I never expected to get f****d senseless over the hood of my own broken-down car by a dirty, tattooed mechanic in the middle of nowhere.
But here I was — bent over the warm metal hood of my Mercedes, skirt shoved up around my waist, panties ripped off and dangling from one ankle, while a rough, grease-stained hand gripped my hip and a thick c**k slammed into me from behind like he was trying to punish me for existing.
It had started innocently enough. Or at least, that’s what I told myself when my luxury rental car started smoking on a deserted coastal road in the south of France two hours ago. I was supposed to be on a glamorous solo vacation after finally dumping my cheating ex. Instead, I was stranded in the blazing afternoon sun in a tiny black sundress that barely covered my ass, he
