The headboard cracked against the lip of the U-Haul for what felt like the hundredth time, and Lila didn’t flinch. Her fingers ached, jaw locked, every nerve bristling with sun, sweat, and frustration. The thing was a perfect nightmare—too heavy to be graceful, too awkward to angle, dragging at her like it knew she was alone. 

One thigh braced against the bumper, she yanked hard, teeth gritted, her t-shirt glued to her spine, ponytail unraveling, blonde strands clinging to the wet curve of her jaw. She could feel the tears coming—not from the heat. From something deeper. Meaner. 

Ding. 

Her phone chimed in her back pocket. 

The headboard teetered dangerously, one end hanging out of the cargo bay like it was waiting to fall. She let it go, snatching the phone out like it had picked the wrong moment to test her. One flick, and the message lit the screen:

Yea, well that was before i knew Johnny got tickets to the game. It’s a big one, already heading there. I mean, it’s not like u have much to move and ur independent. I love that bout u. I’ll hit u up when the game’s over and if u still need help I’ll swing over. K? 

The world didn’t tilt—it just tightened. The sun seemed hotter, the silence louder. Her hand clenched around the phone until it shook.

She turned, eyes drawn like gravity to the gaping mouth of the U-Haul. Mattress. Futon. Bedframe in pieces. Dresser too wide for the stairs. The whole of her adult life boxed and stacked. Waiting. 

And he wasn’t coming--of course he wasn’t. 

She sank down onto the edge of the truck bed, slowly, the phone sliding from her hand to rest between her knees. Her palms covered her face. She didn’t sob—didn’t even sniffle. The tears came quietly, exhausted and bitter. Not heartbreak. Not even disappointment. 

Just the cold, humiliating echo of predictability. 

Then— 

“So, how can I help?” 

The voice broke through her fog. She startled, gasping, swiping at her face in a flurry of motion as she looked up— 

—and froze. 

The man standing beside her truck was... impossible. 

Sunlight slid over the hard lines of his body, his t-shirt tight across a chest like perfectly carved marble, the sleeves hugging arms thick with muscle. His legs were powerful, long, packed in athletic shorts that clung in just the right places, an overall build that didn’t happen in a gym but was made through real work. 

And his face… 

Mature. Distinguished. Chiseled jaw. Strong nose. Mouth full and curved like sin. The kind of beard that framed his lips just enough to make her think about what they’d feel like. And those eyes—steel-blue, sharp and steady, lit with something warm that threatened to undo her within the mere second.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out but a tiny, breathy noise. 

“I—sorry,” she managed at last, voice wrecked, glancing away. 

When she dared look back, he was still there. Still watching. No awkward smile, no pity. Just presence. 

His gaze flicked to the open truck, scanning the cargo like it was nothing. Then back to her, a slow smile spreading across that devastating mouth. 

“Shouldn’t take more than an hour.” 

Then his hand extended. 

“Dominic. I live next door.” 

Her skin was damp with tears and embarrassment, and her stomach twisted as their hands met—but he didn’t recoil. Just wrapped his fingers around hers like it meant something, like it was normal to catch a woman in the middle of a breakdown and still offer kindness without condition.

“So how about it,” he said, voice lower now. “Would you like the help?” 

She nodded, swallowed, tried to find her voice. 

“I’d… love it. Thank you.” 

He turned, grabbed the headboard she’d been fighting, and lifted it clean out with barely a grunt. Veins rippled up his arms. He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. 

“Let’s do it.” 

Boxes began to vanish like magic under Dominic’s arms. Two at a time, effortlessly, his shirt stretching across the bulk of his chest like it had been stitched onto stone. He didn’t move like someone helping out—he moved like this was his space, his weight, his rhythm. She tried to jump in, tried to lift a side or grab a smaller box, but he brushed her off with the barest smile, a shake of the head, a firm don’t worry about it in his tone. Not dismissive—almost protective. 

He didn’t break a sweat. Rather, he glowed. Sunlight caught the sheen of fine mist on his skin, the way his t-shirt clung ever tighter by the minute to his chest and back, revealing more with every movement. There was a scent that followed him—wood and citrus and heat, the smell of a man who lived with his tools and used them daily. He crouched to angle the dresser through the tight hallway, and Lila caught herself staring—watching how the hem of his shirt lifted just enough to expose the V of muscle that dipped beneath the waist of his shorts.

She glanced sideways, caught her own reflection in the hallway mirror he had hung for her, and flinched. Puffy eyes, a sweaty hairline, and the soft curve of a stomach that hadn’t flattened in years. Her jeans bit a little at the waist, the shirt she wore clung for all the wrong reasons. She wasn’t twenty-five anymore, not tight, not effortless. And a man like Dominic—older, sculpted, tall, goddamn divine—surely he noticed. 

