AT YOUR SERVICE MADAM

Who the hell calls someone at three in the morning to fix a leaking pipe? Not me. Definitely not me. Yet here I am—leaning against my kitchen counter in the middle of the night, watching a man work under my sink like he’s carving a statue of sin with his bare hands. Lucas. The so-called handyman. The man who looks nothing like any handyman I’ve ever seen. I cross my arms, mostly to stop myself from doing something stupid, like reaching out to touch the smooth skin of his back as he crouches down. His shirt rides up when he shifts, and I catch a glimpse of tanned muscle stretched tight over hard bone. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Strong forearms dusted with tiny droplets of water. God help me. I don’t know which pipe I want him to fix first—my kitchen pipe…or the one throbbing between my legs. The steady sound of water dripping mixes with the quiet scrape of his wrench. Every movement of his body is controlled, deliberate, like he knows I’m watching. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “Who calls at three a.m. to fix a leak?” I finally manage, my voice sharper than I intend. He doesn’t look up. “Someone who doesn’t want their kitchen to flood by morning.” The sound of his voice slides through me like a warm drink on a cold night. Deep. Calm. A hint of roughness, like gravel and smoke. “You could’ve said no,” I murmur. “I could’ve,” he agrees, tightening a pipe. “But you needed help.” He glances over his shoulder, and our eyes meet for half a second. Half a second is all it takes to set my pulse on fire. I swallow hard, heat crawling up my neck. “Still… middle of the night. Don’t you ever sleep?” “Sometimes,” he says, lips curving in a slow grin. “Sometimes not.” Oh, that smile. Dangerous. Wicked. The kind of smile that makes a woman wonder how it would feel pressed against her skin. As if things couldn’t get any worse, he grabs the hem of his damp T-shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. My breath catches. Jesus. His chest is pure art—broad and solid, muscles cut deep enough to make Chris Hemsworth cry. Water glistens on his skin, catching the soft light of the kitchen. My eyes trail down—strong arms, tight abs, a V-line that disappears into low-slung jeans hanging just a little too loose on his hips. It’s like he’s punishing me. Like he knows exactly what kind of thoughts are running wild in my head and wants to make them worse. “Too hot to work in a shirt,” he says simply, tossing the fabric aside. Sure. Right. Too hot. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning. He bends again, muscles shifting and flexing with every move. My gaze follows the slow ripple of his back, the sharp line of his waist. I imagine those arms around me, that chest pressed against mine. My fingers twitch, aching to explore the hard ridges of his stomach. God, stop. Stop looking. But I can’t. “Are you okay?” His voice slices through my dirty daydreams, rich and smooth. I jerk upright too fast, nearly spilling my coffee. “Y-yeah. Fine.” My voice comes out rough, betraying me. He twists the wrench one last time, then straightens to his full height. Even without shoes he towers over me, tall and solid, his bare chest inches from my face. Heat radiates off him, warm and clean and maddening. “The leak’s fixed,” he says. “Is there… anything else you’d like me to do?” The way he says it—slow, deep, with that faint curl of a smile—sends a shiver straight through me. Anything else. I hear the double meaning. Loud and clear. My eyes betray me, dropping to the smooth plane of his stomach, the sharp line disappearing into his jeans. My throat goes dry. “No,” I whisper. “Nothing else to fix.” He steps closer. Just one step, but it steals every inch of air between us. “Are you sure?” His voice dips lower, intimate, dangerous. “Nothing else I can do for you?” Another step, and my back presses against the counter. I don’t remember moving. I don’t remember breathing. His scent hits me—clean soap, warm skin, and something darker, masculine. My heart hammers so hard I swear he can hear it. I don’t know when my hand rises, but suddenly my palm is flat against his chest. Hot, hard muscle meets my skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, just watches me with eyes that look almost…hungry. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs. “No, I’m—” My voice cracks. I swallow hard. “I’m fine.” He leans down until his face hovers a breath from mine. “You don’t look fine.” His lips brush mine—barely, a ghost of a touch. My knees weaken. My fingers dig into his chest. He waits, letting me decide. My heart screams yes before my mind can catch up. The first kiss is soft. A test. Then it deepens. Hot. Wild. Passionate. He tastes so manly, so good. His tongue slides against mine, slow and teasing before claiming me completely. I moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the wet, hungry press of his lips. He grips my hips and lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The hard length of his body presses against me, making my head spin. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper. God, what am I doing? This is madness. But I can’t stop. I don’t want to. His hands roam over my back, down my thighs, firm and possessive. Every touch lights another fire under my skin. Every kiss steals another breath. Then— The shrill sound of my phone slices through the heat like a knife. We freeze. My phone vibrates on the counter beside us. The name flashing on the screen makes my stomach turn. Cameron. My ex-fiancé. The man who broke my heart. Lucas pulls back just enough for me to breathe. “You should answer,” he says, voice low but unreadable. I grab the phone, thumb trembling. “What?” I snap. “Avela, why aren’t you home yet?” Cameron’s voice oozes through the speaker, smooth and fake as ever. “It’s late. Are you—” “Stop pretending, Cameron.” My voice cuts sharp and cold. “Go find your Sophia.” A beat of silence. Then his smug laugh. “Avela, don’t be childish—” I hang up before he can finish. My hands shake with anger. The sound of his voice makes my chest burn. All those years together, all those lies, all those nights he spent with that twenty-year-old intern while planning a wedding with me. Lucas tilts my chin up with two fingers. His touch is firm, grounding. “He doesn’t know what he lost,” he says quietly. “He never deserved you.” The words sink deep, soothing the raw ache inside me. Before I can reply, he claims my lips again. This kiss is different—rougher, hungrier. I gasp against his mouth as he pulls me closer, swallowing the sound with a low growl. Heat floods my veins. My hands slide over his shoulders, down his back, greedy for every inch of him. If someone had told me yesterday that I’d be kissing a hot man ten years younger than me—A man who happens to be my ex-fiancé’s half-brother—I would’ve laughed in their face. But here I am. At three in the morning. Half-dressed. Kissing Lucas like I’m starving for him. But you wouldn’t blame me. Something happened—something that led us here. Let’s go back, shall we?