It started with a dare.

“You won’t last a week in that dusty old town,” your best friend had said, legs draped over the edge of your bed while you packed like you had something to prove. “No coffee shops. No nightlife. No Wi-Fi. Just cicadas, nosy neighbors… and some broody small-town mechanic who probably doesn’t believe in deodorant.”

You’d rolled your eyes, half-laughing, half-nervous. The trip wasn’t about proving anything — okay, maybe a little. You needed space. A summer reset. Somewhere slow, somewhere quiet. A solo adventure with zero expectations.

But he hadn’t been part of the plan.

Cole Walker.

The name came attached to a reputation in town — the kind whispered in the hardware store and passed around at barbecues. “Keeps to himself,” people said. “Fixes anything with an engine, but don’t expect him to fix your attitude.” And, “Don’t let those arms fool you, honey, that man’s been through things.”

You hadn’t even seen him on your first day — just heard the thrum of his engine pulling into the driveway next door, a beat-up Ford truck and the distant clang of a wrench hitting pavement.

Your rental on Sycamore Lane was charming in that too-many-crickets kind of way — all peeling white paint, wildflowers bursting around the porch, and floorboards that moaned like they had secrets to share. But it was perfect.

Or it would’ve been… if it weren’t for the tall, sun-kissed, maddeningly silent man next door.

Day One:

You returned from the tiny town market balancing way too many bags — fresh peaches, canned iced tea, some local pie you didn’t need but couldn’t resist — and your key refused to work. You cursed under your breath, juggled your groceries like a circus act, and nearly dropped a peach trying to shove the door open with your hip.

That’s when you felt it.

Eyes.

You looked over your shoulder.

Cole leaned on the side of his truck, arms crossed, a faint smirk teasing his mouth like he was watching a show. He didn’t say anything. Just raised a brow and looked back down at the carburetor in his hands.

No offer to help. No polite hello. Just a look.

It was infuriating. It was hot. You weren’t sure which one won.

Day Two:

There was a clank by your porch. You found a wrench and a pair of thick work gloves abandoned at the bottom step. Cole stood at the edge of his driveway, turning a socket wrench in slow, deliberate movements.

“You dropped these,” you called.

He didn’t turn.

“Nope.”

Your brow furrowed. “They’re not mine.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you like a taut rope.

Then he added, “You’ll need ‘em.”

And he went back to work, like that explained anything.

Day Three:

A storm hit just after dusk. No warning — just dark clouds rolling in like smoke and a wind that howled like it had a vendetta. You lit candles and laughed at how cliché it all felt — alone in a strange house, the power flickering out, thunder shaking the walls.

Then a knock at your door.

You pulled it open… and there he was.

Cole stood soaked from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, a flashlight in one hand and something unreadable in his eyes.

“Power’s out,” he said, voice low, almost bored. “Figured you’d be scared.”

You arched a brow. “I’m not.”

He stepped inside like he owned the place, glancing around. He smelled like rain and grease and something warm — something you couldn’t name but wanted to wrap around you.

His eyes flicked to yours. “Not yet.”

He set the flashlight down on the table, casting his face in a golden halo. You noticed the scar on his jaw then — small, pale against his tan skin. You wanted to trace it with your finger.

You didn’t.

“Power’ll come back on soon,” he said, settling into your kitchen chair like he’d done it a hundred times.

You watched him. “You do this for all your neighbors?”

“Nope.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you meant to say — but a rumble of thunder rolled overhead, and the candlelight danced in the reflection of his eyes.

“You always this quiet?” you asked softly.

“I only talk when it matters.”

“And this matters?”

That smirk returned — slow, devastating. “You tell me.”

Day Four:

He was gone when you woke up. Just the faint scent of motor oil on the breeze and a toolbox sitting on your porch like a promise.

Your heart felt ridiculous, flipping over like that. For what? A flashlight and a few growled sentences?

But Cole was more than his silence. You felt it in your bones — something heavy, something waiting. He wasn’t just brooding for the sake of it. He was hiding.

You wanted to see what was underneath.

Week Two:

You started timing your morning walks to when his garage door was open. He didn’t smile when you passed. But he nodded.

That nod became your favorite part of the day.

Sometimes he asked about your car — “You hearing a rattle?” — or about your garden — “Those wildflowers’ll choke your tomatoes.” Once he touched your wrist to wipe away a smudge of grease after you’d tried fixing a lawn chair yourself. His thumb had lingered just a second too long.

And neither of you spoke about it.

