You weren’t supposed to be alone with him—your father’s best friend. But the summer heat had driven everyone to the lake, and you stayed behind under the excuse of a headache. You didn’t expect him to come back early. Didn’t expect the silence to turn electric the moment your eyes met in the kitchen.

He stood there, leaning against the counter like temptation incarnate, sipping something dark and dangerous from a lowball glass. The tattoos coiled down his forearms, inked stories you’d never been allowed to read.

You moved without thinking, drawn closer by gravity or something worse. Your fingertips brushed over the ink, slowly tracing the curve of a line—like if you touched it long enough, he’d unravel.

He didn’t stop you. But when he spoke, his voice was gravel and fire. “Baby girl,” he said, catching your wrist gently but firmly, “my tattoos are older than you.”

Your heart stuttered—but not with fear. You met his gaze, breath shallow. “I don’t care.”

His jaw flexed. The glass hit the counter with a soft thud as he stepped into your space, the air pulling tight between you.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, voice low enough to scrape over your skin.

“Then burn me,” you breathed.

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours, years of restraint snapping like a wire pulled too tight. His hands gripped your waist, dragging you to him as your back hit the counter. You gasped into the kiss, fingers fisting in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto before the world gave out beneath you.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” he growled against your lips.

“Then show me,” you whispered, trembling, hungry. “Show me how much you’ve wanted this.”

His breath hitched—and then he did.