The late afternoon sun slanted through the slats of the white wooden fence, painting stripes of gold across the lawn. Sarah knelt in the damp soil of her flower bed, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, her gardening gloves caked with earth. She was wearing a pair of faded cut-off jeans that frayed against her thighs and a thin white tank top that clung to her skin, damp with the humidity of a Georgia summer. The air smelled of cut grass and jasmine, a scent so thick it felt like a secret.
A shadow fell over her.
“Need a hand with that stubborn root?”
The voice was low, a familiar rasp that sent a tremor through her chest. She looked up, squinting against the sun, and saw him. Liam. Her next-door neighbor for the past five years. He was leaning against the fence, arms crossed over the deep V of his open flannel shirt. Beneath it, his tanned chest was barely visible, a tantalizing glimpse of dark hair and hard muscle.
He was a contractor, a man built by work. His hands were always calloused, his arms thick and corded, his jaw perpetually shadowed with a stubble that made him look ruggedly handsome. He was the kind of man who fixed things—broken pipes, splintered decks, the quiet, aching parts of Sarah’s every day.
“It’s a stubborn one,” she said, her voice coming out breathier than she intended. She pulled off her glove and wiped a strand of hair from her face, leaving a streak of dirt across her forehead.
Liam smiled, a slow, devastating curve of his lips. “Your husband’s car isn’t in the driveway.”
“He’s out of town. Chicago. Until Thursday.” The words fell out of her mouth like a confession. She felt heat bloom in her cheeks, a guilty flush that she hoped he would mistake for sunburn.
He didn’t mistake it. His gaze held hers for a beat too long, dark and knowing. Then he uncrossed his arms and swung a leg over the fence. “Then I’ll have to be your hero today.” He landed in her yard with a soft thud, dusting off his jeans. The fabric pulled tight across his thighs, and Sarah forced her eyes away.
They knelt together by the flower bed. His shoulder brushed hers, and the contact was electric. She could smell him—sawdust, sweat, and a clean, masculine scent that made her mouth water. He leaned past her, his chest pressing against her shoulder as he grabbed the root she had been wrestling with.
“You have to get leverage from your hips, not your back,” he said, his voice a murmur in her ear. His breath was warm, a caress against the delicate skin of her neck. “Like this.”
He pulled, and the root gave way with a wet, satisfying snap. He sat back on his heels, a triumphant grin on his face. “There. Easy.”
But he didn’t move. Neither did she. They were so close she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow. Her heart was hammering so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He looked at her lips, then back into her eyes. “Anytime.”
The moment stretched, thick and dangerous. Sarah’s fingers itched to touch him, to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the rough texture of his unshaven skin. She had wanted this for so long. She had watched him from her kitchen window as he worked on his own house, shirtless, muscles gleaming with sweat. She had imagined his hands on her in ways that made her moan into her pillow at night.
But now, with him kneeling beside her in her own garden, the reality of desire was overwhelming.
“Would you like some lemonade?” she heard herself ask. “It’s hot out.”
He tilted his head, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Thought you’d never ask.”
She stood, her legs unsteady. He followed, his tall frame casting her in shadow. As she led him toward the house, she could feel his gaze on her, sliding down the curve of her back, over the sway of her hips in the tight cutoff shorts. She opened the sliding glass door and stepped into the cool, dark interior of her kitchen.
The contrast was jarring. The house was still, sterile. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of a clock. It was her husband’s house, really. Everything was chosen by him, curated by him. The stainless steel appliances, the granite countertops, the expensive white linen curtains. Sarah felt like an intruder in her own life.
Liam’s presence filled the room, made it feel smaller. He leaned against the kitchen island, his arms crossed again, watching her as she opened the refrigerator.
“You know,” he said, his voice casual, “I’ve always wondered what this place looks like from the inside.”
“Now you know,” she said, pouring two glasses of lemonade. Her hands were trembling. She set one down in front of him, their fingers brushing. The contact was brief, but it sent a current up her arm.
“Not much different from mine,” he added, picking up the glass. “But the view is better.”
He was looking at her, not out the window.
Sarah’s breath hitched. “You’re a flirt, Liam.”
“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” he corrected, taking a slow sip. His eyes never left hers. The ice clinked against the glass. The silence was deafening.
She took a gulp of her own lemonade, the tartness biting her tongue. She needed to change the subject, to break the spell before she did something she couldn’t take back. “How’s the deck project coming along?”
