I glanced out the window. He was in the driveway, hosing down his old off-road truck. He'd peeled off his shirt in the suffocating heat. Water streamed over his tanned chest, those thick, heavy muscles flexing and contracting with every swipe of the sponge.
God, he is so fucking hot.
This was the umpteenth time I’d caught him half-naked. I used to brush off my little crush, telling myself it was perfectly normal to admire a handsome guy. But after last night—after hearing my mom sobbing and begging for mercy while he mercilessly tore her apart—everything had changed. Looking at those strong, corded arms now, all I could think about was how they'd feel pinning me down. What that massive body would do to me if he ever got his hands on me.
"Fiona? You coming down to help?" Henry called out.
I jumped. Busted. He'd caught me staring.
I swallowed hard, trying to wet my suddenly sand-dry throat. "Yeah, I’ll be right there!"
Grabbing my bag, I bolted downstairs, desperately trying to shake the image of his flexing biceps and the phantom echo of those wet slaps from my head.
I stepped out back, feigning interest in the camping supplies piled in the truck bed. "Hey, Dad. Truck looks fully stacked. Need an extra pair of hands?"
He looked up. Water droplets traced lazy paths down his strong jaw, and a faint, easy smile curved his mouth. The perfect, doting stepfather. His gaze swept over me, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary on my frayed cutoffs and tight tank top.
"Everything's under control, Fiona," he replied, his voice a low rumble over the hiss of the hose. It was the exact same voice he’d used to command my mother to spread her legs, just smoothed over with a layer of daytime politeness.
He twisted the nozzle shut and reached for a rag, dabbing at his face. The casual movement made his biceps bulge, sending a fresh, liquid jolt straight to my core.
"Your mom isn't doing too well today, is she?" he asked casually.
I really didn’t want to talk about Mom right now, but if he was opening that door, I was going to walk right through it.
"Yeah, I bumped into her in the bathroom this morning," I murmured, keeping my tone deceptively innocent. "She looked completely drained. Pale, exhausted... her legs were practically shaking." I tilted my head, holding his gaze as I let the next words slip out. "She must have had a really rough night."
His golden-brown eyes locked onto mine as his large hand moved in slow, rhythmic circles over the wet metal of the truck. With every powerful swipe of the damp cloth, he took a casual, measured step down the length of the vehicle toward me.
By the time he reached my side to wipe the panel right next to my hip, the sheer force of his proximity was a direct assault on my senses. A thick, radiating heat rolled off his damp body, carrying a rich, intensely masculine musk that made my knees weak.
My breath hitched. His broad, damp chest was mere inches from my tight tank top.
His free hand reached slowly past my waist. His rough knuckles lightly—almost accidentally—grazed the frayed denim at my hip as he grabbed a bottle of wax resting on the edge of the truck bed right behind me.
I froze, the air backing up in my lungs as I braced myself for a touch that didn't come. He paused with the bottle in his hand. His golden-brown eyes dropped, tracking the frantic, telltale flutter of the pulse at the base of my throat, before watching my chest rise and fall against my tank top. He saw exactly how helplessly expectant I was.
A slow, knowing smirk played at the corner of his mouth.
"You can breathe, Fiona," he murmured, squeezing a drop of wax onto the metal right next to my thigh. He began to rub it in slow, grinding circles, his tone thick with dark, teasing amusement. "Just giving her a little touch-up. She gets so tight and overheated when she's left out in the sun too long."
"But what about you, Fiona?" he asked smoothly. He took a slow half-step closer, his massive shadow completely engulfing me. "You've got dark circles under your eyes." He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before locking back onto my eyes. "Makes me wonder. Did you not sleep well last night?"
I swallowed hard.
"Or," he added softly, his tone laced with mock concern, "has that jerk Jake been bothering you again?"
Heat flared in my cheeks at the mention of my ex.
"Jake? Please. Whatever we had is ancient history," I scoffed. I let my eyes brazenly dip down to the hard, wet planes of Henry's broad chest before dragging them back up to his face. "He definitely isn't what I need right now."
The words didn't just tumble out by accident; I wanted him to know I was done playing with boys.
Henry went dead still. For a long, stretched-out second, the only sound was the water dripping from the hose, pooling forgotten at his boots. The casual, teasing smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a flash of dark, undivided attention.
He slowly wiped his hands on a dry rag, tossing it aside before closing the remaining distance between us.
"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly drawl. "If you're done playing with boys, Fiona... then what kind of man are you looking for?"
I leaned in a fraction of an inch, letting my tongue dart out to wet my lower lip. My voice trembled with a dark, undeniable hunger.
"I need a real man," I breathed. I let my gaze drop shamelessly from his mouth, down the thick, corded muscles of his chest, before dragging it slowly back up to meet his darkening eyes. "Someone mature. Someone massive and unapologetic. A man with hands big enough to span my entire waist, who can take absolute control..." I paused, my chest rising and falling heavily. "...someone who can stretch me out and fill every aching inch of me."
The air between us crackled, turning thick and heavy.