I’d just stepped through the front door of our little semi-detached, the adrenaline-laced buzz from a successful meeting with a new client still faintly vibrating in my chest. I run my own graphic design business from home, which usually means jeans and a messy bun, but today demanded a professional look. I was dressed to impress the client, yes, but also Hamish, my husband.

I locked the door, letting the weight of the day settle on me. My pencil skirt, a stretch of charcoal wool, felt exquisitely tight on my slim waist, pulling the fabric taut. The simple, crisp white blouse I'd chosen was soft and cool against my skin, the top two buttons undone, revealing just enough to be suggestive, with my dark brown hair draping over my shoulders. But the real secret, the key to the electric anticipation thrumming through me, was hidden beneath the skirt. I was wearing black stockings held up by an intricate, barely-there lace suspender belt. It was a deliberate, last-ditch uniform, worn solely for my husband. My ovulation app had pinged me that morning. A cheerful, clinical notification announcing "Peak Fertility!" Being 25, I was ready to start my parenthood journey with Hamish. After a year of disheartening negative pregnancy tests and the silent strain that comes with trying for a baby, I wasn't leaving this window of opportunity to chance. Today, Hamish was going to look away from his screens. Today, I was pulling out all the stops.

​The familiar sound of Hamish’s work voice drifted down from upstairs. He was a sales manager, and his days were a constant stream of phone calls and video meetings from the office he’d set up in our spare bedroom. I dropped my bag and keys on the hall table and quietly climbed the stairs, a hopeful smile on my lips. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open to see him at his desk, headset on, looking intensely at his screen. He was so good-looking, with his dark hair slightly messy and his brow furrowed in concentration. I leaned against the doorframe, deliberately running a hand from my knee up my thigh, hoping the rustle of the stocking would catch his attention.

​He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second. He gave me a quick, distracted smile and held up a single finger, mouthing the words ‘one minute’. I waited, my body thrumming with anticipation. The minute stretched into five. Finally, he ended his call, pulling the headset off with a sigh. Before he could put it down, I walked over and perched on the edge of his desk, pushing aside a stack of papers. "Busy day?" I asked, trying to sound seductive. I leaned forward slightly, hoping he’d notice the way my blouse gaped open. However, his eyes were already flicking to an email on his screen. "Katie, I can't," he said, not even looking at me. "I've got back-to-back meetings all afternoon. It's the middle of the day."

​A familiar sting of disappointment pricked at me. I slid off the desk, my desire turning sour in my stomach. "Right. Of course," I mumbled, turning and walking out of the room before he could see the look on my face. Downstairs in the kitchen, I poured a glass of water and stared out the window into the garden. My gaze fell on the brand new caravan parked in our driveway. It was our big purchase, and meant for all the family holidays we were planning. Right now, it just looked like a big, white reminder of a future that felt further away than ever. I felt so frustrated and alone, trapped in a house with a husband who was always there, but never really present. 

While daydreaming out of the kitchen window, I noticed a tall man walk by, before hearing a knock. I opened the door, and my breath hitched. Standing there was a rugged-looking man, probably in his late forties. He had flecks of grey in his dark, thick hair and lines around his eyes that suggested he smiled a lot. He wore a simple navy polo shirt with a small company logo, the fabric stretching over a solid chest and strong, heavily tattooed arms. "Afternoon," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I'm here to fit a towbar." His eyes subtly swept over me, from my face down to my legs and back up again, before settling on mine. It wasn't lecherous, just appreciative. He seemed a little surprised to see me.

​"Oh, hi, erm, sorry I didn't know you were coming. Hamish is currently working," I managed, my own voice sounding a little tight. "He's on calls all day. I can help you instead." A part of me warmed under the brief attention from this stranger, a stark contrast to the cold dismissal from upstairs. I stepped forward to show him through the side gate that led to the driveway.

"That's a lovely van," he commented, nodding towards the big white box behind our car. "Barely seen the road, I'd guess." His observation was casual, but it landed with a thud in my chest. "We just got it," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "Lots of plans." My words sounded hollow even to my own ears. He must have heard it too, because he gave me a look that was more than just polite. The sun was beating down on the driveway, and I suddenly felt the need to extend the conversation, to keep this man and his quiet attention here for just a little longer. "It's a hot one today. Can I get you a cold drink? Water, or some juice?"

He gave me a genuine smile, the lines around his eyes deepening. "A glass of water would be brilliant, thank you." I went back inside to the kitchen, my mind racing. When I returned with two glasses of iced water, he had opened his toolbox, and I passed him a glass.

"So, where are you off to first?" he asked after taking a long drink, his eyes on mine.

"We're... hoping to get away soon, maybe the Lakes," I said, my voice trailing off. "When Hamish can get a break from work." I looked down into my glass, the ice cubes clinking, unable to meet his perceptive gaze.

“I'm Mark, by the way," he said, holding the cool glass.

"Katie," I replied, the name feeling solid between us. He gave a small, appreciative nod.

"Sounds like Hamish has a demanding job," he observed, his eyes kind. The simple statement gave me an opening I didn't even know I was looking for.

"He's a sales manager," I said. "He lives on his phone and his laptop. Glued to the desk upstairs from morning till night. It's all deadlines and international calls." I heard the edge in my own voice and stopped myself.

Mark just nodded slowly, a look of understanding on his face. "That must be tough. All work and no play, huh?"

​His insight surprised me. It was exactly how I felt. "Something like that," I admitted quietly. He held my gaze for another moment before sipping his water.

