

Had Nathan told him? The question circled my thoughts like a vulture. The very idea made me want to disappear, to move to another state, to change my name and never see either of them again.

But beneath that horror lurked another feeling, one I was desperately trying not to acknowledge. A shameful, perverse thrill at the thought of Jonathan knowing. Of him picturing me on my bed, hand working between my legs. Of him seeing past my careful facade to the woman underneath—needy, desperate.

"Stop it," I whispered into the darkness, the same futile command I'd given myself earlier. But the thought wouldn't leave.

What if Nathan had told him every detail? What if Jonathan now knew exactly how I looked with pleasure written across my face? What if he could picture my hand moving rhythmically inside my jeans?

I pressed my thighs together, horrified to find myself growing wet again. This was sick. I was sick. I should be mortified, not aroused. Yet I couldn't stop imagining Jonathan's face as Nathan described what he'd seen—those dark eyes growing darker, that knowing smile spreading across his lips.

Would he be disgusted? Or would he be intrigued?

My hand slid beneath the covers of its own accord, finding the hem of my nightshirt. I wasn't wearing underwear. I should stop this. I should absolutely not get myself off to the thought of my gardener knowing I masturbate. But my fingers were already tracing the inside of my thigh, moving upward with determined purpose.

I was soaking wet, my pussy practically dripping when my fingers made contact. I gasped, my back arching slightly off the bed. I circled my clit slowly at first, still fighting some last vestige of propriety.

But the image of Jonathan wouldn't leave my mind. Not just knowing about my private moments, but watching them. Watching me now. Those capable hands that so skillfully tended my garden instead tending to me, touching me where my own fingers now touched.

"Fuck," I breathed, the word foreign on my tongue. I never cursed. But in the dark, with shame and desire twisting together into something unrecognizable, the obscenity felt right.

I slid two fingers inside myself, my thumb still working my clit. I was wetter than I'd ever been, my pussy making obscene slick sounds as I fingered myself harder, faster. I imagined Jonathan hearing those sounds, the evidence of my arousal, and it made me wilder.

My hips rocked against my hand, abandoned to the fantasy now. I added a third finger, stretching myself, imagining they were his fingers—or better yet, his cock. Would he be big? He had to be. Everything about him exuded such confidence, such casual dominance.

I fucked myself harder with my fingers, my free hand moving up to squeeze my breast roughly through my nightshirt. My nipples were painfully hard, sensitive even through the cotton. I pinched one between my fingers, gasping at the sharp pleasure-pain.

"Jonathan," I whispered into the empty room, the forbidden name like a match to gasoline. My fingers curved inside me, finding that spot that made my vision blur. "Oh god, Jonathan."

The shame was still there, but it had transformed into fuel, each mortifying detail of the day's events stoking my arousal higher. Nathan's shocked face. The slam of the door. The possibility—the hope—that Jonathan now knew exactly what kind of woman I really was.

My orgasm built with frightening intensity, my thighs beginning to shake, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I wasn't gentle with myself now, wasn't careful or quiet. I thrashed against the sheets, fucking my fingers into my soaked cunt with single-minded determination.

"Jonathan, please," I begged to my empty bedroom, no longer caring how pathetic I sounded. "Please, I need—I need—"

The climax hit me like a tidal wave, my back arching completely off the bed, a cry tearing from my throat that I barely recognized as my own. My pussy clenched violently around my fingers, pulsing with an intensity that bordered on painful. I kept working my clit through it, prolonging the pleasure until it became too much and I had to stop, my hand falling limp beside me.

As reality reasserted itself, I lay trembling, sweat cooling on my skin, fingers sticky with my arousal. The shame returned, but changed somehow. More complex. I'd just gotten myself off—hard—to the thought of Jonathan knowing my secrets. The thought of him wanting me.

I turned onto my side, drawing my knees to my chest, feeling the aftershocks still rippling through me. What was happening to me? Who was this woman, whispering a near-stranger's name into the dark, fantasizing about being exposed, caught, seen?

I didn't recognize myself anymore. And the most frightening part was that some small, growing part of me didn't want to go back to who I'd been before.