You’d lie awake at night thinking of things you’d say if you weren’t such a coward. About how your heart beat faster when he was near. About how he always noticed the little things — like the way he’d moved your porch mat before it rained, or dropped off a bottle of wine with a note that simply read: “Pairs better with sunsets than crying.”

Then came that night.

It was late July, the air thick with heat and something unspoken. You sat on your porch steps, a glass of wine in hand, your dress sticking to your thighs. Cicadas screamed in the trees. Stars blinked like they knew what was coming.

Cole stood at the edge of his driveway.

You looked up. He didn’t move.

But there was something different about the way he looked at you — like the nod wouldn’t be enough anymore.

You set your glass down. Heart hammering. Feet bare. And walked toward him.

“You done ignoring me?” you asked, voice quiet but strong.

He tilted his head. “You done pretending I don’t keep you up at night?”

Your breath caught.

He stepped forward — not fast. Not aggressive. Just certain. Like he’d made a decision and nothing in the world could stop him now.

“You drive me crazy,” you whispered. “You barely talk. You smirk and vanish. You leave tools.”

He took your face in his hands — rough palms against your cheeks. “And you still wait for me every night.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

He kissed you then — slow, deep, like it had been waiting in his chest all along and he was finally letting it out. His fingers tangled in your hair. Your hands clutched his shirt like he might vanish again.

But he didn’t.

When he pulled back, his voice was a low rasp against your lips. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

You stared at him, breathless. “Then stop pretending.”

And he did.

The night was thick with heat — the kind that clings to your skin like memory, slow and sticky and impossible to ignore. Crickets hummed lazily in the long grass, and the air smelled of honeysuckle and the promise of something you couldn’t quite name.

You sat on the porch steps, your wine glass forgotten beside you, bare feet tucked beneath your summer dress. It clung to your body, damp from the heat, the hem brushing your thighs like a lover’s touch. Your thoughts were anywhere but peaceful.

They were with him.

Cole Walker.

The man who lived next door and barely spoke but somehow said everything with a single look.

And right now, that look was aimed directly at you.

He stood at the edge of his driveway, shirt half unbuttoned, collar loose, dark jeans sitting low on those sharp hips. A glint of sweat caught in the dip of his throat, and his hands were shoved in his pockets like he was holding himself back.

You knew the feeling.

Your thighs pressed together — slow, subtle, but not enough to kill the ache.

He didn’t move. Just watched you, that jaw ticking, eyes shadowed under the brim of the cap he wore backward like a sin. And then — finally — he started walking.

One step. Then another. Like a storm rolling in slow, deliberate, and dangerous.

Your breath caught in your chest as he reached the bottom step. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t need to. His gaze dropped to your knees, then dragged up your bare thighs, pausing at the edge of your dress. He didn’t look away when he said, voice low and thick,

“You know I’m not good at waiting.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your pulse was a drumbeat in your throat.

“Every time I see you out here,” he said, voice rough as gravel, “sitting like this… legs bare, lips wet, acting like you don’t know what you do to me…”

He trailed off. Stepped onto the porch.

You didn’t back away.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Because you wanted him closer.

“I thought you liked being quiet,” you managed, trying for teasing — but it came out breathless, like a confession.

He was right in front of you now. Taller. Broader. His body heat rolling off him like wildfire.

“I like the quiet,” he said, dipping his head so his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “But I’d rather hear you.”

You shivered.

“Say my name.”

“Cole.”

“Say it again.”

He slipped his hand under your chin, tilting your face up. Your breath hitched. His thumb traced your bottom lip, slow and reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss you or ruin you.

“Cole,” you whispered again, voice breaking on the edge of want.

He didn’t wait after that.

His mouth crushed yours — hot and deep and absolutely filthy. There was no soft build-up, no sweet testing the waters. It was a kiss that said I’ve wanted this for days. Weeks. I’m done holding back.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

His hands gripped your waist, rough fingertips digging into your skin like he needed to feel you, to make sure you were real. He hauled you up from the steps, pressing you against the porch railing, your legs parting for him instinctively.

The wood was warm against your back, the stars watching silently above as his tongue slid against yours in a kiss that left you dizzy. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, dragging a groan from his chest so deep it vibrated through you.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured against your mouth, “since the second you dropped that goddamn peach.”

You laughed, breathless — then gasped as his hands slid up your thighs, slow and possessive. “You watched me?”

“I always watch you.”

“Pervert.”

He grinned against your neck. “Say that again when I’ve got you moaning into my mouth.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders. His teeth scraped along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. Your dress was bunched around your hips now, and his hand slipped under, fingers trailing up your thigh with sinful intent.

