His crew had wrapped up early for the day, and I knew he'd be here alone finishing paperwork. He always stayed late on Fridays, catching up on bids and invoices while the office was quiet.
I was about to make his week.
I grabbed the takeout and stepped into the cool October night. The trench coat swished around my bare thighs—because what I had on underneath barely counted as fabric.
The side door to the construction office was unlocked, the way it always was when Devon was working late. I slipped inside, my heels clicking softly on the worn hardwood floor.
The front room was empty—just desks and filing cabinets and the faint smell of sawdust that clung to everything Devon owned. Light glowed from his office at the back—the corner room he'd claimed when he and his crew moved into this building five years ago.
The door was cracked. I heard him talking, low and steady. Probably on the phone with a supplier or reviewing bids. Always working.
God, I missed him. Not just his body—though yes, absolutely—buthim.The way he listened to my rants about difficult pet owners. The way he got up with Paisley at two a.m. without a single complaint. The way he still looked at me like I wasit, even when I smelled like spit-up and had no idea when my last shower was.
I set the takeout on the reception desk and unbuckled the trench coat. Then I knocked on his office door.
“Come in,” he called, distracted.
I pushed it open.
Devon sat behind his desk in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, blueprints spread in front of him, pencil tucked behind his ear. His hair was a little longer than usual, curling at the edges. He glanced up, pencil still in hand—and froze.
The pencil clattered to the desk.
“Rylie.” My name came out strangled. His eyes widened, then darkened, trailing from my face to the coat still wrapped around me. “What are?—”
I untied the belt.
The coat fell open.
His sharp inhale was the only sound in the room.
I was wearing black lace. A ridiculous amount of it, considering how little fabric was actually involved. A bra that pushed my breasts up in a way that defied physics. Panties that were more suggestion than coverage. Thigh-high stockings with a seam running up the back.
Devon stood slowly, eyes locked on me like I was the best thing he'd seen all week.
"I knew you'd be here alone," I continued, letting the coat slide off my shoulders. It pooled at my feet. "I brought food. Thai. Your favorite."
He moved around the desk, predatory and focused. "I don't give a damn about the food."
"No?" I tilted my head, trying for innocent and landing somewhere closer to desperate. "Then what do you give a damn about?"
He closed the distance between us in two strides, hands framing my face, mouth crashing into mine.
The kiss was hungry. Possessive. The kind that saidmineandfinallyandI've been starving for you. I melted into him, hands fisting in his flannel shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like coffee and frustration and home.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Do you have any idea," he growled against my lips, "how long it's been since I've had you to myself?"
"Six weeks," I whispered. "Two days. And approximately four hours."
"You've been counting."
"Haven't you?"
His hands slid down my sides, over the lace, burning through the thin fabric. "Every damn second."
"Then stop talking," I said, already working the buttons on his shirt, "and do something about it."
