SCARLETT

The morning sunlight burned through my curtains like an accusation.

I lay tangled in my sheets, my body still humming with the memory of last night-his bare chest, the dripping water tracing his tattoos, the towel barely clinging to his hips. The sound of my name in his voice.

I tried to shake it off, but guilt pressed on me like a weight.

He wasn't just a stranger anymore. He wasn't just some man I could admire in silence and forget. He was hers.

My mother's lover.

That thought should have disgusted me enough to bury everything I felt. But the moment I walked into the kitchen and saw him standing there, shirtless, sipping coffee like he owned the place, I knew disgust had no power over desire.

The mug dwarfed in his tattooed hand, steam curling around his face as he looked out the window. His gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, waistband dipping just enough to make my pulse spike.

I froze in the doorway, clutching my glass of water, praying he wouldn't notice the way my eyes devoured his gray sweatpants, especially his cock that was extremely visible despite him being on sweatpants. I could see the huge vein that ran down his 14inch cock. Though I haven't tasted it, I could estimate it. Almost the size of my hands gods I couldn't help but imagine that giant cock in my little hole.

He turned then, slow, deliberate. Our eyes met.

"Morning," he said, voice still rough with sleep.

I nodded too quickly, heat flushing my face. "Morning."

He smiled lazy, crooked, the kind of smile that hinted at secrets. Then he lifted the mug again, taking a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.

I fled before my knees gave out.

That should have been enough warning. Enough to keep me locked in my room until he left for work, or until I could convince myself that what I felt was nothing but grief twisting into obsession.

But obsession doesn't listen to reason.

By noon, I found myself pressed against my bedroom window, blinds tilted just enough to see the backyard.

And there he was.

He had stripped off his shirt, sweat gleaming across his chest as he split logs with an axe. Each swing sent muscles flexing in his arms, tattoos rippling across hard flesh, trousers hanging low enough to tease me. His body glistened under the sun, powerful and raw, every movement deliberate and sure.

I told myself to look away.

I didn't.

Instead, my thighs pressed together, my breath catching with every swing. My hand slid under my tank top without permission, fingertips brushing my stomach, clit*ris at the same time.

The back door slammed open.

I jumped, heart pounding. My mother's laugh floated into the yard, high and sweet. She called his name, and he turned, axe resting on his shoulder, sweat dripping down his chest.

I ducked from the window, face burning, my body screaming in protest at being denied.

The sound of her giggles wrapped around my throat like a rope. I hated her in that moment. Hated the way she could touch him openly, laugh with him, have him inside her whenever she wanted.

And all I had were stolen glances through glass.

That night, I couldn't help myself.

I crept out of my room long after the house had gone quiet. My bare feet padded softly across the hardwood floor as I moved down the hall. I told myself I was just getting water.

But I stopped outside their door.

It was closed, but the faint sound of her laugh slipped through the cracks and a sound of extremely hot sex. I could hear the sound of him pounding her in a stylish rhythm.

I should have left.

Instead, I pressed my palm to the door, leaning closer, straining to hear.

There was a shift inside, the creak of the bed, the sound of sheets rustling. My breath caught.

And then-her moan.

Sharp, broken, needy.

My knees buckled.

I staggered back, hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape. My chest heaved, shame and arousal tangling in a violent knot inside me.

I ran back to my room, heart pounding, body aching with a hunger I didn't know how to satisfy.

That night, I touched myself in the dark, imagining it was his hands choking around my neck and giving me a hot doggy, his lips, and his voice whispering my name instead of hers. The guilt was poison, but the release was fire, leaving me trembling and restless, unsatisfied even when it was over.

The next day, he caught me staring.

I was sprawled on the couch, pretending to read, when he walked into the living room shirtless again, a towel draped over his shoulder. I tried not to look. Tried to bury my nose in the book.

But my eyes betrayed me.

I watched the way droplets of water traced down his chest. The way his hand ruffled through damp hair.

And then his gaze snapped to mine.

I froze.

A smirk tugged at his lips, slow and knowing. He didn't speak, didn't call me out, just let the silence stretch until my skin burned and my thighs pressed together without my permission.

Then he turned away, as if I were nothing more than background noise.

But I knew better.

He'd seen.

He knew.

