Mack's house was too quiet.Too clean.Too full of him.
Viola padded barefoot down the hallway in one of his T-shirts—soft, black, oversized—and nothing else. Her hair was still messy, her head foggy from red wine, exhaustion… and him. She hadn't meant to explore, just wanted water.
But there he was.
Mack stood on the back patio, shirtless, leaning on the railing, the glow of the city lights casting golden shadows across his chest. The tattoos on his back flexed as he sipped a drink. He hadn't heard her yet. Or maybe he had. Mack noticed everything.
She hovered in the doorway, watching.
God, he was beautiful. All hard edges and restraint. That untouchable stillness that made her want to push every one of his buttons.
—"You just gonna stare or come say something, baby?"—
His voice was low, amused, deadly calm.
Viola jumped slightly, then rolled her eyes and walked out barefoot onto the patio, arms crossed. "Didn't want to interrupt your brooding."
Mack turned slowly, his eyes dropping to the T-shirt—his T-shirt—then dragging lazily up her bare legs. His jaw flexed.
"Not brooding," he said. "Just thinking about dragging you back to bed."
Viola's heart hammered. "I didn't say I was sleeping in your bed."
"You didn't say you weren't."
He took a step toward her. Then another.
She backed up instinctively until her back hit the wall. He stopped inches from her, hands on either side of her head, caging her in. Her breath caught.
"I'm trying really hard to behave," he said, voice a gravelly warning.
"Why?" she whispered.
His lips twitched. "Because when I touch you, I don't want it to be just to take the edge off. I want everything."
She blinked up at him, breath shaky. "You're assuming I'd let you."
"I'm counting on the fact that you're this close to giving in."
He dipped his head, brushing his mouth just along her jawline, slow and tormenting.
"Are you?" he asked.
Viola clenched her fists in his shirt, dragging him just a little closer. "Maybe."
His mouth hovered near hers, hot breath teasing.
"Then say it."
Her eyes fluttered closed. The pull between them was maddening.
But—
Viola pushed lightly against his chest. "Not tonight," she breathed. "If we do this, Mack… it won't be casual."
He stared down at her, chest rising, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Finally, he nodded once, rough. Stepping back, hands in his hair, like he was shaking off temptation.
"You're killing me, you know that?" he muttered.
"Good," she said, breathless, retreating inside. "Now we're even."
He watched her walk back toward the guest room, still wearing his shirt, still very much in control.
But he smiled. Because she'd already lost.
Tomorrow, she wouldn't be able to resist.
And when that moment came, he'd make damn sure she knew exactly what it meant to be his !
The Next Morning ---
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, rich and dark. Viola stood barefoot in Mack's kitchen, still in his T-shirt—soft cotton brushing the tops of her thighs—her hair a sleep-mussed mess. She poured herself a cup, cradling it in her hands as she leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the hazy morning light.
It should've felt awkward. Waking up in his home, padding through his space like she belonged.
But it didn't.
She heard him before she saw him—bare feet, the soft rustle of a shirt being pulled over his head.
Then he was there.
Mack stood in the doorway, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, shirtless, hair tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room worth breathing for.
—"Morning,"—she said, trying to sound casual. Her voice was hoarse.
Mack didn't answer. He walked toward her slowly, gaze dark and unreadable.
"Mack…" she started.
But he was already there—taking the mug from her hands, setting it aside.
Before she could say anything else, his hands gripped her thighs and he lifted her effortlessly onto the counter. Her breath hitched.
"You can't walk around my house like this," he murmured, voice low and rough as his palms slid up her bare legs.
"Like what?" she asked, feigning innocence.
He leaned in, nose brushing hers, his body heat wrapping around her like a storm. "Like you're mine when you're still trying to pretend you're not."
Then he kissed her.
Hard. Deep. A groan rumbled from his chest as his hand wrapped around the back of her neck, tilting her just how he wanted. Viola gasped into his mouth, fingers clutching his shoulders. His lips moved over hers with a hunger that stole her breath—and every ounce of resistance she'd spent weeks building.
His hand slid under the hem of his shirt, gripping her waist, dragging her flush against his body. She could feel everything—the thick tension between them, his need, her surrender blooming too fast to fight.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her lips, breath ragged, voice strained. "Say it, and I'll let go."
Viola stared up at him, her heart pounding, her mouth slightly parted.
But she didn't say a word.
Instead, she kissed him.
Fiercely. Desperately. Like a woman who was done pretending.
Mack growled, his control shattering as he deepened the kiss, hands gripping her thighs to pull her closer to the edge of the counter. The way he touched her was reverent and rough, like he'd waited too long and wouldn't waste another second.
The coffee mug tipped over behind them, clattering against the counter—but neither of them noticed.
Only the heat existed. The way their bodies melted into one another. The way his lips traveled down her neck, his hands memorizing every inch of her skin.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she whispered his name—breathy, aching, hers.
That was all it took.
He didn't take her there—not yet. But she knew. It was only a matter of time. She'd given in, and he'd felt it. This was no longer a game.
She was his.
And Mack?He'd make damn sure she never forgot it.