"So what about you, Katie?" he asked, his voice softer now. "What do you do?" I was taken aback by the direct question, the simple act of someone showing interest.

"I run my own graphic design business," I told him. Mark smiled, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"A fellow business owner. Good for you." He set down the empty glass on the paving stone and unpacked his tools.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked, genuinely curious. He didn't mind me staying. He pulled a heavy-duty mat from his van and laid it on the ground behind the car.

"This? All my life, pretty much," he said, his voice slightly muffled as he knelt to organise a few tools. "Took over the business from my old man a few years back. Renamed it to Mark's Motors and Towbars. Not the most original name, but it's honest." I smiled at that. There was something so simple and direct about him, and I found it incredibly appealing. He was about to slide under the car when his phone buzzed loudly from his pocket.

He pulled it out with a slight grunt of effort, wiping his hands on his trousers before answering. "Sorry, one second," he said, and his whole tone changed. "Hi sweetheart... Is everything okay?... No, I'm working, Daddy can't fix it right now." He listened for a moment, a fond, tired expression on his face. "Did you ask Nana? Okay, well, ask Nana to help you find it. I'll be home as soon as I can. Love you."

He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket, giving me a slightly apologetic look. "Sorry about that. My daughter. The TV remote is apparently a great toy for hiding." I realised it must be the school summer holidays. The casual mention of his daughter sent a strange pang through my chest, a mix of longing and something else I couldn't quite name.

“How old is she?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, my curiosity getting the better of me. Mark's voice came from near the ground as he prepared his tools.

"Seven going on seventeen," he said with a wry fondness. "Her mum and I are divorced, so she splits time between us. It's Gran's week for TV remote duty." He offered the information so matter-of-factly, without any hint of drama or a plea for sympathy. It was just a part of his life. With that, he finally slid under the back of the car on his mat, his long legs and work boots the only part of him visible. His words hung in the air. Divorced. A single dad.

The conversation didn't stop, even with a car between us. His voice was muffled from under the chassis as he asked me about my business, and I found myself telling him about the challenges and the little victories. He was a good listener, making small comments that showed he understood. Then, after a moment of silence filled only by the sound of a ratchet clicking, he spoke again. "What about you and Hamish?" he asked, his voice still low from under the metal. "Any kids running around hiding your remote?" The question, so casually asked, felt like a physical blow, striking at the heart of the day's raw disappointment.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. "Only my husband," I said, the words sharp on my tongue. The joke was mean, but it felt good to say it out loud, to voice the truth that was echoing around the empty rooms of my house. The rhythmic clicking of his ratchet stopped. The silence felt heavy. I took a breath, feeling a sudden wave of recklessness. "We're working on it," I added, letting the words hang in the air between us, full of double meaning. I meant the baby, of course, but I also meant our entire relationship.

He slid out from under the car, propping himself up on one elbow and looking at me. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes searching mine. There was a small smudge of grease on his temple. Seeing him looking at me, really looking, gave me a jolt of courage. I wanted to push it further, to feel wanted, even for a moment. "Not for lack of trying, anyway," I said, my voice dropping to almost a whisper. 

A slow smirk spread across his lips, sending a jolt straight to my core. "That's the fun part, isn't it?" he said, his voice a low, knowing rumble. His eyes held mine, and in that moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the few feet of sun-drenched driveway between us. The air felt thick, and I felt a deep, slow pulse between my legs. It was a sudden, sharp reminder of the arousal I'd felt when I first walked through the door, a feeling I thought had soured and died after Hamish's dismissal. But Mark's look had just brought it roaring back to life, stronger and more focused than before.

He was the one to break the connection. He gave a final, tiny nod before sliding back under the car. The sound of the ratchet started up again, a steady, metallic rhythm in the quiet air. I let out a breath I didn't realise I'd been holding. The sting of Hamish's earlier rejection was fading, replaced by the lingering power of that look from Mark. I watched his legs, the worn denim straining over his thighs as he worked, the solid set of his boots on the tarmac. 

“Katie," his voice was a low rumble from under the car. "Could you grab that spanner for me? The big one on the floor." I saw the tool and bent over, picking it up by its heavy metal head. He slid out slightly, and I leaned forward. "Here," I said softly. He took it from me, and his fingers deliberately grazed against mine. The touch was brief but firm, and heat shot straight up my arm, making my stomach flip.

I was frozen for a second by the contact, and I realised my tight skirt had ridden up my thighs slightly. The intricate black lace top of my stockings, my little secret for Hamish, was showing in the afternoon light. My eyes shot to Mark's face, mostly hidden by the chassis. But I could see his eyes. They weren't looking at the tool in his hand anymore. They were fixed right on my thigh. It was a quick look, but he had clearly appreciated what the glimpse revealed. A hot flush spread across my entire body. I pulled my hand back and stood up abruptly, yanking the hem of my skirt down with clumsy, trembling fingers.

He slid back under and called out, "Shit, wrong size," his voice low and slightly rough. "Sorry, Katie. Could you pass me the adjustable one instead? Just next to the one you grabbed." A little flicker of suspicion went through me. Did he need a different one, or did he just want another look? The thought didn't make me nervous; it sent a hot thrill right through me. A small, secret smile touched my lips. I felt a sudden surge of power, a heady confidence I hadn't felt in a long time. I walked back and crouched down, the movement slow and deliberate.