But then he looked at her. 

Not glanced—looked. And when he asked about her job, when he nodded through her clumsy explanation about design clients and small deadlines, she saw something spark in his eyes. When she joked, half-bitter, about always ending up with men who couldn’t lift more than a paper plate, he chuckled—really chuckled—and threw her a look so warm she had to sit down. He didn’t flirt. Not directly. But the way his gaze lingered on her mouth when she laughed, the way he said her name like it tasted good—it ached. 

And she didn’t want it to end. 

Every trip back to the truck made her stomach sink a little lower. She found excuses to slow the pace, to ask more questions, to drag out just a few more minutes. But the cargo bay kept thinning out. Time kept moving. 

Then, only the futon remained. 

He carried it inside like it was air, set it against the living room wall, and turned toward her. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, her hair falling loose from its tie. 

“Well,” she murmured, forcing levity into her voice, “guess that’s it.” 

But he didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. 

His eyes drifted past her shoulder toward the bedroom door, where the pieces of her unassembled bedframe leaned like abandoned bones. 

“That’s not going to assemble itself,” he muttered, already walking past her into the room. 

She turned, watching him go, pulse in her throat. His shorts clung to the carved round of his ass, each step flexing muscle under fabric, every move fluid and devastating. He crouched by the bedframe, surveying the mess. Then turned suddenly—caught her staring. 

Her eyes snapped away, a flush racing up her neck. 

He smiled—quiet, sharp. 

“Let me get my tools.” 

Soon the drill’s hum was starting low, steady, but it was him who filled the room. She leaned in the doorway, chewing her nail, helpless to do anything but watch. He moved with purpose, shirt now utterly soaked through, darkened between the shoulders, clinging to every ridge and roll of muscle across his back. When he leaned forward, the waistband of his shorts dipped low enough to show skin that begged for hands. Her thighs pressed together. It wasn’t just heat or tiredness anymore. It was a guilty need. 

Then he looked up at her. 

His gaze didn’t falter. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t have someone here already,” he said. Not random. Measured. 

She swallowed. “I… I have a boyfriend,” she said. “He just… couldn’t make it today.” 

Dominic’s brow lifted, barely. A question in the arch of it. Not asked aloud. But felt. 

He stood. Slowly. Like he was unfolding six and a half feet of pure power in front of her. The room seemed to shrink. Her pulse quickened. 

He turned, lifted the mattress, slotted it into place with zero effort. 

Then: “So what was it?” Voice low. “What was more important than you?” 

She faltered. “He… went to a game. With his friends.” 

A beat passed. Then another. 

He shook his head once, jaw tight. 

“If I was him,” he said, voice graveled now, thick with heat, “you wouldn’t have had to lift a single finger.” 

Then he stepped closer. 

Then again. 

Not looming. Not threatening. Just there. Solid. Certain. Like inevitability dressed in muscle and heat. Like a storm watching her from inches away, waiting for her to lean forward into the lightning. 

“Tell me the truth,” he said, voice low, pulling her in like velvet over steel. “When’s the last time you didn’t have to carry everything yourself?” 

Her lips parted. Nothing came out. 

Another step. Closer now. She could feel his presence buzzing in her skin, drawing her out of herself like a tide pulling at the shore. 

“When’s the last time someone really took care of your needs?” he asked, quieter still, voice dark and warm like molasses, slipping past her ears, down her spine. 

It wasn’t pity. Not even flirtation. 

It was a promise. 

She backed into the wall, shoulders brushing the paint, hands laced tightly in front of her stomach like they could shield her from the rising ache. Her pulse thundered in her throat. He was close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin, smell that clean sweat on him—cedar, citrus, him—and it surrounded her. 

“When’s the last time you let go?” he asked. “Really let go. Completely?” 

She swallowed, breath shaking, her knees barely holding her. 

“Completely?” She echoed weakly. 

He nodded once. No smile. No softening. 

Just steel-blue eyes that held her down without touching, that saw everything she’d tried to keep neat and acceptable and hidden. He didn’t look away. He didn’t offer her space. He offered truth. 

And it cracked something in her chest. 

“What if it was right now?” he said. 

That was it. 

She broke. 

A breathless gasp escaped as she surged forward, hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt like she could climb inside him. The words came out raw, stripped, trembling. 

“Show me.” 

And he did. 

His mouth crashed onto hers—hot, deep, tasting her like he knew exactly how long she’d waited for a man who wouldn’t hesitate. His hands gripped her waist, dragging her closer, his tongue invading, claiming, owning. Her moan broke into the kiss as her fingers clawed over his chest, needing more, needing everything. 

