Chapter 1: Pour Slowly, Watch It Spill

Suzanne wiped the countertop with deliberate strokes, watching the smudge of flour fade beneath her damp cloth. The bakery was quiet now—her last customer had left nearly an hour ago—but she stayed, savoring the silence. Outside, the street buzzed with late commuters and the hum of summer.

She heard the bell chime at the door, and without looking up, she knew it was him.

Will.

He had a distinct presence. That kind of quiet confidence that filled a room without needing permission. Tall, broad-shouldered, tan from hours on the road, he carried the crates like they weighed nothing. Today, he wore a black T-shirt that clung to his torso, and his shorts sat low on his hips.

"Afternoon, Suzanne," he said, voice thick and slow, like molasses.

She turned, smiling. "Cutting it close today, Will."

He smirked. "You like it late?"

Her brow arched. "Only if it's worth the wait."

He set the crate on the counter, leaning forward just enough that their proximity felt intentional. Suzanne could smell the heat on him, a mix of cream, sun, and something distinctly male.

"I brought the special order," he said, lifting a glass bottle from the crate. "Heavy. Extra thick. Just how you asked."

She took it from him, their fingers brushing. A current shot through her.

"Perfect," she murmured. "I like things rich."

His gaze dipped to her chest—she saw it, saw him notice the slight bounce as she leaned forward. She didn't fix her posture. She let him look.

"You always wear that apron so tight?" he asked, voice just above a whisper.

"Only when I want to tempt trouble," she replied.

He tilted his head. "And today?"

Suzanne leaned against the counter, her arms folding under her breasts, pushing them up just enough to catch his full attention.

"Today, I'm bored. Maybe even a little reckless."

Will's eyes darkened. He licked his bottom lip, and for a moment, she swore the air between them thickened.

"I could help with that," he said.

"Help how?"

"Whatever way you need."

Their silence stretched. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. She moved around the counter, deliberately slow, her hips swaying. Will turned to face her fully as she stood in front of him, arms crossed. There were only inches between them.

She reached behind him to grab another bottle from the crate, her chest brushing his torso. She let it linger longer than necessary.

"You ever tasted real cream straight from the bottle?" she asked.

Will's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Not from this kind of bottle."

Suzanne chuckled. "I could teach you."

He didn't step back. "I'm a fast learner."

She popped the cap and dipped a finger in, bringing it to his lips. He parted them, tongue flicking over the pad of her finger. Slow. Suggestive.

Her breath caught.

"Sweet," he murmured.

"Told you," she said.

She moved past him, brushing again. His hand caught her wrist gently—not forceful, but firm.

"I think you like being watched," he said.

She paused. "What makes you think that?"

"The way you lean. The way you move when you know I'm looking. Like you want me to imagine what's under that apron."

Suzanne turned, eyes locked on his.

"And what do you imagine, Will?"

He stepped closer until their chests nearly touched. His hand brushed her hip, grazing the fabric.

"I imagine it's soft. Full. Hard to contain. Maybe even too much for one hand."

Suzanne's breath hitched.

"Then you better be careful," she whispered, "or you might find yourself choking on your curiosity."

Will leaned in, breath hot near her neck. "Maybe I want to."

She didn't move away. She didn't stop the heat climbing her body.

But she didn't give in either.

Instead, she smiled.

"Next delivery," she whispered, pulling back, "bring more than just cream."

And then she walked away, hips swinging, apron bouncing.

Behind her, Will exhaled—and she heard the hunger in it.