This time, I didn't rush. I knew my pencil skirt would ride even higher, being crouched down. I was now exposing the bare skin above my stockings, along with my suspenders. As I reached into the dark space under the car, I let my arm brush against his. His fingers were greasy and warm as they closed over the small piece of metal. They lingered against mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. I could see his head was turned, his eyes fixed on the strip of my thigh. He wasn't even pretending to look at the tool. And I didn't move. I held my position, letting him look, a wave of heat washing through me, a heady mix of rebellion and pure, exhilarating pleasure.

His fingers finally released mine, taking the tool. "Thank you," he whispered, and his voice was thick, heavy with a meaning that had nothing to do with passing him a piece of metal. It was an acknowledgement. He had seen me, and he liked what he saw. A loud clear of his throat followed, and then the distinct click of loosening something under the car. The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was stretched tight between us, vibrating with everything we weren't saying. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the pulse low in my belly.

I wasn't ready to let the moment end. Instead of standing up, I leaned down again, bringing my face closer to the dark opening under the car until my hair brushed against the dusty bumper. The scent of grease and warm metal filled my senses. "Do you need anything else?" I asked, my voice intentionally low and soft. Of course, I wasn't just talking about the tools. And the way his work stilled completely for a second told me that we both knew it.

His voice came back from the darkness, a low and less than confident reply. "I, erm, it’s, erm, yes, all good now, thanks" The words stumbled out of his mouth, and I knew he was flustered, which sent another wave of heat between my legs. A small giggle escaped me, a sound I hadn't made in a long time. It was giddy and girlish. I stood up slowly, deliberately letting him watch as my skirt settled back into place over my thighs. I looked down towards his work boots and said, "Well, let me know. I’ll be in the kitchen, so just knock on the window."

A small smile played on my lips as I turned and went back into the kitchen. I had this feeling, this raw, powerful arousal, that belonged to Hamish. It was for our baby, for our future. I wasn't going to waste it. I left my laptop on the table, my heart hammering with a new and potent resolve. This time would be different.

I walked back up the stairs, the rustle of my stockings against my skin a reminder of my mission. The office door was still ajar. He was off his call, typing furiously, his brow furrowed in concentration. I didn't hesitate in the doorway this time. I walked silently up behind his chair, placing my hands on his shoulders. I leaned down, my lips close to his ear, my hair brushing against his cheek. "Forget the emails for five minutes," I whispered, my voice low and husky. I let one hand trail from his shoulder down his chest, my fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt.

He stopped typing. He didn't turn around immediately but let out a slow breath. He reached up and placed his hand over mine on his chest. For a moment, I thought it was working. Then he turned his head, looking up at me with a weary expression.

"Are you feeling okay, Katie?" he asked, his voice soft, but laced with a clinical sort of concern, not passion. The question was a pinprick to the bubble of desire I had carried up the stairs. "You seem a bit... intense." I pulled my hands away, a familiar chill seeping into my chest. I forced a smile.

"I'm fine," I said, trying to inject some of the seduction into my voice. "It's just that time of the month."

A flicker of understanding crossed his face. He finally swivelled his chair to face me properly, taking both my hands in his. "Oh. Right. The app," he said, and the word landed with a thud. It was a chore, a calendar reminder. "Look, not now, OK? I'm buried! Just let me finish this shit."

He gave me a half-hearted smile, which was meant to be reassuring, but I knew it was fake. It felt like another postponement, another task scheduled for later. The raw, urgent need I felt at that moment, the heat Mark had sparked into a flame, couldn't be put on hold until later. But I nodded, disappointedly. "Okay, Hamish."

As I turned to leave the room, feeling the familiar weight of being put on hold, Hamish called out my name. "Katie." I stopped and looked back. He was already opening a new document on his screen, but his attention was half on me. "That towbar guy, he's still here, right? Is he getting on okay out there?" The question was so practical, completely oblivious to the charged atmosphere that had been crackling on the driveway just minutes before.

"Yes, he's fine," I replied, my voice flat. Hamish nodded, his focus already returning to his work. "Good. Well, just make sure you look after him, will you?"

His words hung in the air as I walked out and down the stairs. Look after him. The instruction, so innocently given, landed in my mind like a spark on dry tinder. Hamish, in his distracted state, had just permitted me. He had given me a reason, an order even, to go back out there, and talk to Mark again, to close that space between us. A bitter little smile touched my lips. I wouldn't be disobeying my husband. I would be doing exactly what he asked. Back in the kitchen, the simmering heat that Hamish had doused with his promise of 'later' began to bubble up again, stronger and more potent than before. Looking after Mark suddenly felt like the most important job I had all day. Making him a coffee was the perfect excuse.

I stepped out into the bright afternoon, my eyes blinking against the sun. The scene had changed. The car's rear bumper was now sitting on the driveway, looking strangely naked and exposing all the dull metal and wires beneath. Mark was kneeling, his back to me, focused on a connection point. The sight of him, engrossed in his physical work, was a stark contrast to the man I'd just left staring at a screen. I walked over, my heels making soft clicks on the paving stones, and stopped a few feet away from him. He must have heard me, because he put his tool down and turned his head.

His eyes met mine, and they were questioning. "Still hot out here," I said, my voice flat and cool. "Can I get you another drink?" I paused, letting the silence hang for a beat before delivering the final, sharp blow. "My husband wanted me to come and check on you. To make sure you have everything that you need." I loaded the last few words with as much meaning as I could, my eyes holding his, making it clear this was now more than just a simple offer of refreshment. It was a direct message, sent from one man, via me, to another.