The weeks following that sleepless night passed in a haze of shame and arousal that I couldn't seem to shake. Each time Jonathan came to tend the garden, I found new excuses to stay inside. When we did interact, I kept my eyes averted, terrified he would somehow see the desperate woman I'd become in the dark.

Today marked three weeks since Nathan had caught me. Three weeks of avoiding Jonathan's knowing smirk. Three weeks of masturbating to increasingly elaborate fantasies of being discovered.

I needed to break the cycle. That's what I told myself when I said yes to drinks with Chris from accounting. That's what I repeated silently when I suggested we come back to my place afterward. He was safe. Bland. The opposite of the dangerous thoughts that had consumed me lately.

"Nice place," Chris said, wandering around my living room with the awkward energy of someone who wasn't sure what came next.

"Thanks," I replied, pouring us each a glass of wine I didn't really want. "Kitchen's through here."

Chris followed me, his eyes fixed on my back. I could feel his gaze, but it didn't ignite anything in me. Not like when Jonathan looked at me.

Stop it, I commanded myself. Jonathan isn't here. This is about taking control again.

I set the wine glasses down on the kitchen counter and turned to face Chris. He had pleasant features, I supposed. Brown hair neatly parted to one side. A blue button-down tucked into khakis. He worked two cubicles down from me and always brought his lunch in Tupperware containers.

"Abigail," he started, taking a cautious step forward. "I've wanted to ask you out for months."

I didn't want to hear about his months of yearning. I didn't want soft words or gentle touches. I wanted to fuck the image of Jonathan from my mind.

I closed the distance between us, pressing my lips against his with more force than finesse. Chris made a surprised noise but quickly adapted, his hands coming to rest tentatively on my waist.

"Whoa," he breathed when I pulled back. "That was—"

I kissed him again to shut him up. This wasn't about connection. This was exorcism.

My hands worked at his belt buckle, clumsy with an urgency I didn't fully understand. Chris seemed stunned by my directness but didn't protest, his breathing growing heavier as I freed his cock from his boxers.

It was... fine. Average in every way. I stroked it mechanically, feeling it harden in my palm.

"Jesus, Abigail," Chris groaned, his head falling back. "I didn't expect—"

"Don't talk," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "Just... touch me."

His hands moved to my breasts, squeezing them through my blouse with unpracticed enthusiasm. I closed my eyes, trying to feel something—anything—beyond a detached sense of determination.

I turned around, bracing myself against the kitchen counter—the same counter where I'd handed Jonathan lemonade, my fingers lingering against his for that forbidden extra second.

"Fuck me," I said to Chris, the crude words still strange on my tongue. I hiked up my skirt, revealing the simple cotton underwear beneath. "Now."

"Right here?" Chris asked, but his cock was already pressing against my ass, his need overriding his surprise at my behavior.

"Yes," I hissed, reaching back to guide him. "Right here."

He pulled my underwear to the side and pushed into me with an eager thrust. I wasn't particularly wet, and the friction burned slightly. I didn't care. I wanted to feel used, to punish myself for the thoughts I couldn't escape.

Chris gripped my hips and began to fuck me with short, awkward strokes. His rhythm was uneven, his breathing already labored. I knew he wouldn't last long.

I closed my eyes tight, trying to lose myself in the physical sensation. His cock slid in and out of my pussy with increasing ease as my body responded despite my emotional disconnect. I pressed my palms flat against the counter, pushing back against him, taking him deeper.

"Oh God, Abigail," Chris panted. "You feel so good."

I said nothing, focusing instead on the sound of skin slapping against skin, on the feeling of being filled. It wasn't enough. It wasn't what I needed.

Without conscious decision, my mind replaced Chris with Jonathan. I imagined stronger hands gripping my hips, a more confident cock stretching me open. I imagined Jonathan's voice in my ear, telling me he'd known all along what kind of woman I really was.

The fantasy worked. I felt myself getting wetter, my pussy squeezing around the cock inside me.

"Harder," I demanded, and Chris obeyed, his thrusts becoming more forceful. His hands fumbled with the buttons of my blouse, eventually giving up to simply shove my bra up, freeing my breasts to bounce with each thrust.