That evening, I lingered at the dinner table longer than I should have, waiting for him to look at me again. He didn't. Not once. He laughed at my mother's jokes, poured her wine, brushed his hand over hers.

Every smile he gave her sliced me open.

By the time dishes were cleared, jealousy burned hotter than the food in my stomach.

I excused myself early, retreating to my room, pacing like a caged animal.

It wasn't fair.

Why should she get him? She hadn't even waited to mourn my father. She hadn't cared how it looked, how it tore me apart. She didn't deserve him.

But I... I couldn't stop wanting him.

And wanting him was destroying me.

That night, I dreamed of him. His body pressed against mine, tattoos sliding under my fingers, his lips claiming me with the roughness of someone who knew he shouldn't but didn't care.

I woke with a cry caught in my throat, sheets tangled around my legs, sweat coating my skin.

And when I turned my head, the shadow in my doorway made me freeze.

He stood there, silent, leaning against the frame. His face was hidden in the dark, but I felt his eyes on me.

Watching.

Waiting.

My breath hitched, chest heaving as I clutched the sheets to my body.

He didn't move.

He just stood there.

And then he smiled, slow, deliberate, before turning and walking away.

Leaving me shaking, burning, and desperate for more.

SCARLETT

I barely slept after last night.

His shadow in my doorway lingered even after he was gone, the image burned into my eyelids. The way he stood there, watching me as if I belonged to him already. The curve of his smile before he disappeared into the dark.

I couldn't stop replaying it, over and over, until my body ached with hunger and extreme urges. I didn't know how to quiet.

By morning, I'd convinced myself I had imagined it. Maybe it had been the moonlight, maybe my exhausted brain. Maybe I had dreamed him into the doorway because I wanted him there so badly.

But when I walked into the kitchen and saw him leaning against the counter, shirtless again, his cock proudly visible under his pants, tattoos alive under the light, coffee steaming in his hand. He looked at me like he knew.

Like it hadn't been a dream at all.

I forced myself to move past him, to pour cereal into a bowl, to pretend the heat between us wasn't suffocating.

But when I reached for the milk, his arm brushed mine. Just a touch. Just skin against skin.

It felt like fire.

I froze, staring at the carton in my hand. He didn't move away. His arm lingered against mine, warm, deliberate.

"Morning," he said, his voice low, almost amused.

I swallowed. "Morning."

The milk nearly spilled when I poured it. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He chuckled softly, the sound curling into my chest. "Careful, Scarlett."

The way he said my name wasn't just a word. It was a warning. A dare.

I fled the kitchen before I could do something reckless, but the heat stayed, a wildfire under my skin.

All day, I thought about that touch. About the way his arm pressed against mine, casual to anyone else, but to me it was everything.

And the more I thought about it, the more dangerous ideas bloomed in my head.

If he wanted to play this game, I could play too.

That evening, I came to dinner in a dress I hadn't worn since college-a short, tight thing that hugged my hips and barely covered my thighs. My mother complimented it without suspicion, beaming like she thought I had dressed up just for her.

But when his gaze slid over me, slow and heavy, his jaw tightening I knew exactly who I had dressed for. I am a goal chaser, I said slowly in my mind.

I crossed my legs at the table, the hem of the dress rising indecently high. His eyes flicked down. Just for a second. But I caught it.

And I smiled into my glass of wine.

The night stretched long. My mother chatted endlessly, oblivious. He laughed at her stories, but his eyes kept finding me across the table.

Every glance felt like a secret kiss. Every brush of his gaze over my bare skin was a touch no one else could see.

By the time dinner was over, I was shaking with need. My hole was already giggling.

I slipped away first, retreating to the living room. The television hummed in the background, but I wasn't watching. I was waiting.

And he came.

Of course he came. What a dream come true I said slowly.

He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching me with that same dark curve of his lips.

"You trying to kill me?" he asked softly, his eyes flicking down to my dress.

My pulse jumped. "What do you mean?"

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until the air thickened between us. His gaze never left mine.

"You know exactly what I mean."

The heat in his voice made my breath catch.

Before I could reply, my mother called his name from the kitchen. He straightened instantly, his expression smoothing into something casual.

But as he walked past me, his hand brushed my bare thigh. Just a touch. My hormones started over reacting.The wetness of my tiny hole could fill a cup.

He didn't look back.

