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?"
Darius chuckled -- low and rich, like it came from his chest and not just his throat. "Cedar's solid. Smells good, too. Might rub off on the house a little. You'll catch it in the air."
He took a half step forward, close enough that she caught his scent --
sun-warmed sweat, fresh sawdust, skin
. A heat that made her dizzy.
"Could
you
show me where the line runs?" he asked, tilting his head just slightly -- not in confusion, but challenge. "Unless you like leavin' that part to me."
Claire blinked, thrown for just a beat too long. It sounded like a question about construction. But it felt like something else entirely.
Her mouth opened -- then closed again. She licked her lips, a flicker of breath caught in her chest. "I... I'm sure you'll figure it out."
That smile of his returned, slow and sinfully amused -- like he'd just tested the tension in a wire and found it strung tight.
"Oh, I always do," he murmured. "But I don't mind takin' my time with the edges. Makes it easier to find where they blur."
He didn't wait for her reply. Just adjusted his belt -- slow, practiced -- and turned.
Claire's eyes followed him instinctively, helplessly, watching the flex and pull of muscle beneath sun-warmed skin, the subtle sway of denim hanging just low enough to be a sin.
He disappeared around the side of the house, and she stood there for a long, burning moment -- her pulse a drumbeat between her thighs.
Claire stood in the doorway for a long moment, hand still resting against the cool glass, her body buzzing with something she hadn't felt in months. Maybe years.
This build was supposed to bring her and James closer.
Instead, it had just opened the door to something
big
.
Something
dangerous
.
Something already walking through her yard -- leaving heat and want in its wake with every step.
The day dragged -- hot and slow, thick with silence that settled over everything like a wet sheet. Claire drifted through the house like a ghost in silk, her bare feet whispering across polished floors, her fingertips brushing countertop edges and door frames as if she could summon sensation just by making contact. The rooms felt too large. The light too bright. The silence too loud.
She scrolled her phone without seeing the screen. Checked the time without remembering it. And every ten minutes, her gaze slid -- like muscle memory -- to the tall windows that framed the backyard.
He was always there.
Moving. Lifting. Sweating.
Powerful arms flexing with every swing of the hammer, his shoulders broad and gleaming beneath the sun. His jeans clung low to his hips, soaked darker in the heat, every movement an unspoken invitation.
She told herself she wasn't watching. But she didn't miss a single thing.
By mid-afternoon, the sun had turned cruel -- blazing so hot it made the stone patio shimmer, mirage-like. Claire stepped into the kitchen and caught her reflection in the glass door: flushed, glowing, a soft sheen of perspiration making her skin look glazed in gold.
Her blonde curls were tied in a loose knot at the base of her neck, a few damp tendrils curling at her temples. Her tank top clung to her chest in faint damp patches, molded to the curve of her breasts. Her tiny white shorts hugged her hips so tightly the fabric creased along the top of her thighs.
She looked like summer. But not the kind you picnic in.
Once, it had been for James -- for candlelit dinners, impulsive getaways, hotel rooms where she'd peel her dress off slow and climb into his lap with laughter in her throat and his mouth on her skin.
That version of their marriage had faded like dusk light on water -- slow, then suddenly gone.
Now she dressed for the mirror. Or maybe... for the man with forearms like carved stone.
She turned toward the fridge, the glass cool against her skin as she opened it. Her fingers curled around the chilled handle of a pitcher of lemonade, and she poured two glasses -- ice cracking loudly as it hit the bottom. Her hand trembled just slightly as she placed them on a tray.
When she stepped outside, the heat