I was getting close, riding the wave of my forbidden fantasy while Chris's very real cock pounded into me from behind. My hand snaked between my legs to rub my clit, chasing the release I craved.

And then I heard it—the soft click of the back door opening.

Time seemed to slow down. I turned my head just as Charlotte stepped into the kitchen, a bag of groceries in her arms and her key still dangling from her finger.

"Abigail, I brought that pasta sauce you wanted to try—" Her words died as she registered what she was seeing.

For one eternal second, nobody moved. Charlotte stood frozen in the doorway, her mouth forming a perfect O of shock. Chris, still buried deep inside me, made a strangled sound of horror. And I—I felt something rupture inside of me, shame and exposure flooding my system like a drug.

"Shit!" Chris pulled out of me so abruptly it hurt, fumbling to tuck his still-hard cock back into his pants. "Shit, shit, shit."

I yanked my skirt down with trembling hands, my face burning as I tried to adjust my bra and blouse. The kitchen reeked of sex and embarrassment.

Charlotte finally moved, setting the groceries down with deliberate calm. "I am so sorry," she said, her voice unnaturally high. "I should have called first. I'll just—"

"No, I was just leaving," Chris interrupted, his belt still undone as he backed toward the door. The bulge in his pants was still visible, made more obscene by his attempts to hide it. "Abigail, I'll call you, okay?" He wouldn't. We both knew it.

He squeezed past Charlotte with a mumbled apology and practically ran for the front door. The slam echoed through the house, leaving Charlotte and me alone in the wreckage of my latest humiliation.

I couldn't look at her. My hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, as if I might float away without the anchor. My thighs were slick with my own arousal, my pussy still throbbing with unfulfilled need. Worst of all, the moment of discovery—Charlotte's shocked face, the abrupt exposure—had sent a perverse spike of excitement through me even as horror bloomed.

What was wrong with me?

I heard Charlotte take a hesitant step toward me. "Abigail?" she said softly. "Are you okay?"

The genuine concern in her voice nearly broke me. I didn't deserve it. She didn't know what I'd become.

I heard Charlotte take a hesitant step toward me. "Abigail?" she said softly. "Are you okay?"

The genuine concern in her voice nearly broke me. I didn't deserve it. She didn't know what I'd become.

"Do you want me to go?" Charlotte asked when I didn't respond. I could hear the discomfort in her voice, the careful way she was trying to navigate this awkward situation.

I forced myself to turn around, tugging my skirt lower as I did. My hands were still shaking. My body felt strange—aroused and ashamed at once, as if the two emotions had fused into something new.

"You don't have to leave," I said. My voice sounded odd to my ears, hoarse and unfamiliar.

Charlotte nodded, her eyes carefully fixed on my face. She was trying so hard not to look at my disheveled clothes, at the counter where moments ago Chris had been inside me.

"I'm sorry I barged in," she said. "I should have texted first."

A laugh escaped me, high and slightly hysterical. "It's not your fault."

Charlotte bit her lip, clearly unsure what to say next. We'd been friends since college, but nothing in our eight years of friendship had prepared her for walking in on me being fucked against my kitchen counter by a man I'd barely mentioned before today.

"I didn't know you and Chris were... involved," she ventured carefully.

"We're not." I leaned back against the counter, suddenly exhausted. "Tonight was the first time we've gone out. I don't even like him that much."

Charlotte frowned slightly. "Oh."

The silence stretched between us, taut with unspoken questions. I could feel something building inside me—a pressure that had been growing for weeks, maybe longer. Ever since Nathan had walked in on me. Ever since I'd started having these thoughts about Jonathan. The pressure of keeping my desires hidden, of pretending to be the modest, controlled woman everyone thought I was.

"I'm fine," I whispered, finally meeting Charlotte's eyes. But the words unlocked something in me, and suddenly I wasn't fine at all.

"The worst part is..." My voice trembled, barely audible. I shouldn't say it. I should keep this last, terrible truth to myself. But I couldn't hold it in anymore. "I think I liked being caught."

