Chapter 1: The Delivery Man Always Rings Twice

Monica wasn't used to answering the door without a bra. But today, the air conditioning had died, and the Southern heat clung to her skin like sweat-laced lingerie. Her tank top stuck to the swell of her breasts, nipples visibly peeking through, practically waving a white flag of surrender. She wasn't trying to seduce anyone.

But then again, she didn't expect Zayden to be standing at her door, holding her new soundbar and flashing a slow, knowing smile that made her instantly regret the thin cotton top.

"Damn," he said with a soft chuckle, eyes flicking from her face to her chest and back up without an ounce of shame. "You always answer the door looking like this?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, instantly aware of the way her breasts squished together, inadvertently creating more cleavage. His smile deepened.

"You always deliver with that mouth?" she shot back, arching a brow.

He laughed, stepping inside. "Only when the customer tips well."

Zayden was tall—taller than she remembered—and built like sin. Dark, smooth skin, muscles stretching under his black tee, and that subtle scent of sweat, soap, and cologne that made her want to lean in. She remembered him from the last delivery. He had flirted then, too, but it felt more harmless.

This? This was loaded. Intentional. Wet.

Monica walked ahead, leading him to the living room, the soundbar box tucked under his arm. She could feel his gaze crawling up the back of her thighs, her hips, the soft, generous curve of her ass.

"Where you want it?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" she said, spinning.

He didn't even blink. "The box."

Of course. The box. But his eyes had said something else. Said: Where do you want me? And Monica felt a little heat bloom in her belly, sharp and forbidden.

"Over there," she said, pointing to the media console. "You can set it up, too, if you're handy with wires."

"Oh, I'm good with my hands," Zayden said, his voice low, smooth like melted chocolate. "Real good."

Monica sat on the couch, legs crossed, watching him from the corner of her eye. She shouldn't be enjoying this. Not the way she was. But the way his muscles shifted, the way his shirt rode up when he bent forward, revealing that delicious V-cut that dipped toward something bigger… thicker… uncontainable.

He looked back at her. Caught her staring. Didn't hide his smirk.

"You like watching?" he asked, tongue running along his bottom lip slowly.

Monica narrowed her eyes, shifting in her seat. "And what exactly am I watching?"

"You tell me," he said. "Feels like I'm on display."

She licked her lips and smiled. "Maybe you are."

It was a slow dance, one of innuendo and barely concealed lust. Monica liked control. She liked her life tidy, no strings, no messes. But Zayden was a beautiful, young mess, and her body was already aching to be ruined by him.

"How old are you?" she asked suddenly.

He looked over his shoulder, grinning. "Old enough to know exactly how to touch a woman like you."

Monica's breath hitched. That wasn't an answer—it was a threat. A delicious one.

When he finished setting up the soundbar, he walked toward her, standing a little too close. "Wanna test the bass?"

Monica tilted her head. "You offering a demonstration?"

His gaze dropped to her chest again, where her nipples were still tight against the fabric. "I think you're already feeling the vibration."

She didn't stop him when he sat next to her. Didn't pull away when his thigh pressed lightly against hers. The TV played some random scene, but all Monica could feel was the tension—sexual, heavy, sticky like honey between her thighs.

Zayden looked her dead in the eye and said, "You know, I deliver here a lot. Your name's always on the list."

"Maybe I just order too much."

"Or maybe," he said slowly, "you like having me on your doorstep. Every time I show up, you're a little less dressed."

Monica laughed, husky and low. "Careful, baby. Keep talking like that, and you'll find yourself invited in for more than a setup."

Zayden leaned in, his lips a breath from hers. "That a promise, Monica?"

The way he said her name—it wasn't just a name anymore. It was a moan. A command.

"You don't scare me," she whispered.

"Good," he said. "Because I'm not trying to scare you."

There was a beat of silence. Then, a shift. A tension neither of them could deny.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked, her voice suddenly dry.

He nodded. "Whatever you're offering."

Monica stood and made her way to the kitchen, knowing full well his eyes were glued to the bounce of her breasts and ass. She paused in front of the fridge, pretending to think, while the cool air made her nipples even harder beneath the fabric.

When she returned, he was sprawled on her couch, legs wide, confident, thick thighs spread just enough to make her wonder what sat between them.

She handed him the glass.

He took it, sipped slowly, then said, "I like it. Tastes sweet."

"You haven't tasted anything yet."

She didn't mean to say it. Not aloud. But the words slipped out, and they hung in the air like perfume—impossible to ignore.

Zayden grinned, slow and deep. "Now that," he said, "sounds like an invitation."

Monica felt her pulse throb in places that hadn't been touched in far too long. She squeezed her thighs together, her breath a little shallow.

"You should go," she said, even though she didn't mean it.

"I could," he said, standing. "But I think we both know you don't really want that."

He walked to the door but paused, one hand on the knob.

"I'll see you again soon," he said, eyes dragging over her breasts one last time. "Bet you'll be even less dressed next time."

And then he was gone.

Monica closed the door and leaned against it, heart racing, panties soaked, nipples hard and aching. She wasn't sure what game she had started—but she knew damn well it wasn't over.

No.

It had just begun.