Chapter 2: Unbuttoned Intentions

Suzanne hadn't stopped thinking about Will since that charged night in her kitchen. Every time she sipped from the wine glass she'd washed with his fingers so close to hers, her breath caught. Her skin tingled at the memory of his voice—low, smooth, laced with heat and restraint.

He was coming back today. To "check the shelves," he'd said in his text.

A part of her knew he didn't need to. They were just shelves.

But another part, the part that had been aching with unspoken hunger, was already brushing her hair back and smoothing her blouse.

She chose silk. Not too revealing—but soft, clinging, like a whisper on skin. And she left the top two buttons undone.

Just enough.

---

The doorbell rang at exactly 4:00 PM.

Will stood there, toolbox in one hand, his eyes slowly dropping down her frame and then returning to her eyes, pausing deliberately.

"Afternoon," he said, that grin hovering again. "Looks like I made it on time."

Suzanne stepped back, letting him in. "I wasn't sure you were really coming back."

"Well," he murmured, brushing past her close enough that she could feel the heat from his body, "some things deserve a second look."

The kitchen felt smaller this time. Tighter. As if it knew what both of them were holding back.

Will knelt to check the base cabinets, his forearms flexing as he worked. Suzanne leaned against the counter, her legs crossed at the ankle, pretending to read a magazine. But her gaze kept drifting back to the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders, how his jeans dipped just enough to show the curve of muscle above his waist.

She swallowed.

"You always wear silk when someone comes to fix a shelf?" he asked suddenly, not looking up.

She blinked, caught. "Why? Does it bother you?"

"No," he said, finally looking up, eyes hot, "but it's… distracting."

Her stomach fluttered.

She reached for a glass of water just to do something with her hands. "Wouldn't want to distract you while you're using power tools."

Will stood, slow and deliberate, placing the screwdriver down. "You already are, Suzanne."

Their eyes met, and something in the air shifted—tightened.

She set the glass down and walked past him to the living room, speaking over her shoulder. "You done with the shelf?"

He followed, close behind. "Yeah. But that's not why I came back."

Suzanne turned. "No?"

He stepped closer. His voice dropped. "I came back because I haven't stopped thinking about what almost happened the other night."

She didn't move away.

"I know this is dangerous," he said, now inches from her. "But every second I'm near you, I keep thinking how good you'd feel under me."

Her breath caught. Her body responded before she could stop it. Her legs shifted, heat blooming between them.

She lifted her eyes to his. "And what makes you think I don't feel the same?"

His jaw tightened. "Because if I touch you the way I want to, I won't be able to stop."

She placed a hand lightly on his chest. "Then don't touch me—yet. Just… stay."

They stood there, eye to eye, breath to breath. Suzanne could feel the air around them thicken with tension.

And then, his voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell me what you want."

Suzanne didn't answer with words. Instead, she leaned forward, her lips just inches from his neck, not touching. Her breath ghosted over his skin, and he shivered.

"That," she whispered. "That tension. That burn. That restraint."

Will's hand hovered at her waist but didn't grab. His jaw flexed as he fought every instinct in his body.

He leaned in, his breath at her ear. "You're playing with fire, Suzanne."

She smiled. "I already feel the smoke."

---

For the next hour, they didn't touch. Not really.

But they circled each other like dancers—close, teasing, brushing shoulders as she passed him a drink, their fingers almost grazing as she handed him the remote, their knees barely touching when they sat side-by-side on the couch.

Every shared look was a storm cloud. Every word, another crackle of thunder.

At one point, Suzanne bent to pick something off the floor, and when she looked up, Will's eyes were locked on her curves—his mouth parted, hands clenched on his thighs.

When their eyes met, she saw everything he was holding back.

---

As the sun set, Will finally stood. "I should go."

Suzanne stood too. "You should."

He walked toward the door. She followed, slow.

At the door, he turned. "If I come back again… I'm not just fixing shelves."

She leaned in, her voice low. "Then you'd better bring more than your toolbox."

Will stared at her, jaw clenched, pupils dark. Then he reached up and slowly, deliberately, ran his thumb just under the edge of her lip—barely touching.

Suzanne shivered.

"Next time," he said, his voice gravelly, "I want to see what that mouth feels like."

And then he left.