The words hung in the air between us. I couldn't believe I'd said it out loud. My cheeks burned hotter, but alongside the shame was a strange sense of relief.

Charlotte's eyes widened, but to her credit, she didn't recoil or look disgusted. She just stood there, processing.

"You... liked it?" she repeated carefully.

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm kitchen. "I don't know what's happening to me, Char. It's like I'm turning into someone else."

Charlotte took another step toward me. "What do you mean?"

"This isn't the first time," I admitted, the words tumbling out now that I'd started. "A few weeks ago, Jonathan's brother walked in on me... touching myself." I couldn't meet her eyes as I said it. "And then tonight, with Chris... when you opened that door, I should have been mortified. I was mortified. But part of me..."

I trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Charlotte was quiet for a long moment. Then she moved to stand beside me, leaning against the counter. Our shoulders almost touched.

"Maybe you're just discovering something about yourself," she said finally. "Something you've kept buried."

I shook my head. "The things I've been feeling, the thoughts I've been having... they're not me, Char. I'm not that person."

"Aren't you, though?" Charlotte asked gently.

The question hit me like a physical blow. Was this who I really was? This woman who masturbated to thoughts of being discovered, who fucked men she didn't care about against kitchen counters, who felt a dark thrill when exposed?

"I don't know anymore," I whispered.

Charlotte reached out and squeezed my arm. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."

I looked at her then, really looked at her. There was no judgment in her eyes, just the same steady friendship that had always been there.

"I'm scared," I admitted. "Of what I want. Of who I'm becoming."

"We all have parts of ourselves we keep hidden," Charlotte said. "Maybe it's time to stop fighting yours."

Part of me wanted to believe her—that this wasn't something shameful or wrong, just another facet of who I was. But the rest of me was terrified of what would happen if I truly let go of the control I'd maintained for so long.

"I should go," Charlotte said after a moment. "Give you some space to think." She squeezed my arm once more before moving toward the door. "Call me if you need to talk, okay? Anytime."

I nodded, grateful beyond words for her acceptance, even if I couldn't fully accept myself yet.

After she left, I stood alone in the kitchen, feeling the ghost of Chris's hands on my hips, Charlotte's eyes on my body, and most of all, the persistent, unwelcome thought of Jonathan's knowing smile the next time I saw him.

I didn't bother turning on the lights when I finally went to my bedroom. The darkness felt right. I stripped off my clothes, still smelling faintly of Chris, and pulled on an oversized t-shirt. My bed was unmade from this morning—had it really only been hours ago that I'd left for work, thinking today would be like any other?

I lay on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. The house felt too quiet, amplifying the chaos in my head.

Three times now. I'd been caught three times.

First Nathan walking in on me touching myself. Then Charlotte discovering me with Chris against the kitchen counter. And between those moments, my confession to Charlotte, speaking aloud the truth I'd barely acknowledged to myself: I liked being caught.

I pressed my palms against my closed eyes until I saw sparks of light behind my eyelids. What was happening to me? It was as if some dormant part of me had awakened and was now taking over, pushing aside the careful, controlled person I'd always been.

The worst part wasn't the shame. It was how the shame mixed with excitement, creating something potent and dangerous.

I rolled onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest. My phone lay on the nightstand, its screen dark. I could call Charlotte. She'd said to call anytime. But what would I say? That I was spiraling? That I didn't recognize myself anymore?

My thoughts drifted, inevitably, to Jonathan. I pictured him in my garden, shirtless, his skin golden in the sunlight. The way his eyes lingered on me when he thought I wasn't looking. The slight curl at the corner of his mouth when he said things that could be innocent but never were, not really.

Did he know? Had Nathan told him about walking in on me? The thought made my stomach clench—not entirely with dread.

I tried to imagine Jonathan's reaction. Would he be shocked? Amused? Or would he look at me differently, seeing past the modest dresses and careful smiles to the woman beneath who burned with needs she couldn't name?

My hand moved down my stomach before I realized what I was doing. I stopped myself, fingers hovering at the hem of my t-shirt. This was what had started all of this—my inability to control these urges, even for a single night.

But I was alone now. Truly alone, with the doors locked and the curtains drawn. The one place I'd always allowed myself this release.

