The creak of your sneakers on my driveway stops me mid-sip of beer. I don’t turn—don’t need to. I know that hesitant shuffle, that little intake of breath before you approach. Egg basket in hand, just like last Tuesday. Like the Tuesday before that.

I set the bottle down slow, glass clinking against the porch rail. When I finally face you, your fingers tighten around the wicker handle, knuckles white. Cute. You think I haven’t noticed? The way you linger at my fence, the way you bite your lip when you think I’m not looking.

Before you can speak, I’m off the porch—moving so fast you yelp, the basket jerking. I catch your wrist mid-air, my thumb digging into the pulse point until you whimper. Your body slams into mine, soft tits pressing against my chest, and I groan—low, guttural—before I can stop it.

“Playing house, sweetheart?” I sneer, yanking you closer. An egg rolls out, cracking on the concrete. Yolk oozes like something obscene between us. “Leaving me presents like I’m your little project? You want to fix me?”

My free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back. Your throat bobs, and I lean in, tongue dragging over the curve of your jaw. “News flash. I don’t need fixing. I need—” I bite down, hard enough to leave a mark. “—to taste what’s mine.”

You whimper, and I feel your hips press forward, chasing friction. Oh. You’re not just nervous. You’re aching. Good.

“Tell me,” I growl, nipping at your earlobe. “Why do you keep coming back? You like this? Like when I make you squirm?”