But I knew.

His had touched me on purpose.

That night, I couldn't keep still. My body buzzed with the memory of his hand on my thigh, the heat of his stare, the hunger in his voice. I imagine his huge body on mine, his huge cock stroking me uncontrollable, his hands beating my ass all through the night but all were just mere imagination.

I paced my room until midnight, then sat on the edge of my bed, torn between shame and desire.

And then I heard it the creak of footsteps in the hall.

My heart stuttered.

The door opened slowly.

And there he was.

He didn't speak. He just closed the door behind him, locking it with a soft click.

My breath came in shallow gasps, my hands trembling in my lap.

He moved closer, each step measured, his eyes never leaving mine.

When he stopped in front of me, the silence was unbearable.

And then he reached out, his hand sliding over my breast, cheek, down to my neck, thumb pressing lightly against my pulse.

"You're playing with fire, Scarlett," he whispered.

I leaned into his touch, my lips parting. "Then let it burn."

His thumb lingered at my throat, pressing just enough for me to feel the steady hammer of my pulse against his skin.

I should have pulled back. I should have reminded myself who he was, what he meant to my mother, how wrong this was. But I didn't.

I tilted my chin up instead, offering my throat, daring him.

His eyes darkened, his breath deepening as his hand slid higher, fingers brushing the line of my jaw.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he murmured, his voice low, dangerous, laced with something that made my insides twist.

"Yes, I do," I whispered. My own voice startled me-it was hungry, raw, desperate.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding as though he were at war with himself. He leaned closer, so close I felt the heat of his body, the faint brush of his lips near my ear.

"You're just a girl," he said.

"I'm not a girl," I shot back, my words trembling but sharp. "Not anymore."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged. His hand slid lower, over my collarbone, stopping just at the edge of my tank top strap. His fingers traced the line of it, slow, teasing, and my breath caught.

I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me.

Instead, he froze. His hand clenched once, then withdrew as if I had burned him.

His eyes locked onto mine, wild, conflicted.

"This never happened," he rasped, voice hoarse.

And before I could protest, before I could beg, he was gone-slipping out of my room, the lock clicking softly back into place.

I sat there in the dark, my skin still tingling where he had touched me, my body shaking with the need he had left behind.

This never happened.

But it had. And I knew, deep down, it would happen again I said.

SCARLETT

I woke to the memory of his hand on my throat.

Every nerve in my body remembered it the press of his thumb against my pulse, the heat of his breath near my ear, the way he pulled back as if I were poison.

This never happened.

The words echoed in my head like a curse.

But I knew better. I had felt the way his body leaned into mine, the way his eyes darkened when I dared him. He could lie to himself all he wanted. He could run out of my room, lock the door, pretend he hadn't wanted me.

But he had.

And I wasn't going to let him forget it.

At breakfast, I made sure to come down in the thinnest slip dress I owned. My mother barely glanced at me, too busy scrolling on her phone and humming some love song under her breath.

But he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze flicked to me when I entered, and though he quickly looked away, the sharp clench of his jaw gave him away. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, his fork moving too quickly, too stiffly.

I slid into the chair across from him, pretending not to notice. Pretending not to know that his knee brushed the table leg each time I crossed mine, that his breathing hitched when the neckline of my dress slipped lower as I reached for the juice.

"Scarlett," my mother said absently, "are you doing anything today? You could take the car."

"No plans," I murmured, though my eyes were on him. Always on him.

He didn't look back. Not once. But I felt the tension radiating from him like heat from a flame.

By midday, my mother was gone off to lunch with a friend.

It left me alone with him.

I pretended to read on the couch, though I hadn't turned a page in half an hour. The sound of his footsteps drew me like a magnet. He passed behind me, the faint scent of sweat and soap trailing after him.

"Need anything?" he asked.

His voice was steady, but I could hear the strain beneath it.

I lifted my eyes from the book. "Maybe some company."

That made him pause. His back was to me, but I saw the way his shoulders tensed.

"Scarlett," he said slowly, "don't."

"Don't what?" My voice was light, teasing, though my heart pounded so hard I thought he might hear it.

He turned then, his gaze sharp, hard. But beneath the hardness, there was hunger.

"You know exactly what."

I set the book aside, standing slowly, deliberately. My slip dress clung to me as I moved closer, barefoot on the rug, my pulse wild in my throat.