I slipped my hand between my legs, finding myself already wet. Images flickered through my mind—Chris pressing me against the counter, Charlotte's wide eyes as she stood in the doorway, Nathan's shocked face when he'd opened my bedroom door weeks ago.

And then Jonathan, always Jonathan, his knowing smile as he watched me pretend to be something I wasn't.

"What would you do," I whispered into the darkness, "if you knew what I was thinking right now?"

The question hung in the silent room as I moved my fingers faster, my breath catching. In my mind, Jonathan wasn't shocked or disgusted by my secret desires. He saw them, understood them, wanted to unlock them further.

I came suddenly, gasping his name into my pillow, my body shuddering.

Afterward, I lay trembling, a strange calm settling over me. It was as if I'd crossed some invisible line and couldn't find my way back. The modest, quiet Abigail was slipping away, and I didn't know who was taking her place.

Tomorrow Jonathan would come to tend the garden, as he did every Saturday. He'd smile at me, say something suggestive disguised as innocent, and I'd retreat behind my careful facade.

Except I wasn't sure I could maintain that facade anymore. The cracks were spreading, revealing the person underneath—a person I barely recognized but who had always been there, waiting.

The thought should have terrified me. It did terrify me.

But beneath the terror was something else: a dangerous, intoxicating sense of anticipation.

I woke up Saturday morning with a strange, calm certainty. The anxiety that had churned in my stomach all week had settled into something else—a decision I hadn't consciously made.

When I heard the sound of someone moving around in the garage, I assumed it would be Jonathan. I dressed carefully, choosing a sundress with thin straps that tied at the shoulders. It was modest enough on the surface—falling just below my knees—but the fabric was thin, and I didn't wear a bra underneath.

But it wasn't Jonathan in the garage. It was Nathan, sorting through garden tools, his back to the door.

"Nathan," I said. He jumped, nearly dropping the rake in his hands. His face flushed immediately.

"Miss Abigail," he stammered. "I'm just... Jonathan asked me to get started. He's running late."

I should have nodded and walked away. Instead, I stepped closer.

"How have you been?" I asked, my voice softer than usual. "I haven't seen you since..." I let the sentence hang between us.

His blush deepened. "I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to... I should have knocked."

"It's fine," I said, surprised by how much I meant it. "These things happen."

He looked up at me then, his eyes lingering on my face, then dropping to my chest. I could see him noticing the outline of my nipples through the thin fabric.

"I should get back to work," he said, but didn't move.

"I need help in the garden shed first," I said.

The shed was small, dusty, and smelled of earth and fertilizer. Bags of soil were stacked against one wall, garden tools hanging from pegs on another. Sunlight filtered through a dirty window, casting the space in a dim, golden light.

I didn't say anything as I closed the door behind us. Nathan stood awkwardly in the center of the small space, clutching a rake like a shield.

"Miss Abigail, what did you need help with?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

I stepped closer to him. "I think you know."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I—"

I reached for him, wrapping my fingers around the rake handle and gently pulling it from his grip. I set it aside and then I was pressing against him, my mouth finding his in a clumsy, urgent kiss.

For a moment he was frozen, and then his hands were on my waist, his mouth opening to mine. He tasted like mint gum and smelled like sweat and freshly cut grass.

"We shouldn't," he mumbled against my lips, even as his hands slid lower, cupping my ass through my dress.

"I know," I said, already reaching for his belt. "I know."

We moved in a frenzy, my dress pushed up around my waist, his jeans and boxers shoved down to his thighs. He backed me against the wall, lifting me slightly. I wrapped my legs around him, gasping as he pushed inside me.

It wasn't good sex. It was rushed and graceless, his thrusts uneven, his hands gripping my thighs too hard. But I didn't care. It was the recklessness I wanted, the sheer wrongness of fucking my gardener's little brother in a dusty shed while anyone could walk in.

And then someone did.

The door creaked open. Sunlight flooded in, momentarily blinding me. But I knew who it was before my eyes adjusted.

Jonathan stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Nathan scrambled away from me, nearly falling as he tripped over his jeans. I heard him cursing, fumbling with his clothes, but I couldn't look away from Jonathan.