A slow, knowing smile spread across Mark’s face, reaching his eyes. It was a look that told me he understood everything. He understood the subtext, the frustration, and the challenge I’d just laid at his feet. "Tell your husband I'm being very well looked after," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. He pushed himself up from the ground in one fluid motion, grabbing a greasy rag from his pocket and wiping his hands. He was taller than I'd realised, and standing so close, I could feel a warmth coming off him. "A break would do me good, actually," he added. "I wouldn't say no to a cup of tea if the offer's still good."

"Of course," I replied, my voice a little breathless. "Come on in." I turned and led the way, acutely aware of him following me, of his solid presence filling the space behind me. He had to duck his head slightly to come through the back door. I went to fill the kettle while he turned on the tap, the sound of the running water loud in the quiet house. I watched the muscles in his back move under his polo shirt as he leaned over my sink, scrubbing the black grease from his strong hands with the pink soap I use for washing up.

He dried his hands on the tea towel I offered him and looked around the room, taking in the clean lines of the counters and the photos of Hamish and me on the fridge.

"You have a beautiful home," he said, his voice sincere.

"Thank you," I murmured, turning my attention to making the tea. I busied myself with the kettle and the mugs, my hands moving on autopilot. The small, domestic actions felt grounding. He leaned against the counter opposite me, a solid, quiet presence in my kitchen, and we made small talk about the weather and how busy the roads were. It felt surprisingly normal, like having a friend over.

I passed him a mug, black with one sugar, how he'd asked for it. He took it from me, his fingers brushing mine again. "So," he said, taking a sip and looking at me over the rim of the mug. "Are you looking forward to taking this new caravan out for its first trip?" The innocent question landed like a stone in my stomach. All the easy chatter evaporated, and the raw ache of the day came rushing back. I looked down into my milky tea, unable to meet his eyes.

"I was," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "It's hard to look forward to something when you don't know when, or if, it's ever going to happen."

He put his mug down on the counter, his expression thoughtful. "It's a shame, just sitting there," he said gently. "Do you mind if I have a quick look inside? I've got a caravan myself. Might be able to give you a few tips, and show you a few of the common tricks for setting it up." The suggestion caught me by surprise. It was a perfect excuse to keep him here, to spend more time in his company, away from the oppressive silence of the house.

"Okay," I said, a little too quickly. "Yes, of course." The idea of being in that small, private space with him sent a fresh wave of heat through my body.

I grabbed the keys from the hook by the side door and led him outside. He followed me to the caravan, his presence a warm shadow at my back. I fumbled with the lock for a second before the door clicked open. The air inside was warm and smelled of new plastic and clean upholstery. The blinds were all closed, making it quite dark inside. I stepped into the narrow space, and he followed me. He had to duck his head to get through the door. The space was small, and suddenly, the big kitchen and the man working upstairs felt miles away. We were in our own little world.

He reached past me and pulled the flimsy door shut. The click of the latch was unnervingly loud in the small space. The bright afternoon sun was suddenly gone, replaced by a soft, diffused light filtering through the blinds. The outside world, the driveway, my house, my husband, all vanished. "Hamish hasn't even been inside it yet," I heard myself say, the words sounding distant. It was a confession, an offering. I was letting him know that he was the first, that this small, new world was, for this moment, just ours.

He glanced around the small interior. "There's no fixed bed," he observed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor. The mention of a bed, of the place we should be dreaming of our future, hung in the air between us.

"It's a pull-out," I explained, my voice barely a whisper. "We wanted to have more space." The irony of my words was thick enough to choke on, as every inch of air between us felt charged and alive.

"Show me how it works," he said, his voice a soft challenge. My heart gave a hard thump against my ribs, a single, decisive beat.

"Of course," I breathed. My hands trembled slightly as I went through the motions, a task I’d only practised once in the showroom. I pulled away the thick cushions, their floral pattern suddenly looking ridiculous, and placed them on the floor. I found the hidden handle in the wooden frame and pulled. The base slid out with a soft, rumbling sound that was deafening in the charged silence. I rearranged the cushions to form the mattress. Just like that, the space had been transformed. Where there had been a table and seats, there was now a bed. 

I was just fitting the last cushion into place, my back to him, when I felt it. A warmth spread across my hips as his hands settled there, firm and possessive. A sharp intake of breath was my only response. I froze, my own hands hovering over the floral upholstery. Slowly, I lifted my head and looked back at him over my shoulder. His face was inches from mine, his expression intense, his dark eyes burning with a look that stripped away everything but the raw want between us. And then, before a single thought could form in my brain, his lips crashed into mine. It wasn't soft or questioning; it was pure, hungry pressure.

A gasp escaped me as I pulled my head back, my whole body tingling with shock. The kiss had been a lightning strike, short and brutally electric. But I didn't move away. My feet felt rooted to the cheap laminate floor. His hands were still resting on my hips, his thumbs pressing gently into the bones, a silent claim. We were just inches apart, his warm breath on my cheek, the scent of him filling my lungs. Every sensible part of my brain was screaming at me to push him away, to run out of the caravan and back to the safety of my house. But I was pinned in place, not just by his hands, but by the raw, undeniable fact that I had wanted it to happen. I had never been unfaithful, but this primal feeling consumed my body.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice rough against my ear. But his hands didn't move. If anything, his thumbs pressed a little deeper into my hips, a silent, possessive anchor. My mind was a whirlwind of alarm bells and rational thoughts, all drowned out by the thunderous, frantic beating of my heart. Every part of me that had felt rejected and ignored just minutes before was now alight, sizzling with a feeling so potent it stole the air from my lungs. The single, most honest thought I had rose to the surface.

