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“Be careful what you wish for.” His voice held a warning, but his eyes, those goddamn eyes, promised sin.
And fuck me, I wanted to drown in that sin.
The sound of the drill ceased, and he set it down with precision—a habit from his former life, no doubt. A life he’d shredded to pieces on a night that still haunted my thoughts. The gala. Glittering lights, fake smiles, and one bold move that had turned everything to chaos. He’d done it. He’d walked away from the golden cage, from a family more toxic than the fumes from asbestos. The moment it was all over, he hadn’t hesitated. Papers signed. Millions released. Condo packed up like the past could be folded away into cardboard boxes.
I wasn’t there when he faced them, at the estate where expectations loomed taller than skyscrapers. But damn, I should’ve been. To stand by him, to be the solid ground beneath his feet as his world shook apart. He needed it. And if I’m honest, so did I. But there was no going back. Only forward. The gala night seared on my brain—his confession, his lips on mine, the goddamn certainty in his voice when he said those three words. Love wasn’t some shit I’d planned for, but fuck me if it didn’t fit right. Like a second skin, or a punch in the gut that felt like a kiss.
We settled on a beach house in Del Mar—his idea, not mine. At first, I was reluctant. It was quiet, too quiet for someone who was used to the hustle and bustle of cities that never seemed to sleep. But after a few weeks, the place seemed like a breath of fresh air.
“Daydreaming over there?” His voice snapped me back, a lifeline thrown into the whirlpool of my mind.
“Just admiring what’s mine,” I bit out, the words like a promise wrapped in barbed wire.
Weston stood then, hoisting the finished table with an ease that spoke of strength hidden beneath tailored suits and courtroom battles. Muscles flexed beneath his T-shirt, jeans stretched tight over his ass—a sight that sent heat licking up my spine. I let my gaze wander, tracing the lines of his body as he moved with a confidence that was all new, all him—unfettered by blood ties or bank accounts. He was making something here, building a life that was his and his alone. And fuck if that didn’t make me want him even more.
“Mmm, I do like when you talk like that,” he said, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder.
The California sun had nothing on the heat that came off him, even from across the room. The man standing in front of me was no longer a puppet, but someone who moved with autonomy that was all muscle. I watched him, the lean line of his back, the way his shirt clung to him, outlining strength and resolve. That strength had fueled his rebellion, breaking shackles, severing ties. My inheritance, a final goodbye to the past, unlocked and shoved into a safe account where it couldn’t lure me back to old habits.
No more haunting bars, no more drowning in amber liquid bitterness, no fists clenched in anger. Those nights were ghosts, and I was no haunted house. Just Darius, feeling… love. Shit, love.
Dad had left this world taking that word with him, and now here it was, resuscitated, beating in my chest like a fresh wound, but the good kind. I stretched out on the couch and yawned, my body sprawled in languid ease. The fabric of the cushions felt cool, a contrast to the heat of my skin.
“Hard day’s work, baby?” Weston’s voice was teasing, carrying an undercurrent of something darker.
“Fuck yeah.” I flipped onto my stomach, ass deliberately in the air, a silent invitation. He took it, straddling me with a weight that sent a shudder down my spine. I breathed him in, musk and man, a scent that spelled trouble and tasted like desire.
“Bossing your ass around is no fucking joke,” I grunted, feeling the press of his hands on my back, pushing me deeper into the softness below.
His laugh was a low rumble against my ear, his face burrowing into the nape of my neck. Hot breath fanned over my skin, and I moaned, a raw sound pulled from deep within my chest.
“I’m starving.”
“Burger or tacos?” he murmured, lips grazing my flesh, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling with a tension that bordered on pain.
“Fuck, tacos. It is Tuesday,” I joked.
He peeled off of me, stood, and stretched. I trailed behind him like a shadow with a heartbeat, my gaze fixed on the fluid movement of his muscles as he moved.
His feet slid into sandals, the leather softly creaking. He grabbed his wallet from the bowl on the table, our belongings scattered within it. His phone buzzed, a message from the lawyer popping up. He typed quickly, pausing to turn, his gaze piercing me like a blade. “Was there anything else you needed from our family or from my parents’ estate? The lawyer is asking.”
“Nope, I have everything I need,” I said.
His eyes darkened and the smirk playing on his lips; I wanted to wipe it off with mine and replace it with gasps and moans. But I kept my cool, let my own lips curl into a half-smile.
“Good.” The word was a promise.
We walked out together; the door shutting behind us with the finality of a starting gun. The night ahead was ours—tacos just the beginning.
* * *