"Get out," Jonathan said quietly to his brother.

Nathan didn't need to be told twice. He pushed past Jonathan and was gone, leaving me standing against the wall with my dress bunched around my waist, exposed and vulnerable.

Jonathan stepped inside and closed the door. The shed plunged back into dimness.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for. For fucking his brother? For wanting him instead?

"Are you?" Jonathan asked, moving closer. He wasn't angry, just... curious.

The truth spilled out before I could stop it. "I was aroused."

He smiled then, a slow, knowing smile that made my heart race. He stepped closer, until he was just inches away.

"He doesn't know how to make you scream," Jonathan said, his voice low and intimate. "I do." He reached out, trailing his fingers down my bare arm. "Let me show you what it's like when someone really gives you what you want."

I should have been embarrassed. I should have pushed him away and fixed my dress. Instead, I stood motionless, my breath shallow, waiting.

Jonathan untied one strap of my dress, then the other, letting the top fall to my waist. His eyes darkened as he looked at my bare breasts.

"You're gorgeous," he said, cupping one breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple. "I've thought about this since the first day I worked in your garden."

He lowered his mouth to my breast, his tongue circling my nipple before taking it between his lips. I gasped, my head falling back against the wall.

"Not here," he murmured against my skin. "Come here."

He led me to a pile of empty burlap sacks in the corner. He spread a clean one on top and helped me lie back. I should have felt ridiculous—half-naked on a makeshift bed in my garden shed—but under his gaze, I felt desired, powerful.

Jonathan knelt between my legs, pushing my dress higher. He hooked his fingers in my underwear and slowly pulled them down my legs.

"I'm going to taste you now," he said, his eyes holding mine. "I've been wanting to for so long."

His mouth was hot and insistent against me. Unlike Nathan's fumbling urgency, Jonathan moved with deliberate purpose, his tongue finding exactly the right spot. He slid two fingers inside me while his tongue circled my clit, and I moaned, louder than I'd ever allowed myself to be.

"That's it," he murmured against me. "Let me hear you."

His fingers curled inside me, pressing against a spot that made my vision blur. My hips lifted off the burlap, seeking more.

"You're close," he said, his voice rough. "I can feel it." He increased the pressure of his tongue, moving faster. "Come for me, Abigail. Let go."

The orgasm hit me like a wave, more intense than anything I'd ever felt. I cried out, my body shaking, my hands gripping the burlap beneath me.

Before I could recover, Jonathan was standing, unbuckling his belt. He pushed his jeans and underwear down, revealing his cock, hard and ready. He was bigger than I expected, the tip already glistening.

"I want to be inside you," he said, stroking himself once. "Is that what you want?"

I nodded, beyond words.

He positioned himself between my legs, rubbing the head of his cock against my wet entrance. "Tell me," he insisted.

"Yes," I gasped. "Please."

He pushed inside me slowly, watching my face as he filled me. The stretch was exquisite, bordering on too much.

"You feel incredible," he groaned when he was fully seated. "So tight around my cock."

He began to move, his thrusts deep and measured. Each one hit something inside me that sent sparks through my body. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Take what you need."

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly every thrust was sending waves of pleasure through me. I felt something building, different from any orgasm I'd had before.

"Jonathan," I gasped, "something's happening—I can't—"

"Let it happen," he said, his voice strained. "Don't fight it. I've got you."

The pressure built to an unbearable peak and then broke. I felt a rush of wet heat between us as I came with a cry that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside me. Jonathan groaned, his rhythm faltering as he thrust hard once, twice, and then stilled, his cock pulsing inside me.

For a moment, we stayed frozen, both breathing hard. Then Jonathan carefully withdrew, looking down between us with satisfaction.

"You squirted," he said, a note of pride in his voice. "Has that ever happened before?"

I shook my head, still dazed. The burlap beneath me was soaked, as were my thighs. I should have been mortified, but instead, I felt a strange, powerful calm.

Jonathan leaned down and kissed me softly. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said. "And then I want to make you do that again."