"Don't be," I breathed, the words a ghost of a sound, a complete surrender.

That was all the permission he needed. He gently turned me around to face him, his hands sliding around to the small of my back, pulling me in until there was no space between us. This kiss was nothing like the first. It wasn't a sudden crash of lightning; it was the storm that followed. His mouth claimed mine with a deep, searing passion that made my knees feel weak. My hands, acting on their own, came up to tangle in his thick, salt and pepper hair. I opened my mouth to his, a silent invitation, and I could taste the tea we'd just drunk, mixed with something that was just purely him, something wild and addictive.

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his forehead resting against mine as we breathed heavily. Then, his hand began a slow, deliberate journey from the small of my back, over the curve of my hip, and down my thigh. I felt his rough fingers catch on the material of my skirt. He gathered the fabric in his hand and slowly, deliberately, pulled it upwards. The cool air of the caravan hit my skin, and I gasped as he exposed the full length of my stockings, the delicate straps of the suspenders. The secret I had put on for my husband was now laid bare for this stranger in our new caravan. A low sound rumbled in his chest as his eyes drank in the sight of the black lace against my skin.

Any shame I should have felt was completely burned away by pure lust. Seeing the raw want in his eyes, I slid my hands from his hair, down his back, and under the hem of his navy polo shirt. My palms splayed against the bare skin of his chest. It was warm and solid, covered in a light dusting of crisp hair. He flinched at my touch, a sharp intake of breath, and then he was pulling away, just for a second. In one swift, decisive movement, he gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto a seat. My breath caught in my throat. His chest and arms were a canvas of dark ink, intricate designs that snaked over the hard planes of his pecs and coiled around powerful biceps. This wasn't a curated gym body; this was the raw, powerful result of years of physical work, and the sight of his tattooed skin stretched over all that muscle was the biggest turn-on I had ever felt.

His hands were on my waist, and with a gentle but firm pressure, he pushed me backwards. My legs met the edge of the bed, and I sank onto the surprisingly firm cushions, the floral pattern a strange contrast to the raw scene unfolding. He didn't step back. Instead, he lowered himself to his knees, between my open legs and unclipped the first suspender strap from the top of my stocking. The tiny snap of the fastening was like a firework in the silent caravan. He did the others, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

The position was so intimate, so worshipful, it made my stomach clench. I looked down at the broad expanse of his tattooed chest, the intricate patterns of ink shifting as he moved. His head bowed, and then I felt the shocking heat of his mouth against my thigh. A small, helpless sound escaped my throat, and my fingers dug into the cushions on either side of me. He didn't rush. He placed slow, wet kisses on my skin, the slight scratch of his stubble sending shivers up my spine. He worked his way upwards, following the line of my leg, until his lips were kissing the edge of the black lace on my knickers.

I looked down and saw his eyes, dark and intense. "You are so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low, rough whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "So incredibly sexy." The words, simple and honest, felt like a balm to a long-forgotten wound. It had been so long since I’d heard such raw admiration. Since I'd felt truly seen in that way. A choked sound escaped my throat, a mix of longing and pure, unadulterated pleasure. My fingers tightened on the cushions, my body aching for more of his touch, more of his words.

Then, his hands began to move. They slid slowly, deliberately, from my hips, tracing a path upwards. His touch was firm, almost possessive, and left a trail of fire in its wake. He reached the hem of my blouse and, with a gentle tug, pulled it free. The fabric loosened, and then his calloused fingers were splayed against my bare skin, just below my breasts. The sudden, intimate contact made me gasp, my back arching off the bed as a wave of intense pleasure washed over me.

His fingers moved from my stomach up to the front of my blouse. I watched, mesmerised, as he undid the remaining buttons one by one. The crisp white fabric fell open, revealing the delicate black lace of my bra, the matching set to my discarded stockings. There was no hesitation in his movements. He hooked his fingers inside the cups of the bra, not bothering with the clasp at my back, and simply pulled the material down and around my breasts, exposing them completely to his intense look.

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he looked at me, and then he lowered his head. The heat of his breath came first, a split second before his mouth closed over my nipple. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a hungry, demanding pull. He sucked hard, the feeling so intense it was almost painful, and a jolt of pure, white-hot pleasure shot from my breast straight down to my core. My head fell back against the cushions, and a helpless cry escaped my lips as my entire body clenched in response.

My mind went blank, all thought erased by the raw, electric pleasure coursing through me. My hands, which had been gripping the cushions, came up and tangled in his thick hair. I wasn't gentle. I gripped the dark strands and pulled his head closer, my hips lifting off the bed in a desperate attempt to intensify the feeling. Acting on pure instinct, I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back. The rough denim of his jeans provided an abrasive, wonderful friction against my bare thighs, and I pressed myself against him, silently begging for a pressure that was still just out of reach.

Suddenly, a flash of panic, cold and sharp, cut through the haze of lust. "Shit," I gasped, my eyes flying open and darting towards the flimsy caravan door. "The door's not locked." My body tensed, the fantasy suddenly threatened by the very real possibility of Hamish walking out to the driveway.

Mark lifted his head, a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes were dark with desire, but his expression was completely calm. He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, "Don't worry. I locked it when I came in."

