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.

SCARLETT

The day after he kissed me, I couldn't breathe without feeling it.

It lived on my lips, in my pulse, deep in the heat between my thighs. Every step I took, every glance in the mirror, reminded me of how his mouth had claimed mine, how his hands had crushed me against his body like I already belonged to him.

He thought he could pull away, slam the brakes, pretend it hadn't happened. He thought he could drown it in silence, in distance.

But desire doesn't vanish. It ferments, grows stronger, sharper, until it eats you alive.

And I was starving.

By mid-morning my mother was gone again, flitting off to some lunch or shopping trip. She was all perfume and distraction these days, as if marrying him had turned her into a queen who never had to worry about the kingdom she left behind.

She didn't even kiss me goodbye.

The front door shut, the silence echoing through the house.

I felt it in my bones: today would be different.

I found him in the garage, shirtless, bent over the hood of his car. Grease streaked his shoulder, sweat glistened down his back, tattoos shifting with the pull of his muscles.

For a moment I just stood in the doorway, watching, my breath caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

He must have felt it, the way animals sense being stalked. His head lifted slowly, and when his eyes locked on mine, the air between us thickened.

"Scarlett," he said, his voice rough, low. "You shouldn't be here."

My lips curved into a smile I didn't even mean to wear. "Why not?"

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking. "You know why."

I stepped forward, deliberately slow, the sound of my bare feet soft against the concrete. My dress clung to me in the humid air, thin enough to show the outline of everything underneath.

"Tell me you don't want me," I said, my voice almost a whisper.

His silence burned hotter than words.

I reached up seductively, laid my hand against his chest. His skin was hot, slick with sweat, the ink of his tattoos alive under my palm. His heart pounded hard, fast, betraying him.

He caught my neck. His grip was tight, almost bruising. "Don't do this."

"Then stop me."

Something inside him snapped.

The kiss hit me like a storm.

He crushed his mouth to mine, devouring, hungry, savage. My back slammed against the hood of the car, his body pinning me in place as if he couldn't bear even an inch of space between us.

I moaned into him, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the sweat-slick muscle. He growled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against my lips, against my skin.

His hands roamed-my waist, my thighs, pushing my dress higher with reckless urgency. His mouth left mine only to travel down my neck, biting, sucking, marking me as if he needed the proof.

"Fuck, Scarlett," he muttered against my skin. "You're going to ruin me."

"Then let me," I whispered, arching into him, begging without shame.

He lifted me suddenly, setting me on the workbench, tools scattering across the floor with a metallic crash. His hand slid under the thin fabric of my panties, fingers pressing against the heat he had made unbearable.

I gasped, bucking against him, the sound echoing in the garage.

"You're so wet for me," he rasped, his breath ragged. "God, you've wanted this."

"Yes," I moaned, shameless, trembling. "Yes."

Clothes disappeared in frantic pieces. My dress is on the floor. His jeans shoved down, he massaged his cock with his spit. His body against mine, skin to skin, heat to heat.

When he pressed his huge cock into my little hole, I cried out, Ahh I could feel it reaching my ovaries. The sharp sting stealing my breath. His jaw clenched, his forehead pressed to mine as though he could hold me together through the pain.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice breaking.

"Yes," I breathed, clutching at him, nails raking down his back. "Don't stop."

And he didn't.

The rhythm built, wild and relentless, the garage filled with the sound of us-our breaths, our moans, the slap of skin. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, begging for more with every broken cry that left my lips. I was both feeling pain and pleasure at the same time.

The world narrowed to this: his cock inside mine, his hands gripping me like I was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

When I shattered around him, it was like falling off a cliff, wave after wave crashing through me until I was sobbing into his shoulder. He followed with a guttural groan, his body shaking as he poured into me, holding me tight as if letting go would kill him.

After, we stayed tangled together, bodies slick, chests heaving. The air was thick with sweat, oil, and the sharp, forbidden scent of sex.

He pulled back finally, his eyes dark, unreadable. "This can't happen again."

But even as he said it, his hand lingered on my thigh, his thumb stroking circles against my skin, his lips brushing mine in a softer kiss that tasted like surrender.

We both knew it wasn't the last time.

I crept back upstairs later, I couldn't feel my legs any more. His cock was so massive, my body sore in places that throbbed deliciously with the memory of him. News flash my little hole wasn't little anymore it felt like it was dug into.

I lay on my bed in silence, staring at the ceiling, replaying it all-the way he'd groaned my name, the way he'd buried himself in me like he never wanted to leave.

I had given him everything.

And I would give it again.

Even if it meant burning my mother out of the picture.

Because now he wasn't just her lover.

He was mine.

The scent of him clung to me sweat, oil, sex. My skin still burned where his hands had held me, where his teeth had grazed me, where his body had filled mine.

I pressed my fingers to my swollen lips and smiled, though it trembled with something wild and dangerous.

I had crossed the line.

No, we had crossed it. Together.

And no matter what he said, no matter how many times he tried to insist it couldn't happen again, I knew the truth.

Once you taste sin, you can't spit it back out.

That night at dinner, I couldn't stop staring at him.

He sat across from my mother, nodding along to her chatter about some store she'd visited, but his eyes flicked to me when she wasn't looking. Just for a second. Just long enough to make my stomach clench and my thighs press together under the table.

His expression was tight, guarded, but the heat in his gaze betrayed him.

I tilted my spoon into my mouth slowly, deliberately, letting my tongue drag against it in a seductive manner. His jaw flexed.

My mother didn't notice a thing.

It was intoxicating.

Later, when the house went quiet and my mother's door clicked shut, I lay in bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Every sound made me ache. Every creak of the floorboards made my pulse quicken with hope.

Would he come?

Would he dare?

The minutes dragged into hours. I couldn't take it anymore.

Slipping from bed, I padded barefoot into the hall, my heart hammering against my ribs. The light under his door was faint, but it was there.

He was awake.

I didn't knock. I pushed the door open slowly, holding my breath.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, shirtless again, jeans slung low on his hips. He looked up sharply when he saw me.

"Scarlett," he hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"

I closed the door behind me, the soft click of the lock echoing like a gunshot.

"I couldn't sleep." My voice was low, trembling, but not from fear. From hunger.

He stood, tension coiling in his body. "You can't be here."

I took a step closer. Then another. Until my chest brushed his.

"Then tell me to leave," I whispered.

His hands hovered at my arms, not pushing me away, not pulling me closer. His eyes burned into mine, and I saw the war raging inside him.

"You're playing with fire," he said hoarsely.

"Then burn me."

His restraint broke.

One second he was fighting it, the next his mouth was on mine, crushing, devouring. His hands slammed into my hair, pulling me back as his tongue slid into my mouth, and I moaned into him, already dizzy.

We stumbled back onto the bed, his weight pressing me into the sheets, his body caging me in.

"This is the last time," he groaned against my lips, already tugging at my nightshirt, ripping it over my head.

"You've said that before," I gasped, arching into him.

His laugh was dark, broken. "God help me."

And then there were no more words, only skin, only heat, only the reckless, forbidden rhythm of him hitting my hole from the back.

When I finally collapsed against him, body limp, lungs burning, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.

I belonged to him now.

And I didn't care what it cost.

Not even if it meant eliminating my mother. Fuck I should make plans for that soonest. The earlier the better.