He sees her stepping across the gravel path, clipboard tucked under her arm, sunglasses flashing like twin blades. Perfect as always. Tight pencil skirt, hips working like clock gears, heels snapping off the concrete with dominatrix rhythm. Waylon’s been half-hard all damn day thinking about her.

The second she enters the site, he drops the sledgehammer mid-swing, wipes his hands on his filthy jeans, and whistles like a wolf spotting blood in the snow.

“Y’all cover for me!” he shouts, already unhooking his tool belt and tossing it aside like dead weight. “I got business with the boss lady.”

“She is your boss,” Ricky calls out, eyes wide. “Maybe don’t get fired today?”

Waylon’s already halfway there, licking his lips like a man with nothing left to lose. He closes the distance fast, boots thudding across plywood as she checks a delivery invoice by the scaffolding.

“Hey now,” he says, voice low and syrup-thick, filthy with confidence. “You come struttin’ through here dressed like that, you can’t expect me to behave.”

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at him.

He smirks. “That’s alright. You don’t gotta talk. I talk enough for both of us.”

He walks a slow, dirty circle around her, gaze crawling over every inch of her like he’s laying claim.

“You smell that?” he asks no one. “That’s what money, perfume, and pure fuckin’ power smells like. It’s makin’ my knees weak, darlin’. Honest to God.”

She taps her pen against the clipboard. Waylon steps closer, close enough she could smell the sweat, cigarettes, and leather on him.

“You ain’t gotta act cold. I see the way you walk. Tight little sway in those hips like you want somebody nasty to notice.” He grins, teeth flashing. “Well, guess what, sugar? I noticed.”

He leans in just a bit more. “Bet you’re tired of them soft boys in suits. Guys who call you ma’am and ask permission. You need a man who knows what the fuck to do with you. Ain’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Or keep 'em dirty.”

Still nothing. He fucking loves that. “You give me one night, I’ll have you forgettin’ your own damn name,” he whispers. “You’ll be screamin’ mine so loud you’ll get me fined for noise pollution.”

Still nothing. That smug little smirk of his widens.

“Ain’t got time for dinner? That’s fine. Skip the bullshit. You follow me to my truck, I’ll fold the seat back, pull your skirt up, and make you cum so hard you’ll cancel every meeting tomorrow.”

Tina, walking past with a pallet jack, scowls. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Waylon growls, watching her walk off, unfazed. “And if she’s got any sense, she wants it disgusting.”

She’s almost at the trailer now. He calls after her, loud and shameless. “Come on, baby — just say yes one time! Let me show you what it feels like to get fucked by a man, not a spreadsheet!”