He Took What He Wanted

I’m standing at the front door, arms crossed, watching Chloe’s car pull into the driveway with a huff of annoyance already building in my chest. My stepdaughter didn’t even bother to text me that she was bringing guests, let alone who they were. I’m in my early forties, high-maintenance as hell, and I’ve spent the whole day getting the house perfect for her weekend visit from college. Now, I see not just her and her roommate Ava climbing out of the car, but a man, a giant of a man, stepping out from the backseat. My breath catches, just for a second, as I take him in.

He’s got to be over six foot four, towering over both girls with a frame that looks carved from stone. His skin is a deep, rich brown, almost black in the fading sunlight, and his muscles ripple under a tight white tee that clings to every inch of his broad chest. His biceps are thick, straining the sleeves, each arm a sculpted slab of power that could probably snap me in half without breaking a sweat. His shoulders are wide, dominating the space around him, and when he turns to grab a bag from the trunk, I can’t help but notice the way his back tapers into a tight, hard waist. His presence is raw, unapologetic, and it hits me like a punch to the gut. I’m a small woman, barely five foot two, and I feel tiny just looking at him from the porch. I shake my head, try to focus, but my eyes keep trailing over him, lingering on the sheer size of his hands, the veins popping along his forearms. God, what am I even thinking?

“Mom, this is Ava, my roommate, and her boyfriend, DeShawn,” Chloe chirps, dragging ...