The first time Marcus saw Riley, she was bent over the hood of her car — not stranded, just checking something under the sun with her phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek. But all he could see was bounce.
The kind of cleavage that made him stupid.
The kind of hips that shouldn't move in tight skirts like that — unless she wanted to get caught.
And she did.
Riley wasn't the kind of woman who wore that low-cut, chest-hugging top by accident. She wore it because it framed her breasts like a weapon. Not for softness — for power.
"Need a hand?" Marcus had asked, voice steady, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he approached.
She turned her head slowly. That hair. That smirk.
Her eyes scanned him — not shy, not flirtatious — assessing.
"Unless you've got coolant in your back pocket," she said, "I'm just fine."
He almost laughed, but she held the stare too long for that.
"No coolant," he said, shrugging, "but I've got a strong grip and two hours to kill."
Riley tilted her head, her breasts shifting slightly with the motion — no bra under that shirt, he realized now. Just full, perfect weight pulling down against the fabric like a dare.
"You always this helpful to strangers?" she asked.
He let his gaze rest — not rudely, just long enough to make it clear: she wasn't a stranger anymore.
"Just to women who look like trouble."
She smirked. "Smart man. Most don't realize that until I've already broken something."
Marcus crossed his arms, biceps flexing beneath his fitted T-shirt. "I break easy."
The pause between them was deep. Hot. Heavy.
He stepped closer — close enough to smell her perfume. Vanilla, with something sharp underneath.
She didn't step back.
Instead, she leaned slightly forward, and the view down her top nearly made him forget what breathing was.
"I'm Riley," she said.
"I'm Marcus."
They shook hands, her fingers cool but her grip strong. Her thumb lingered against his palm before pulling away.
He swallowed.
"Live around here?" she asked, turning back toward her car, giving him a view he couldn't unsee.
"Just moved in across the street. Fourth house on the left."
"Well." She shut the hood with a satisfying click and turned, breasts rising with the motion. "Welcome to the neighborhood."
—
That was four days ago.
Since then, Riley had appeared in his life like clockwork.
Watering her plants in a tank top too thin for decency.
Leaning over her porch railing to chat, giving him a full view of cleavage and confidence.
Wearing high-waisted leggings that turned her figure into an x-rated poster of every man's dream.
And Marcus? He wasn't just watching anymore.
He was plotting.
—
It was Sunday morning when he saw her again.
She was outside, watering the front garden. No bra. A loose white crop top. Her breasts bounced with every movement of the hose, and Marcus could swear he saw a nipple flash in the sunlight.
He walked over.
Casual. Calm. But with purpose.
"Morning," he said, voice low.
Riley turned, spraying water toward the sidewalk. "Didn't peg you for an early riser."
He let his eyes drop slowly over her body. "You'd be surprised what gets me up."
Her brow rose — impressed. "You flirting, Marcus?"
"Would it work?"
"That depends." She walked toward him, wet shirt clinging tight to her chest. "You a breast man?"
His eyes locked on hers, honest. "I can't lie. You've got the kind of tits that should be illegal."
She didn't laugh.
She stepped closer.
Water dripped down her neckline, soaking the fabric further.
"I get that a lot," she said. "But you're bolder than most."
"Most haven't watched you bend over in yoga pants."
Riley grinned. "So you have been watching."
"Hard not to," Marcus said. "You move like you want trouble."
She leaned in until her chest nearly grazed his. "Maybe I'm hoping for it."
Silence.
Their breath mingled.
She stepped back.
"You free later?" she asked, lips parted. "I'm heading to the mall. I need an opinion on a dress."
He didn't blink. "You want me to come watch you try on things that don't fit?"
"No," she said, wickedly. "I want you to tell me when they stop being clothing and start being invitations."
He let out a slow breath. "You're dangerous."
"I'm exactly what you think I am," Riley whispered. "But only if you earn it."
Then she walked away — hips swaying, shirt soaked, and Marcus standing there trying to not follow her inside.