Chapter 8: My friend’s son 2

The knock came late in the morning. Isla had just gotten out of the shower and thrown on the first thing she could find—frayed denim shorts, a loose gray tank top, and no bra. She was still towel-drying her hair when she heard it.

When she opened the door, her breath caught.

Liam stood there, a cocky half-smile on his face and a tool bag slung over one shoulder.

“Forgot to give this back last night.” He held up a book—some random thriller her book club had recommended ages ago. “Thought I’d return it before your schedule got busy.”

Isla arched a brow. “You were never much of a reader.”

“I’m expanding my horizons,” he said, stepping past her like he owned the space. “Plus, I heard you’ve got a plumbing issue. Figured I’d lend a hand.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The leak under your sink? Marcie mentioned it yesterday. I figured I’d check it out. Got my tools and everything.” He held up the bag and grinned. “Unless you’ve got someone else doing house calls?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re very full of yourself now, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Confidence comes with age.”

And that was the problem—he was older. And far too charming for his own good.

Still, she didn’t stop him.

Minutes later, Isla found herself crouched beside Liam on the tiled kitchen floor, watching him slide under the sink with a flashlight in one hand, his shirt lifting just enough to show a deep line of muscle along his waist.

He smelled like cedar and soap.

He worked efficiently, sleeves rolled up, veins flexing in his forearms as he twisted the wrench. She leaned forward to hand him a towel, and their shoulders brushed.

“You always this hands-on?” she asked lightly, trying to break the tension.

Liam smirked. “Only when I care about the results.”

Her stomach flipped.

“I think I found it,” he said, adjusting the pipe. “Mind handing me the wrench again?”

Their fingers touched when she passed it to him. Neither of them moved.

Their eyes locked.

Isla’s breath caught in her throat.

He looked at her like he knew what she’d done last night. Like he felt it.

The silence stretched until she cleared her throat and stood quickly, muttering something about checking the laundry.

By the time she came back, the leak had been fixed, and Liam was washing his hands at the sink, his sleeves pushed up, and water dripping down his muscular arms.

He looked too good. Too real. Too close.

And she was staring.

Again.

He turned, caught her eyes, and didn’t look away. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked softly.

“I wasn’t,” she lied.

“You were.”

He dried his hands slowly, then stepped toward her. She backed into the counter, heart hammering as he closed the space between them.

“You going to pretend you didn’t want me last night too?” he whispered, voice low and husky.

She opened her mouth, but no words came.

“Thought about you,” he continued, his hand brushing her waist. “Thought about your dress. That little noise you made when our hands touched.”

“Liam…” she breathed, trying to sound firm, but her voice betrayed her. Weak. Wanting.

He leaned in, so close she could feel his breath against her cheek. “Tell me to stop.”

She didn’t.

His lips brushed hers—once, twice—testing the boundary. And then he kissed her, slow at first, deepening when she clutched the front of his shirt.

The kiss turned hungry. Tongues collided. Moans escaped. Her hands tangled in his hair as he pushed her back against the counter, mouth trailing down her neck.

“God, Isla…” he murmured, dragging his hands up her bare thighs. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

She gasped when his lips found that sensitive spot just beneath her jaw. Her hands were on his chest, trying to push him away, but her hips arched toward him, betraying everything.

“This is wrong,” she whispered, but even to her own ears, it sounded desperate, pleading, and weak.

His hands slipped beneath her tank top, hot palms skating across her ribs as he lifted her effortlessly onto the counter.

“Then stop me.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she kissed him back harder.

She moaned into his mouth when he sckd her lower lip. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer. The thin fabric of her shorts did nothing to hide the heat pressing against his jeans.

His hands moved up, thumbs grazing the underside of her breasts. She gasped when he found her bare—no bra, no barrier. His fingers toyed with her nppls, pinching lightly, making her squirm.

“Liam,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt, her head falling back. “We can’t…”

He kissed down the curve of her neck. “We already are.”

His mouth was hot, claiming, relentless. Every touch made her ache. Every breath he stole left her dizzy.

But just when her fingers reached for his belt, panic flared.

She pulled back, panting. “No—no, we can’t. Not all the way. Not like this.”

He stopped immediately, stepping back but not letting her go. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, adjusting her top, avoiding his eyes.

“Don’t be.” His voice was husky, eyes dark. “I’m not.”

She slid off the counter, grounding herself. Her lips were swollen. Her thighs trembled. She had never felt so desired. So guilty.

“We can’t do this again,” she said, though she didn’t sound convinced.

Liam stepped closer, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“Then why are you still holding on to me?”

She realized her hand was still gripping his wrist.

She let go slowly, retreating.

“I’m going to go,” he said, voice gentler now. “Before I do something, we both won’t stop.”

He walked to the door, but turned before leaving. “But I meant what I said last night.”

She didn’t answer.

He left her standing there in her kitchen, pulse racing, lips tingling, and heat still blooming between her thighs.

And the worst part?

She already missed his hands.