He stayed rooted in place, but his eyes tracked every step.

When I stopped in front of him, the space between us charged like a storm about to break, I whispered, "Tell me you don't want me."

His jaw clenched. He said nothing.

My hand lifted, trembling as I placed it against his chest. Hot. Solid. The steady thud of his heart beat against my palm.

He caught my wrist instantly, holding me there. Not pushing me away. Just holding and gods his cock rose the length could shift my tender womb but I don't give a fuck.

"This is wrong," he said, his voice rough.

"Then stop me," I whispered.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The silence was thick, unbearable.

And then he let go of my wrist, but he didn't step back. His hand slid into my hair instead, gripping the back of my head as his forehead pressed against mine.

"You're going to ruin me," he breathed.

"Maybe I would love to."

The world tilted. One second, I was standing on the rug, and the next, his lips were hovering a breath away from mine, his grip in my hair pulling me closer.

I closed the distance first.

The kiss was fire. Violent, hungry, desperate. His mouth claimed mine with a force that knocked the air from my lungs, and I melted into him, my fingers clutching at his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer.

His tongue pushed into my mouth, tasting me, devouring me, and I moaned into him, shameless, and beyond control I could feel the pre cum dripping from his cock.

He growled low in his chest, his hands sliding down my back, pulling me against him so I could feel the hard line of his body pressing into my stomach.

Heat flooded me, liquid and aching. I wanted him. Right there and right then.

He lifted me suddenly, setting me on the edge of the dining table. Immediately he pulled out his giant cock. His hand slid under my dress, fingering me, grazing the soft skin of my thigh, inching higher-

The front door slammed.

We both froze.

"Hello?" My mother's voice rang through the house.

Panic jolted through me. What a witch of woman.

He stepped back instantly, his chest heaving, his hands pulling away from me like my skin had burned him.

I sat there, trembling, lips swollen, dress rucked up indecently around my hips.

He dragged a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. Then, without another word, he stalked out of the room, leaving me gasping on the table, desire burning hotter than ever.

"Scarlett?" My mother's voice called again, closer this time.

I scrambled off the table, yanking my dress down, trying to steady my breathing.

"Yeah?" I croaked, praying she wouldn't notice my lips, my flushed cheeks, the wild thud of my heart.

She appeared in the doorway, smiling, oblivious. "Oh, there you are. I thought maybe you'd gone out."

"No. Just... reading," I lied, forcing a shaky smile.

She nodded, humming, already distracted as she bustled into the kitchen.

I sagged against the table, my legs weak, my body still throbbing with the memory of his mouth, his cucumber and his hands going into that middle of my pants.

We had been seconds away from crossing the line.

And the worst part?

I knew I wouldn't rest until we did. I can't be left on an edge even if it takes harming this goat I call a mom.

I could still taste him.

Even as my mother rattled pots in the kitchen, humming off-key, even as she asked me something about dinner plans that I barely registered, I could still feel the imprint of his mouth on mine, the roughness of his kiss, the sharp press of his hands on my skin.

It was madness.

Every cell in my body screamed for more. I didn't care about the rules, the labels, the danger. I wanted him to press me back against the table, beat my ass and finish what he'd started.

I excused myself quickly, mumbling something about being tired, and rushed upstairs before my mother could look too closely at my face.

In my room, I locked the door and leaned against it, shaking. My lips were swollen, tender from the way he had kissed me. My thighs trembled with a hunger that only deepened the longer I thought about it.

I slid down onto the floor, pulling my knees to my chest, and for a moment I just sat there in the quiet, replaying it all.

The look in his eyes.

The sound of his breath when he finally gave in.

The way he lifted me, like I weighed nothing, like I was already his.

My heart thudded harder.

He'd said this is wrong. But wrong had never felt so intoxicating.

When I finally crawled into bed that night, I couldn't sleep. Every creak of the house made me wonder if he was awake too, pacing, fighting the same torment. Every shift of the sheets made me ache, imagining his hands there instead of mine.

I knew it then, as the clock ticked past midnight and I lay trembling in the dark-

There was no going back.

He had kissed me. He had touched me. He had wanted me.

And I wasn't going to stop until he gave me all of it. I wish I could get rid of my mom and take what belongs to me.