His words, so simple and confident, were the final key turning in a lock I didn't know was holding me back. The last sliver of fear vanished, replaced by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated need. I pulled him down to me, my mouth finding his in a bruising, desperate kiss. This was different. There was no exploration or tenderness; it was a raw, hungry claiming. My tongue met his in a frantic dance, and I moaned into his mouth, a sound of complete and total surrender. His body was heavy and hard against mine, and the friction of his jeans against my core was a sweet agony, a promise of what was to come.

The kiss broke, and we were breathing in ragged, shallow gasps. I looked into his eyes, seeing my own wild desperation reflected there. My control, already stretched thin by a day of rejection and simmering frustration, finally snapped. The polite, hopeful wife who had put on stockings for her husband was gone. In her place was a woman consumed by a primal, urgent need. The words tumbled out of me, a raw, breathy plea, torn from the deepest part of my soul. "Please," I begged, my voice cracking. "Fuck me."

A slow, wicked smirk spread across his lips, an answer more powerful than any word. While I watched, he undid the buckle of his belt. In one swift, fluid motion, he pushed his jeans and boxers down his powerful legs and kicked them aside. Not wanting to be left behind, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my lace knickers and pulled them down, my movements clumsy and rushed compared to his. My shaved pussy was now exposed. My eyes were fixed on him as he stood before me. My breath caught in my throat. He was huge, easily eight inches, and so thick it looked almost unreal. A thrill, half fear and half pure, greedy want, shot through me.

My eyes were glued to the incredible sight of him, but I was intensely aware of where his were. He wasn't looking at my face. His dark, hungry eyes were fixed between my legs, on my bare, shaved skin. The air in the caravan grew thick and heavy, charged with the silent, mutual inspection. The seconds stretched out, filled with a tension so tight, I thought I might break. He finally broke the silence, his voice a low, confident rumble that vibrated right through me. "Well," he said, a hint of that smirk returning to his voice as his eyes finally met mine. "Looks like we're a perfect match." The words hit me like a physical touch, a bold, arrogant promise of how well we would fit together.

I didn't answer him with words. I opened my legs wider on the cushions, a silent, desperate invitation. The need inside me was frantic, and my patience was completely gone. "Please," I said again, the word a ragged, impatient sound. "Just do it. Fuck me now." He moved between my legs, kneeling on the bed, and I felt the blunt, hot tip of his cock press against my entrance. His mouth came down on mine, a deep, consuming kiss that stole my breath. And as his tongue pushed into my mouth, his cock pushed inside me.

A sharp, high-pitched sound was torn from my throat, but it was swallowed by his kiss, turning into a muffled squeal against his lips. The feeling of him filling me was overwhelming. He was so big, so much bigger than Hamish. I could feel my body stretching to take him, a sharp sting of pain that was instantly lost in a wave of the most intense pleasure I had ever felt. He was fully inside me, a solid, thick presence that seemed to touch my very core. He filled me, and in that moment, there was no room for any other thoughts or feelings.

My legs instinctively wrapped tighter around his waist, locking my ankles behind his broad back, trying to pull him even deeper inside me if that was even possible. A broken, breathless sound escaped my lips. "Oh my god," I gasped, the words muffled against his mouth. "You're so big. It feels so good." He pulled back from the kiss just enough to look down at me, his eyes blazing with a fierce, possessive fire. 

He began to move then, a slow, deep rhythm that was both punishing and exquisite. Each thrust was deliberate, stretching me, filling me before he would slowly withdraw, only to push back in again, deeper each time. My senses overloaded. A raw, primal sound was torn from my throat, and my nails dug into the skin of his back, clawing down the intricate ink of his tattoos. He let out a low groan, his head dropping to my shoulder. "Fuck, you're so tight," he rasped against my neck. "So wet for me." His words fueled the fire inside me, and I started to move my own hips, rising to meet each of his powerful thrusts, answering his unspoken challenge with a desperate rhythm of my own.

The slow, deliberate rhythm shattered. He began to fuck me with a frantic, driving pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last. The whole caravan started to rock on its suspension, a violent, creaking rhythm that matched the frantic beat of my heart. My breasts, still exposed, bounced with every brutal thrust. The world narrowed to the pure, overwhelming sensation of him inside me. "Harder," I gasped out, the word a desperate prayer. "Oh god, it feels so good. Harder!"

A guttural sound was ripped from his throat, and he drove into me with renewed force, answering my pleas. There was only the sound of our ragged breaths, the slap of our bodies, and the rhythmic groaning of the caravan. He leaned down, his face a mask of pure lust, and crashed his mouth against mine again. It wasn't a kiss of tenderness; it was a kiss of possession, a frantic, devouring act that mirrored the way his body was claiming mine. Our tongues tangled, and I could taste his sweat, our shared passion, a flavour more intoxicating than anything I'd ever known.

A flicker of change in his expression, a tightening around his eyes, and I knew he was close. A fierce, primal instinct, a decision made in a split second, took over. My legs clamped down like a vice, trapping him, holding him deep inside me. He grunted, trying to pull back, but the deep, coiling pressure inside me finally snapped. A violent tremor ripped through me, forcing an earth-shattering scream from my lungs. "OH FUCK! I'M CUMMING!"

"Ah shit, oh fuck!" The words were torn from him, a ragged curse of lost control as my orgasm hit, my inner muscles clenching around him with a power I didn't know I possessed. My convulsions pushed him over the edge. His body went rigid against mine, a deep groan rumbling through his chest. "Katie! Oh, god!" he cried out, his voice cracking. Then I felt it. A hot, powerful pulse deep inside me, then another, and another. Our cries tangled together as he emptied himself into me, our bodies shuddering in a shared, cataclysmic release. He collapsed on top of me, a dead weight, his own name a ragged gasp against my sweaty skin as he filled me.