He yanked off his shirt in a single, brutal pull. 

God. 

She barely had time to register the golden sweat-slicked skin, the deep cuts of muscle across his abs, the dusting of hair that begged to be touched—before her own shirt was gone, too, her back arching under his touch. His lips returned, kissing harder now, messier, hungrier. 

Then his arms wrapped under her thighs, and he lifted her. 

She gasped, clinging to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. The kiss didn’t break. He carried her through the room like she weighed nothing, every step slow, deliberate, powerful. She could feel him through his shorts—thick, hot, pressed hard against the slick center of her. Her body burned. 

At the edge of the bed, he whispered it—gravel-wrapped, wicked: 

“I’m going to lay you down, hold you still, and make you feel so fucking wanted you forget how to stand.” 

Then he lowered her to the mattress, her back hitting the sheets, his body covering hers like shadow and fire. 

His mouth claimed hers again, rougher now, tongue demanding, dragging needy sounds from her throat. His hands found her wrists and pinned them above her head, gentle but inescapable, hips grinding into hers as he kissed her like he meant to undo everything she'd ever believed about being wanted. 

Then he moved down. Slow. Worshipful. 

His lips found her throat, nipping gently at her pulse, trailing heat over her chest. He peeled her bra down, exposing her to the air, and paused just long enough to look at her—eyes dark, hungry. 

Then his mouth found her nipple, hot and wet and perfect. She arched under him, crying out, hand flying to his head. He sucked slow, then harder, teeth grazing, tongue circling until her moans were breathless, pleading. His free hand braced her hip, holding her down as she writhed beneath him. 

He kissed lower. Belly. Hip. Each kiss slower, heavier. 

She reached down, desperate to touch, but he caught her wrist mid-motion, pressed it firmly back. 

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You don’t get to lead this. Not now.” 

Her breath staggered. Her body buzzed. 

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and panties and dragged them down in one slow, excruciating motion. The cool air kissed her wetness, and she whimpered, open and shaking and aching. 

Then he slid between her thighs, knelt like a man before an altar, and pulled her hips forward with both arms, locking her in place. 

Her body tensed. Anticipation was unbearable. 

“You don’t move, understand?” he said, voice gravel-dark. “You take.” 

Then his mouth was on her. 

The first stroke of his tongue—slow, deep, greedy—made her cry out, hips twitching, thighs jerking. But his grip was unrelenting. He held her still and devoured her. His tongue flicked, circled, sucked with such perfect, patient torment she almost sobbed. Her hands clawed at the sheets. Her body bowed. 

He didn’t stop. 

He licked her like he owned her. Like making her fall apart was the only thing he wanted. Every moan he pulled from her, every tremble, was met with another firm pull of his tongue, another deep suck on her clit that sent her hurtling toward the edge. 

And when she finally broke—when the orgasm ripped through her like a scream through the sky—he didn’t stop. 

He buried his mouth in her, eating every shudder, dragging her through it, deeper, longer, until she was sobbing his name, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clenching around his head. 

She collapsed, breathless, ruined. 

He lifted his head, mouth slick, lips wet, eyes dark as midnight storms. 

“I’m not even close to done with you.” 

He stood, and the bed felt cold without him. 

She watched as he reached for the waistband of his shorts, slow, deliberate. The soft stretch of elastic already slipping down over his hips sent her pulse into her throat. His fingers hooked in the fabric, tugged it low, and then his shorts hit the floor.

And she stopped breathing. 

He was…massive. 

Hard. Heavy. Veined. Beautiful. 

He watched her stare. Smirked. 

And climbed back onto the bed. 

She spread her legs without thinking, already begging in silence. Her body wasn’t recovered—but it didn’t matter. It was ready. 

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Open, trembling, dripping—you’ve needed this for so long, haven’t you?” 

He grabbed her thighs and pulled, dragging her down the bed like she weighed nothing—like she was his to move, to position, to take. Her breath ceased, her fingers curling tight around his wrists as his mouth brushed her ear, voice a growl wrapped in velvet. 

“You’re gonna take every inch of me,” he whispered. “Because I know you need it—need to be filled, stretched, taken.” 

She whimpered. A soft, desperate sound. A yes without the word. 

He reached down, cock in hand, and ran the thick, flushed head through her slick pussy lips, slow and teasing, letting it drag, bump, slide over her swollen clit. Her whole body twitched. 

“Say it,” he murmured, voice gone jagged. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you’re mine to satisfy.” 

Her lips parted—airless, aching. 

She never got the chance to speak. 

Because he pushed inside. 

