Demolished.
The sun painted soft gold across the sleek marble countertops, glinting like liquid heat, catching in the shimmer of fingerprint-free polish. Outside, the pool rippled in lazy waves, throwing light across the kitchen walls like the memory of movement. Everything about the Whitmore home was curated -- sharp lines, designer touches, the kind of silence that came with wealth and walls too thick for conversation. From the outside, it was picture-perfect.
But Claire had learned that perfection made the loudest kind of emptiness.
She stood barefoot on the chilled stone tiles, the smooth coolness biting gently at the soles of her feet. Her thin white tank top clung to her skin like breathless cotton, damp from the heat of her body. Her nipples, subtly peaked beneath the fabric, teased the air-conditioning. A pair of barely-there silk shorts grazed her hips, the hem teasing the tops of her thighs. The silk whispered against her skin, weightless and obscene -- the kind of fabric made for being removed.
She dressed like this most days -- for herself, she told herself.
But deep down, she dressed like this because someone should be looking.
And James wasn't.
Her manicured fingers threaded through thick, damp curls -- blonde waves still air-drying from her morning swim. The scent of chlorine and sun lotion clung faintly to her, mingling with the citrus of her perfume and the bare trace of something warm: her skin, golden and honey-slick from the sun. She exhaled softly, breasts rising against the tank, her gaze wandering toward the still, glittering water outside.
She waited for that old, aching sensation. The kind that used to come from being touched, not from laying too long in the heat.
Her phone buzzed against the countertop -- a sharp, sterile vibration.
James.
She answered with a soft sigh, sliding the phone between shoulder and cheek, her fingertips pressing into the edge of the cold marble as she looked through the wide glass doors.
"He's here," she murmured, watching as a white van rolled into the drive, its sides blank, dust kicking up beneath thick tires. The kind of vehicle that didn't belong in their curated neighborhood. "Just pulled up in some janky van. No company name. Seriously?"
James's chuckle was tinny through Bluetooth, all distance and disinterest. "Trust me, babe. He did Eric and Jessica's place last year. You loved that extension."Claire rolled her eyes, her hip shifting subtly, silk slipping higher on one thigh. "I loved her extension. Her kitchen. Her wine fridge. Her husband -- who actually takes her on dates."
"Come on," James said gently, voice trying for affection but coated in distraction. "You know I'm slammed this quarter. The whole point of this office build is so I can be home more. So we can actually have time again."
She watched the van door creak open, the sound sharp and metallic, cutting through the morning stillness like a warning shot.
"I don't know," she muttered into the phone, voice distracted. "He doesn't even have a big reputation..."
But then -- he stepped out. And the words dissolved in her mouth like sugar on the tongue.
He was
massive
. Not just tall, but
built
. The kind of frame that didn't happen in gyms -- it was forged by years of real labor, sweat and sun and the weight of the world pressed into muscle and grit. His skin was a rich, dark bronze -- sun-slicked and glistening -- stretched over thick arms and broad shoulders, his biceps etched with ink that moved when he did, like stories written on living stone.
He wasn't wearing a shirt -- just a black tank top slung carelessly over one shoulder, like fabric was optional for a man like that.
His jeans rode low on his hips, worn in all the right places, clinging to thighs thick with strength, the waistband dipping just enough to tease the deep V of his abdomen. When he paused to stretch -- arms lifting, spine arching, abs flexing under the rising sun -- Claire felt her breath catch. The motion made his jeans shift lower, just a fraction, just enough.
A slow throb curled low in her belly.
James's voice crackled through the phone, tinny and far away.
"He might not have a big rep... but he's big on getting the job done."
Claire's lips parted before she could stop herself, breath catching in her throat. Her voice came out soft.
Hungry
.
"Yeah. He's big alright."
"What was that?" James asked.
"Nothing," she said too quickly, eyes locked on the figure now making his way toward the front door. "He's... he's coming to the door."
She hung up, her thumb shaking slightly over the screen, heart thudding against her ribs like it was trying to get free.
Her chest rose, fast and shallow. Heat bloomed beneath her skin -- not from the sun, but from something darker. Deeper.
She straightened her spine, subtly arching her back. Adjusted the tank top. Let her fingers drift down the line of her torso, smoothing the fabric across her breasts -- high, full, surgically perfected, and
aching
for attention. The cotton hugged them tight, nipples brushing against the inside like they were begging to be noticed.
She hadn't needed the surgery. But she needed to feel
wanted
again. To be looked at,
craved
.
Her husband said he loved her just the way she was. But he hadn't looked at her like
that
in over a year.
So she found the best surgeon in the country. She got what she wanted.
Now she needed someone to want what she got.
The doorbell rang. Sharp. Final.
Claire swallowed. And opened the door.
He stood there -- framed in morning light, sweat gleaming across his chest, that tank top still hanging from his shoulder like an afterthought. His eyes, dark and steady, dragged over her with
zero hesitation
-- from the swell of her breasts to the smooth stretch of bare thigh just beneath her silk shorts.
And for the first time in
too long
...
Claire felt
seen
.
Darius King.
Tall. Ripped. Cool in a way that didn't need explaining -- the kind of presence that didn't announce itself, but claimed every space it walked into. His skin glowed in the morning light, slick with sweat across the swell of his chest, tattoos stretched tight over thick muscle like inked armor.
"Morning," he said, his voice low and thick --
smooth as poured syrup
, edged with something Southern, something that made the syllables curl. His gaze didn't shy away from hers. It didn't flicker, didn't apologize -- just
dragged
, slow and deliberate, over her mouth, her neck, the soft rise of her cleavage as she breathed a little too fast.
Claire swallowed, lips parting. "Hi," she said, too brightly. "You're... here for the build."
His smile was subtle -- crooked, knowing, just one side of his mouth tipping up. "That's what they tell me."
He glanced past her toward the backyard, then looked back again -- eyes flicking once more across her body, slower this time. Appreciative. Unhurried.
"Out back, right?"
She nodded, suddenly aware of every inch of bare thigh, every taut line of her tank top pressing against her breasts.
"Anything I should know before I get started?" he asked, gaze hovering right at the hem of her shorts before rising -- slow enough to make her skin prickle. "Like what kinda wood you want me workin' with?"
Claire blinked. Her mind blanked. "Uh... James... he mentioned cedar?"