“I don’t go slow,” he warned, voice low and rough.

“I’m not asking you to,” you whispered.

His eyes burned into yours for a moment — and then he lifted you, arms firm beneath your thighs, pressing you against the railing like it was nothing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, dress slipping higher, breath catching as you felt the solid press of him against your core.

He rocked into you — once. Hard. Deliberate.

You bit your lip.

“Don’t do that,” he growled.

“What?”

“Hide those sounds from me.”

Then he kissed you again, swallowing your moan as his hips ground against you in a rhythm that had your head spinning. Every movement was calculated, every breath between you thick with months of tension exploding all at once.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, breath ragged.

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Instead, you clung tighter, your lips brushing his jaw as you whispered,

“Don’t you dare.”

The world had narrowed to breath and skin.

His hands gripped your thighs like he owned them, lips claiming yours again and again, and still — you wanted more. Needed it. That ache inside you had bloomed into something fierce and needy, a sweet pressure that pulsed with every grind of his hips against yours.

But there was something else, too — that flutter of nerves. The one you’d carried for a while now. Something unspoken. Untouched.

Cole paused.

His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. He looked at you, really looked. His thumb stroked your cheek, and for a moment, the heat simmered down into something tender. Intimate.

“You okay?” he asked.

God, his voice. Low. Raspy. The kind of voice that makes you want to say yes to anything.

You swallowed. Your legs tightened around his waist, but you nodded. “I just…” You hesitated.

He stilled. His brow furrowed. “Tell me.”

You looked down, breath catching. “I’ve never… I haven’t… done this before.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. You waited for the shift, the awkward pause, maybe even a step back.

But Cole didn’t move away.

His jaw clenched. A beat passed — then another — and then his fingers tilted your chin back up, eyes burning into yours.

“You’re a virgin.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

He exhaled slowly, something dark and possessive flickering in his eyes. His voice dropped even lower.

“Say it again.”

“Cole—”

“Say it,” he growled softly.

Your heart pounded. “I’m a virgin.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. His grip tightened slightly on your waist — protective, not rough — like the truth had lit something dangerous inside him.

“You waited this long,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, “and now you’re gonna give it to me?”

“Yes.”

His breath hitched. His forehead pressed to yours again, and for a moment he was quiet — like he was fighting a war in his chest.

“I should slow down,” he rasped.

“You won’t hurt me,” you whispered, and meant it.

His eyes darkened. “No, sweetheart. But I’m gonna wreck you.”

Then he kissed you again — but this time it was different. Slower. Deeper. Full of reverence.

Like he was tasting something sacred.

He carried you inside without breaking the kiss — one arm under your thighs, the other at your back. The screen door swung open and shut, the world melting behind it. Your body pressed to his, heat radiating between you, soaking into your skin, your soul.

He took you to the bedroom like he’d already dreamed of this — like he’d imagined every step. And when he set you down, he didn’t rush.

His fingers trailed up your thighs, under your dress, pushing it slowly over your hips.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Every damn night since you got here.”

You gasped when his hands reached your hips — and not just from the touch, but from the way he looked at you.

Like he’d been starving.

“I’m gonna make you feel good,” he said, brushing his lips over your neck. “Gonna show you how it feels to be wanted.”

He peeled your dress over your head, leaving you bare to the warm night air and his ravenous gaze. You tried to cover yourself instinctively, but he stopped you with a firm touch.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

His hand flattened against your belly. “You’re perfect. All of you. Mine.”

His mouth followed his hands — down your throat, over your chest, slow, wet kisses that left you shaking. He worshipped every inch like you were something holy and fragile and fierce.

And when he finally touched you — really touched you — between your thighs, you arched into him with a cry that made him groan against your skin.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered. “You want this.”

You nodded desperately.

He slipped a finger inside — slow, careful — watching your face the entire time. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It doesn’t,” you gasped. “It—feels good.”

And it did. New. Deep. Sweet pressure building where his hand worked and his mouth kissed and his voice whispered filth-soft praise in your ear.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he breathed. “So tight. So ready for me.”

When he finally undressed, when you saw all of him, your breath caught. He was hard. Thick. Beautiful. And yours.

“Still sure?” he asked, voice raw.

You reached for him, pulling him down, kissing him like an answer. “Please.”

He lined himself up, pressing the tip against your entrance. His jaw clenched like he was holding back a growl.

“You tell me if it’s too much,” he warned.

You nodded.