His full weight was a warm, heavy blanket on top of me, our bodies slick with sweat and cooling in the stuffy caravan air. The silence that followed our frantic cries was thick and absolute, broken only by our ragged, synchronised breaths. I tilted my head, my lips brushing against the damp skin of his shoulder. "Thank you," I whispered, the words hoarse and barely audible. "I... I really needed that."

He lifted his head slowly, propping himself on his forearms to look down at me. His expression was a complicated mix of satisfaction and something else, something like concern. "I'm sorry," he breathed, his voice rough. "For coming inside you. I tried to pull out, but you..."

"Don't be," I cut him off, my voice surprisingly steady. "Don't worry about it. I'll get the pill tomorrow." The lie slipped out so easily it almost scared me, a smooth, calculated falsehood in the midst of our raw honesty. He was still buried deep inside me, and I could feel the last of his release, a faint, involuntary twitch that sent a fresh shiver of sensation through my womb. I shifted my hips slightly, a small, deliberate movement to feel him again. A soft, contented sigh escaped me. "It feels so good," I whispered, my eyes locking with his. "Your cock feels so good inside me."

A small, sad smile touched his lips. "This was a mistake," he said, his voice quiet, the lust replaced by a heavy resignation. "Even though it was...you know…" He trailed off, but I knew what he meant. The air between us was thick with the truth of it. It was a terrible, beautiful mistake.

"I know," I agreed, my voice a hollow echo of the passionate cries from moments before. He leaned down and kissed me one last time. It was different from the others, not hungry or demanding, but slow and deep, a final, lingering goodbye to the madness we had shared. Then he pushed himself up, and I felt a sharp, profound sense of loss as his cock withdrew from my body, leaving me feeling cold and shockingly empty.

The spell was broken. The heated, intimate bubble we had created inside the caravan had popped, leaving a stark, awkward silence. He turned away from me, grabbing his boxers and jeans from the floor. I watched the muscles in his back move as he dressed, the intricate tattoos that had excited me so much just minutes ago now seemed like a map of a world I had no right to be in. I sat up, my movements stiff and clumsy, and found my discarded knickers. We dressed in near silence, the rustle of clothing and the scrape of a belt buckle unnervingly loud. The new distance between us was a physical thing, a chasm that had opened up the second our bodies had parted.

He didn't say another word. He simply turned, his back a wall of tattooed muscle, and stepped out of the caravan into the bright, unforgiving sunlight. I watched through the small window as he walked back to the car, picking up his tools as if nothing had happened, the familiar metallic clinking a stark, normal sound in the charged afternoon air. I slipped my shoes back on, my hands trembling slightly. My body felt alien to me, humming with the aftershocks of an orgasm so powerful it had rewritten my senses, and still slick with the evidence of my betrayal. I had to get inside. I had to wash him off me.

I crept out of the side door of the caravan, my head down, and hurried through the side gate into the kitchen. The house was silent. The faint drone of Hamish's work voice was gone. I moved quickly, a thief in my own home, desperate to get to the sanctuary of the bathroom. I was halfway up the stairs, my mind solely focused on the hot spray of the shower, when his voice cut through the silence. "Katie?" I froze, one hand on the banister. Hamish was standing in the hallway at the top of the stairs, leaning against the doorframe of his office. He was rubbing his tired eyes, his headset finally off. "I've got a fifteen-minute break between calls," he said, a weary smile on his face. "I thought... maybe now's a good time?"

"You look a bit flushed," he said, his brow furrowed with that familiar, clinical concern. "Are you okay?" The question sent a spike of pure ice through my veins. Of course, I was flushed. My body was still humming from Mark, a walking, talking bonfire of guilt and adrenaline. "Yes, of course," I managed to say, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my lips. "Just warm from being out in the sun." I reached the top of the stairs and tried to walk past him, making a straight line for the sanctuary of our ensuite, but he moved quicker. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm.

He pulled me back against him, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. His body was soft where Mark's had been hard, his touch familiar where Mark's had been a thrilling discovery. His hands began to roam, one sliding up over my stomach, the other moving down my hip, over the fabric of my skirt. My entire body tensed, a silent scream of rejection stuck in my throat. I wanted to push him off, to run, but I knew I couldn't. In that single, horrifying moment, I knew I had to go along with it. It was a performance, and the biggest role of my life. I forced my muscles to relax, leaning my head back against his shoulder in a parody of surrender.

My mind raced, scrambling for any excuse to get away. "Hamish, wait," I said, my voice sounding tight and strange. "Mark... the towbar guy, he's still right outside. He could see in the window." It was a weak, desperate attempt.

Hamish just chuckled, a dismissive sound as he steered me towards our bedroom. "Live a little, Katie," he said, his voice light with an irony, like a knife in my gut. Before I could protest, he nudged me forward until my knees hit the edge of the mattress and I stumbled onto the bed, catching myself on my hands over the duvet.

He was right behind me, lifting my skirt, the charcoal wool riding up my thighs. He unclipped my suspenders, and his hands pulled my panties down. In one swift movement, I heard the rasp of his zip, and then I felt the hot, blunt pressure of his cock rubbing between my slick folds from behind.

