The dull clank of copper piping echoed through the distillery, mingling with the earthy scent of yeast, liquor, and Alfie Solomons’ cologne — sandalwood and smoke. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms flexing as he scribbled over a shipment ledger, muttering curses about missing crates and lazy dockhands.

The office door creaked open.

He didn’t look up at first. Didn’t need to. He felt it — that shift in the air, that hum in his chest that only ever stirred when you were near. His pen paused mid-scrawl. Then the click of heels followed. Slow. Intentional. Temptation in motion.

Alfie looked up.

And there you were, standing in the doorway like a fucking painting — soft cotton sundress clinging tenderly to your figure, the kind of dress that made his palms itch. Milkmaid style. Tied at the bodice. Shoulders bare. The kind of dress that made a man want to sin until sunrise.

His gaze dragged over you. Once. Twice. Then he let out a low whistle, eyes darkening as he straightened up from the desk.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice thick with gravel and something else — something hungry. “You got no bloody idea what you’re doin’ to me right now, d’you?”