Slow. Devastating. Thick. The stretch was instant—exquisite pain, overwhelming pleasure—and she gasped, head rolling back, mouth wide, spine arching up from the mattress like it could escape what was happening but never wanted to. 

He filled her. Fully. Entirely. 

And when his hips finally met hers with a heavy, final grind, she made a broken sound—a sob, a moan, something wordless that meant yes, please, more. 

He didn’t move like a man chasing release. 

He moved like a man building something. 

“Look at you,” he said, voice pressed against her lips, thick with awe and possession. “I’m going to leave your thighs shaking, your voice gone, and your body too satisfied to ever settle for less again.” 

She couldn’t answer. Only moan, broken, trembling. 

Then he started to thrust. 

Long, deep strokes. Purposeful. Each one dragged every inch of him across the sensitive walls inside her, slow enough to feel, hard enough to make her whimper. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Her legs locked around his waist. She clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world breaking apart. 

Every stroke was a claim. 

Every breath was a branding. 

Her body shook under him, helpless to do anything but feel as he whispered into her ear: 

“Don’t hold it in. I want everything. Every cry. Every fucking shiver. You don’t hide from me. Not here.” 

The second climax built like lightning, flashing white-hot just under her skin. He felt it. Knew it. Drove into it. Harder now. Rougher. Not quite cruel—commanding. His hand found her hip and held her still as he fucked her through the first orgasm and dragged her mercilessly into the next. She sobbed with it—pleasure so sharp it felt like it might crack her open. 

He didn’t let her go. 

He pinned her to the bed, hips pistoning, cock driving deep and relentless until she was shaking, crying out, her hands caught in the sheets, her voice gone. 

She blinked, dazed, as he pulled out, but only to flip her, fast and controlled, like she was nothing more than a ragdoll in his arms. Her cheek hit the mattress, her ass lifted by his grip, and then his hand was in her hair, his mouth at her ear again, and the voice that spilled into her head was pure fire: 

“You’re everything, baby. Soft. Sweet. So fucking good. And now I’m going to ruin you in the best way—so you never, ever forget what it's like to be taken care of.” 

She cried out, shaking, her body strung tight with anticipation—and then he slammed back inside. 

Hard. Deep. Unstoppable. 

The slap of skin on skin filled the room, the sound filthy, perfect. She rocked forward with every thrust, breathless and helpless, arms limp under her, face in the pillow as he took her from behind like it was his right. 

His grip bruised her hips—marked her. 

His voice didn’t stop. 

“Give me it all,” he growled, hips snapping forward hard enough to make her gasp. “Tell me it’s mine.” 

Her voice broke, already shattered, already gone—but the words came out a scream: 

“It’s yours—yours, it’s all yours—” 

And then he snapped. 

He pounded into her with a force that rocked the bed, deeper than she thought possible, every thrust a brutal, perfect claim that sent sparks crashing through her vision. Her body shattered around him—clenching, convulsing, screaming through another orgasm that stole her breath, her thoughts, her self. And he didn’t stop. Didn’t let her go. He kept driving into her—thrust after devastating thrust—until her next orgasm tore through her, and then the next, leaving her gasping, sobbing, wrecked. 

Then she felt him pull out, his breath ragged, his hand stroking himself beside her. Her body was limp, used, spent on the sheets. 

Dominic towered above her, cock in hand, eyes locked on her ruined body. 

“Fuck—Lila—fuck.” 

And then he came. 

Hot, thick ribbons splashed across her back, her ass, his moan long and broken as he spilled everything onto her skin, his body jerking with the force of it. He stroked out the last pulses, breathing hard, chest heaving like he’d just conquered a war. 

Then he leaned down. His breath brushed the back of her neck, lips grazing the sweat-slicked curve of her shoulder. She was still trembling, still stretched and glistening, painted with the heat of him, her body limp and sated and wrecked beneath his weight. But there was no retreat in his voice, no cooling off. 

Only heat building again. 

“That,” he whispered, fingers stroking down her thigh like he already missed being inside her, “was me getting to know your body.” 

He kissed the center of her spine, slowly. 

“Next time…” His hand curled around her hip, gripped her with deliberate possession. 

“I’m going to own it.” 

The words landed in her like the final lightning strike. 

Her breath sputtered, spine arching instinctively as though offering herself up again without thinking. Her thighs pressed together on reflex, the echoes of her orgasms still throbbing in her core—but already she was slick again, the promise of more twisting her stomach into a fresh ache. 

Somewhere across the room, her phone vibrated inside a discarded pair of jeans. 

She didn’t hear it. 

She turned toward him, her voice low, still breathless, still wrecked, but certain. 

“Then let's do next time now.” 

The End