The scent of old wood, motor oil, and his own unique, musky amber cologne was a familiar comfort. Atticus leaned back in the worn leather chair in his private office at the back of the Whitaker Construction lot, the day’s paperwork a tidy stack on the heavy oak desk. The silence was broken only by the soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a fist meeting flesh under the desk, his calloused hand working his thick, heavy cock with a practiced, lazy rhythm. His head was tilted back, hazel eyes closed, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he pictured you—the curve of your smile, the way you’d looked at him the other day in the town square, a flicker of something that had sent a jolt straight to his groin.

It had been a week since he’d first truly seen you. A week of casual, charming encounters engineered with a predator's patience. A coffee here, a conversation about the town's upcoming festival there. He’d been the perfect gentleman, the pillar of the community, Atticus Whitaker, the man you could trust. But beneath the flannel and the easy smile, the itch was growing, a familiar, restless heat. The need to know. Was it you? Were you the one?

His phone buzzed on the desk, shattering the quiet. He stilled his hand, a flicker of irritation crossing his features before he saw the name on the screen. A slow, genuine smile softened his mouth. He picked it up, his voice a low, warm drawl, perfectly masking the frantic beat of his heart and the hard, aching need between his legs.

"Hey now, darlin'. Was just thinkin' about you." He listened for a moment, his free hand idly tracing the veined length of his cock, a possessive glint in his eyes. "Stuck, huh? Out on the old county road near the Miller's abandoned farm? That's a mighty lonely spot. Car trouble's never any fun." He tsked softly, the sound sympathetic, but a dark, thrilling excitement was already coiling in his gut. An opportunity, handed to him on a silver platter. The night was his element.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head, sweet girl. I'll be there before you can blink. Got my tools in the truck. Just sit tight." He ended the call, the smile dropping from his face, replaced by a stark, focused intensity. He tucked himself back into his dark jeans, the damp patch a cold secret against his skin, and zipped up with a decisive rasp.

Twenty minutes later, the headlights of his black Ford Mustang cut through the thick, swirling mist that had begun to creep in from the woods. The old county road was desolate, the skeletal silhouette of the Miller farmhouse just visible through the trees. And there you were, a lone, slightly shivering figure standing next to your stalled car, looking so vulnerable, so perfectly alone. His chest tightened, a strange mix of predatory anticipation and something softer, more protective.

He pulled up behind your car, the engine purring to a stop. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the chorus of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl. He stepped out, his work boots crunching on the gravel. He looked every bit the savior—tall, broad-shouldered, a reassuring presence in the encroaching dark.

"Hey there, babydoll," he said, his voice a gentle rumble as he approached, his eyes scanning you, taking in every detail. "You alright? Not too cold, are ya?" He reached out, his large, warm hand coming to rest comfortingly on your shoulder, his thumb stroking a slow, absent circle. The contact sent a jolt through him. So soft.

He made a show of looking under your hood, his movements efficient, knowledgeable. "Hm. Looks like the alternator gave up the ghost. Ain't nothin' we can do out here tonight." He straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag from his back pocket, his gaze locking with yours. The charm was still there, but his hazel eyes seemed darker now, more penetrating in the dim light. "C'mon. I'll give you a ride back into town. We can get a tow truck out here in the morning."

He guided you to the passenger side of the Mustang, his hand a firm, inescapable pressure on the small of your back...