Then he pushed in — slow, careful — inch by inch. Your body stretched, burned, adjusted. He was big. Bigger than you expected. But he was patient, murmuring in your ear, “Almost there. You’re doing so good. Just a little more.”

And when he was fully inside you, buried deep, he didn’t move right away. Just held you. Let you feel it. Let you own it.

You were full. Claimed.

And when he started to move — rocking slowly, deeply — your breath hitched, your hands grasped at his shoulders, and the pain melted into pleasure that made your toes curl.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s my girl.”

You moaned.

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

“Fuck.”

His rhythm built, slow and sensual, dragging sweet moans from your lips as you started to move with him, meeting every thrust, trembling under his hands.

You came undone with a cry, your whole body shattering around him — and he followed, hips snapping harder, breath stuttering against your neck as he emptied himself inside you with a low, growled, “Mine.”

When it was over, he didn’t pull away.

He kissed your temple, pulled the sheet around your shaking body, and held you like he’d never let go.

You were still catching your breath when he murmured, “Next time…”

You blinked up at him. “Next time?”

He smiled. That rare, heart-melting smile.

“I go slower.”

You woke to sunlight — soft and golden — spilling across tangled sheets and warm, sweaty skin.

But it wasn’t the sun that woke you.

It was the mouth between your thighs.

Cole hadn’t said a word.

You’d stirred, half-asleep, sore in the best way possible, your body still thrumming with memory. Then you felt his fingers parting you slowly, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your inner thigh, his tongue licking a slow, sinful path up your slit.

Your gasp echoed in the quiet room.

“Good morning,” he murmured against you, voice thick with sleep and hunger. “Couldn’t stop thinking about the way you tasted last night.”

You whimpered, legs instinctively trying to close — but his grip was iron.

“Nuh-uh,” he growled, gripping your thighs, spreading you wide. “You gave this to me, baby. It’s mine now.”

And God, did he take it.

He licked you like he was making up for lost time — slow at first, then deeper, faster, tongue curling inside you, sucking at your clit until you were a mess of breathy moans and helpless cries.

You reached for his hair, clutching it, hips bucking against his face.

“C-Cole—oh my God—”

“That’s it,” he rasped, sliding two fingers into your slick heat while his mouth never stopped. “Make those sounds. I want to hear you.”

He worked you open like a man on a mission — and when you came, it was loud, trembling, your whole body shuddering as his name broke from your lips in a strangled cry.

He didn’t stop.

“Too much,” you gasped, trying to squirm away — but his hands dragged you back down. “Cole—!”

“Not done,” he said simply. “Not even close.”

He rose above you then, mouth slick, eyes dark with something wicked. You felt the thick weight of him pressing between your legs, already hard again — and God, you weren’t ready, but you wanted him anyway.

He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t need to.

He drove into you with a hard thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

“Fuck—” you cried, nails digging into his back.

“You feel that?” he groaned against your ear, pounding into you with slow, deep strokes that made your thighs tremble. “You’re stretched so tight, baby. Still gripping me like I’m the first.”

“You are—!”

“I know,” he growled. “And I’ll be your last, too.”

He pinned your wrists above your head, his free hand gripping your throat just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make you wet all over again.

“You gonna be a good girl and take it?” he whispered darkly. “Take every inch?”

You nodded, too dizzy to speak.

“No,” he said, slamming into you again, harder. “Use your words.”

“Yes—fuck, yes!”

“That’s my girl.”

He flipped you over, face pressed into the pillow, ass in the air — and when he slid back in, deeper from this angle, you sobbed into the sheets.

“Can’t—can’t take it—”

“Yes, you can,” he bit out. “You’re mine, remember? That sweet little virgin body? It’s all mine now.”

His hand smacked your ass once — hard enough to make you yelp, soft enough to make you melt.

“You like that?” he murmured, thrusting harder, faster. “You like being ruined first thing in the morning?”

You didn’t answer.

So he pulled out — just an inch — leaving you aching.

“Cole!” you begged.

“You don’t get to come,” he said, voice tight, “until you beg me for it.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please let me come—need it—need you—”

“That’s better.”

He gripped your hips like he was holding onto salvation and started slamming into you in punishing strokes, relentless, feral, lost in it. Every thrust dragged you closer, the knot in your belly winding tighter and tighter until you broke.

You screamed.

He followed with a low, guttural moan, spilling inside you as your name fell from his lips like a prayer and a curse.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breath, tangled and uneven. Your body limp. Wrecked.

Then he collapsed beside you, dragging you against his chest.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “More than okay.”

He kissed your forehead.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured. “You know that, right?”

You smiled, body sore, heart full. “Always.”