We stumbled through my back door, our bodies still humming with the aftershocks of what had happened in the shed. I had pulled my dress back into place, but could still feel the wetness between my thighs—evidence of what Jonathan had made my body do for the first time.

The kitchen was quiet, bathed in afternoon light. I felt strangely vulnerable standing there, where just weeks before Charlotte had caught me with Chris. That memory had haunted me with shame. Now it felt like a pale ghost compared to the raw intensity of what had just happened.

I moved toward the sink, suddenly desperate for water. My legs still trembled slightly as I reached for a glass. Behind me, I heard Jonathan's footsteps on the tile floor.

"Abigail." My name on his lips was a command. I turned to face him.

His eyes were dark, his expression hungry. Without speaking, he pressed forward, backing me against the counter. His hands found my waist, then slid up to cup my face.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said, his voice a low rumble that I felt in my bones.

He kissed me deeply, and I tasted myself on his tongue. The intimacy of it made me moan into his mouth. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, on my breasts, sliding down to grip my ass.

Then, in one fluid motion, he turned me around to face the counter. I gripped the edge instinctively, my heart pounding. The cool granite pressed against my hipbones through the thin fabric of my dress.

"Spread your legs for me," he murmured against my ear.

I shifted my feet apart, feeling exposed and wickedly aroused. Jonathan's hands slid down my sides, then gathered the hem of my dress, slowly pulling it up to my waist. The air felt cool against my bare ass.

"No underwear," he observed, his voice thick with appreciation. "Were you planning this all along?"

"I lost them in the shed," I admitted, remembering how he'd tossed them aside.

"Good," he said, his hands kneading the flesh of my ass. "I want you exactly like this. Open. Ready."

I felt him sink to his knees behind me. His hands spread me wider, thumbs pulling my ass cheeks apart. I should have felt embarrassed to be so exposed, but all I felt was desperate anticipation.

"You have the most perfect pussy," he said, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh. "Pink and swollen and still wet for me."

The first touch of his tongue made me gasp. He licked me from my clit all the way back, a long, slow stroke that had me gripping the counter harder. Then he focused his attention, his tongue circling my entrance before plunging inside.

"Oh god," I moaned, pushing back against his face.

He pulled back slightly. "Louder," he commanded. "I want to hear exactly what I do to you."

His tongue returned to my pussy, more insistent now. He licked and sucked at my clit while his fingers teased my entrance. When he slid two fingers inside me, curling them upward, I cried out.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice muffled against my flesh. "Show me how much you love my tongue on your cunt."

The crude word sent a shock of pleasure through me. I'd never used that word, never even thought it, but hearing it from his mouth made me even wetter.

Jonathan's tongue moved in tight circles around my clit while his fingers pumped in and out. Pleasure built inside me, a tightening coil of sensation.

"I'm going to make you come so hard," he promised. "And this time, I want you to squirt all over my face."

The image his words created pushed me closer to the edge. My legs began to shake as pleasure mounted. I could hear myself making desperate sounds, high-pitched and needy.

Jonathan added a third finger, stretching me. His tongue never stopped its relentless assault on my clit. I felt the pressure building, that same unfamiliar tension from before.

"I can't," I gasped, though I wasn't sure what I was refusing. "It's too much."

"You can," Jonathan insisted, his voice rough with desire. "Let go, Abigail. Fuck my face. Come for me."

His words broke something loose inside me. I ground against his mouth shamelessly, chasing the rising wave of pleasure. When it hit, it was even more intense than in the shed. My body convulsed as liquid gushed from me, soaking Jonathan's face and hand.

He didn't stop, drawing out every aftershock with gentle licks and strokes until I couldn't take any more. I collapsed forward onto the counter, my cheek pressed against the cool surface, my breath coming in harsh pants.

Jonathan stood slowly behind me. I felt him press against my back, his erection hard against my ass. He kissed the nape of my neck, a surprisingly tender gesture after the raw intensity of what had just happened.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was our breathing, gradually slowing. I became aware of the kitchen around us—the afternoon sunlight, the ticking of the clock on the wall, the distant chirping of birds outside.

Between us hung something fragile and unnamed, a question neither of us seemed ready to ask.