He set the glass down. “Slow. It’d go faster if I had a helper.”
“I’m not much of a handywoman.”
“You’d be surprised what you can do with the right guidance.” He took a step closer. She didn’t retreat. “I could teach you.”
Her heart was in her throat. “Liam…”
“Sarah.” He said her name like it was a prayer. He reached out and gently, so gently, brushed the dirt off her cheek with his thumb. His hand lingered, cupping her jaw. “I’ve been watching you. For years.”
“I know,” she breathed.
He tilted her chin up. “I want to kiss you.”
She couldn’t speak, so she nodded. Just once.
He lowered his mouth to hers. The first touch was soft, tentative. A question. Sarah answered by parting her lips, and the kiss deepened. His tongue slid against hers, warm and tasting of lemon. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, his fingers tangling in her hair.
She felt dizzy, drunk on the taste of him. He backed her against the counter, his body pressing into hers. She could feel the hard planes of his chest against her softness, the rough denim of his jeans against her bare thighs. His other hand found the hem of her tank top, and his calloused palm slid across her stomach, making her gasp into his mouth.
“Is this okay?” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes. God, yes.”
He lifted her onto the counter. The marble was cool through her thin shorts. He stood between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the frayed denim higher. She could feel his erection, hard and insistent, against her center. It made her wet, swollen with need.
He kissed down her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint scent of jasmine and earth. He pulled the strap of her tank top down, exposing her shoulder, and bit down gently. Sarah moaned, arching her back.
“We should go somewhere more comfortable,” she whispered.
“Where?”
“The living room. The couch.”
He scooped her off the counter, carrying her as if she weighed nothing. His arms were iron around her, his breath hot against her ear. He carried her into the living room and laid her down on the plush beige sofa. The light was dim, filtered through the curtains. He stood above her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with desire.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice rough. “Every time I saw you in that garden, bending over, your skin glowing… I had to have you.”
He knelt before the couch, tugging off her shorts. She lifted her hips to help him, and soon she was bare from the waist down, her thighs trembling with anticipation. He looked at her, his gaze devouring, and let out a low groan.
“You’re perfect.”
He spread her legs, his fingers tracing the inside of her thigh, up, up, until he found her wet, waiting. He slid a finger inside her, and she cried out, grabbing his shoulders.
“So tight,” he whispered, working her slowly. “So wet.”
He added a second finger, stretching her, and her eyes rolled back in her head. He watched her face, her lips parted, her breath coming in shallow gasps. He leaned down and replaced his fingers with his tongue.
The sensation was a shattering bolt of pleasure. Sarah bucked against his mouth as he licked and sucked, tasting her, devouring her. His hands held her hips down, holding her steady while he brought her to the brink. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her moans filling the quiet room.
“Liam… I’m going to…”
He hummed against her, and that vibration pushed her over. She came with a sharp cry, her body arching, her climax rolling through her in waves. He didn’t stop, riding her through it, until she collapsed, panting.
He lifted his head, his lips glistening, a smug smile on his face. “Good?”
She laughed, a breathless sound. “Incredible.”
He stood and unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. His erection stood proud and thick, the tip glistening with a bead of pre-cum. Sarah’s mouth watered.
“I want you inside me,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“I want that too.” He guided himself to her entrance, teasing, rubbing the head against her slick folds. “But I want to watch you first.”
He entered her slowly, inch by agonizing inch. She felt every ridge, every pulse of his heat. He filled her completely, stretching her in ways she had forgotten were possible. She gasped, her nails digging into his forearms.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She did. Their eyes locked as he began to move. A slow, deep rhythm that had her gripping the couch cushions. He leaned forward, kissing her, swallowing her moans. His pelvis ground against her clit with each thrust, building a new pressure inside her.
“I’ve thought about this,” he breathed against her mouth. “Every night. In my bed, alone, knowing you were just next door.”
“Me too,” she confessed. “I would touch myself, thinking of your hands.”
His pace quickened. The slap of skin filled the room. The couch creaked beneath them. Sarah’s second orgasm was building, coiling low and tight. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Come with me,” she begged.
“Not yet. Not until you tell me who you belong to.”
The possessive demand sent a thrill through her. “You. Right now, I’m yours.”
That was enough. He drove into her with a final, powerful thrust, and the world exploded. She came around him, her inner walls clenching