"See?" he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "I knew you wanted me. You're so wet, honey." The words were a thick, cloying layer over the raw, thrilling memory of what had just happened. He was completely misreading the situation, taking credit for a fire he hadn't started, and the bitter irony of it all was a sour taste in my mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself, focusing on the duvet cover under my fingertips as I felt him position himself behind me. This was just a transaction, a box to be ticked on his lunch break.

He pushed inside me then, a single, shallow thrust. The difference was so immediate, it was like a physical blow. Where Mark had been a solid, overwhelming presence that filled me to my core, Hamish was just... there. The profound feeling of being stretched and completely taken disappeared, replaced by a hollow, disappointing emptiness. I felt almost nothing. It was a mechanical, disconnected act, and I turned my head on the pillow, catching a glimpse out of the window of the solid, tattooed man on the driveway, a man who had made my body sing just minutes before. The contrast was a silent, crushing weight in my chest.

"You feel different today," he panted, his rhythm quickening into a clumsy, urgent pace. "So warm inside." My stomach clenched into a tight, sick knot. It's because I'm full of another man's cum, the thought screamed in my mind, a silent, hysterical truth. I was a vessel holding another man's potent seed, and my own husband was mistaking that for my passion for him. Before I could even register the horror of it, his movements became frantic and sloppy. It was over in less than a minute, a rushed, perfunctory act that left me feeling more empty than before he'd even started.

"I'm coming!" he suddenly grunted, his body tensing for a final, messy thrust. "Oh god, yes... this is it, honey. I can feel it. We're making our baby this time, I know it." His triumphant words echoed in my head, a cruel, twisted prophecy. A wave of ice-cold dread washed over me, chilling me to the bone. Because as he was still cumming inside me, completely oblivious, I knew he was probably right. The timing was perfect. I was almost certainly going to get pregnant. But it wouldn't be his.

He rolled off me without another word, the bed springs groaning in protest. I heard him zip up his trousers before the familiar beep of his digital watch broke the silence. "Right," he announced, his voice back in work mode. "That's my fifteen minutes up. Got a call with the Singapore team." He gave my arse a quick squeeze and then disappeared next door.

I finally pushed myself up and walked into the en-suite bathroom, turning the shower on until the water was a comforting, hot veil. I stepped inside and let it cascade over me. My hands glided over the curve of my hip where Mark's hands held me so firmly, and up across my stomach. My nipples were still tight, aching peaks, and as my fingers brushed over them, a phantom memory of his mouth made my breath hitch. I stood there for a long time, the water streaming over me, and placed one hand flat on my lower belly. A profound, terrifying thought bloomed in my mind. Underneath my skin, my egg was waiting. And inside me, a potent mix of two men's futures was swimming. I wondered, with a strange, detached curiosity that felt both terrifying and powerful, whose it would be.

I cinched the belt of my dressing gown tighter and padded barefoot down the stairs, my mind a swirling mess of what-ifs. As I reached the bottom step, a sharp knock echoed from the front door. Before I could even move towards it, Hamish's voice boomed from his office upstairs. "Katie! If that's the towbar guy wanting to be paid, can you sort it? I'm on with Singapore!" I froze. I took a deep breath and walked to the door, my hand trembling as I turned the handle. Mark stood on the step, looking solid and real. His eyes widened slightly as he took in my appearance, the damp hair and the thick robe. "Come in," I said, my voice barely a whisper. He stepped inside, and I closed the door, plunging the hallway into a shared, intimate silence. We just stared at each other, the 

"Right," I said, my voice sounding brittle and fake as I broke the intense silence. "Payment." I turned away from him deliberately to get some space and walked to the kitchen counter where I'd left my phone. My fingers felt clumsy as I tapped the screen, opening my banking app and setting up the payment for 'Mark's Motors and Towbars'. The whole mundane act felt completely surreal. He gave me his bank details, and after a few seconds, I turned back to him, holding up the screen. "There. That should be through now." He didn't look at the phone. He just looked at me. He should have left then. He should have said thank you and walked out the door, and this would have been a single, insane memory. But he didn't move.

He slowly stepped towards me, closing the small gap I had created. "Thank you, Katie," he said, his voice a low rumble that had nothing to do with business. He reached out, cupping my jaw with one hand, his thumb stroking my cheek. And then he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn't the frantic, desperate kiss from the caravan or the counter. This was slow, deep, and full of a profound, unspoken understanding. It was a confirmation. As our mouths moved together, his other hand went to my waist, easily finding the gap in my dressing gown. His calloused fingers slipped inside, hot against the clean, soft skin of my back. His hands began to roam, not in a rush, but with a slow, possessive confidence, staking a silent claim on the body he now knew as intimately as my own husband. And I let him, melting into his touch, my last shred of resistance gone. Then, just as I wanted him to fuuck me senseless again, he just smiled and left. My head was a mess, and I grabbed a bottle of wine before disappearing into the lounge to binge-watch Dexter, trying to erase the events from my mind.

A few weeks later, I stood in the bathroom, staring at the little plastic stick in my trembling hand. Two blue lines. Dark, solid, and undeniable. I showed Hamish that evening, and he whooped with a pure, uncomplicated joy, lifting me and spinning me around the kitchen until I was dizzy. I cried with him, tears of genuine, overwhelming happiness. But as he held me close, whispering about names and nurseries, a secret thought pulsed inside me, as real as the new life growing there. There was a chance, a very real chance, that this baby wasn't his. I knew in that moment I would never, ever tell him. And the strangest part was, I didn't care. I had gotten everything I wanted. I had felt what it was like to be truly desired, to have a big cock and the best fuck of my life. And now, I was pregnant.