Reckless Bargain
Willow stood outside the apartment door, her fingers trembling as she knocked. The notice in her hand felt heavier than paper—it was a death sentence. Final Eviction Warning. If she didn’t pay up soon, she’d be out on the street with nothing but a half-finished manuscript and a pile of rejection emails to keep her company.
She took a shaky breath. Maybe her new landlord, Mr. Attwell Martin would be reasonable. Maybe he’d give her an extension, just a little more time.
The door swung open, and all rational thought left her mind.
He wasn’t what she expected. Not at all.
Dark hair, tousled like he’d just gotten out of bed. A sculpted jawline peppered with the hint of stubble. A body built for sin, barely concealed by a fitted black T-shirt and sweatpants that clung to his narrow hips. And then there were his eyes—dark, intense, filled with something wicked as they roamed over her with slow, lazy amusement.
“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect to see you here, sweetheart.”
Willow's throat went dry. Sweetheart?
“I—I’m here about the rent,” she stammered, gripping the crumpled notice in her trembling hands. Her fingers curled tighter around the paper, as if sheer force alone could make the problem disappear. “And I’m much older than you. Calling me that would be… inappropriate.”
Her voice wavered, betraying the exhaustion weighing on her. She was tired—tired of scrambling, of barely keeping her head above water, of feeling like the walls were closing in faster than she could push them back.
Across from her, he leaned against the doorframe, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher—amusement? Pity? Interest? His lips curled, just slightly, in something that might have been a smirk if it weren’t so unreadable.
“I just need a little more time,” she pleaded, her voice softer now, though urgency laced every word. “I’ll pay, I promise. I just—”
Her breath hitched. She couldn’t finish.
Because what was left to say?
That she was trying? That she was drowning? That she had already sold off anything of value, cut every corner, exhausted every option? That this apartment—her sanctuary for years —was all she had left?
Her throat tightened, but she swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
Please. The word sat on the edge of her tongue, too fragile to voice.
He exhaled, a slow, deliberate sound. Then, with a tilt of his head, he studied her—really studied her—before speaking.
“How much time?”
"I...give me three months," she stammered
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Let me guess. Struggling artist? Writer, maybe?”
Her stomach twisted. “How did you—?”
He gestured toward the half-open door. She caught a glimpse inside—stacks of books, a laptop left open on a desk, the faint scent of coffee and ink. “I’ve seen your name on the mailbox. Looked you up. You’ve got some talent.”
Willow blinked. She wasn’t sure which was more surprising—that he’d taken the time to look her up, or that he actually thought she had talent.
“Too bad talent doesn’t pay the bills, huh?” His smirk deepened, and she felt heat creep up her neck.
“I will pay,” she said, lifting her chin. “I just need—”
“Time?” He chuckled, stepping closer. The air between them thickened. “And what are you willing to do for that extra time, Miss Smith?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She felt that, he knew her.
The way he said her name—low, teasing, testing—made her insides tighten. She knew that tone. She had written about that tone in stories she never thought she’d live.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. “Sure you do.”
Silence stretched between them. A challenge.
Willow wasn’t stupid. She was a 35-year-old woman who had spent more time with fictional men than real ones. She knew exactly what was happening here. He was flirting with her. Teasing her.
And for the first time in her life, she considered flirting back.
It wasn’t just the fear of eviction. It wasn’t just desperation. It was the way he looked at her—like she was something intriguing, something worth exploring. It was the way heat curled in her belly, a sensation unfamiliar and thrilling all at once.
So she did it. She let herself play the game.
Lifting her gaze, she let a small, tentative smile curve her lips. “And what exactly do you think I have to offer?”
His eyes darkened.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The brush of his fingers sent a shiver racing down her spine. “I think you already know.”
Willow's breath hitched as she took an uncertain step back, pressing her spine against the cool wall. The dim glow of light cast flickering shadows, making the small space feel even smaller.
“I can’t believe this,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the silence of the hallway.
“So you keep saying,” Attwell murmured, stepping closer, the warmth of his body eliminating the remaining distance between them. “But you know what you haven’t said, Willow?”
She swallowed hard. “What’s that?”
“You haven’t said no.”
His fingers reached for her in the dark, grazing her cheek before sliding down to cup her chin. His touch was deliberate, careful—like he was testing her, measuring her reaction. With his hand anchored there, he brushed his thumb in slow, widening circles until he skimmed her bottom lip.
“You have a mouth made for kissing,” he murmured, tilting her face toward his. “Did you know that?”
She gave a small shake of her head, her breath trembling against his fingertips.
“So soft and generous.” His voice dropped to something rich and sensual. “Sweet.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “No man’s ever called me sweet.”
His gaze darkened. “Has any other man kissed you?”
Willow bit her lip.
Attwell exhaled, his lips curving into something unreadable. “Well, then. That explains it.”
And then he kissed her.
It was light at first, a teasing brush of his lips against hers, like the whisper of silk over skin. The sensation sent pure heat fizzing through her veins, a slow burn that started in her stomach and spread outward. He hummed against her mouth, a satisfied sound.
“You taste like ripe plums,” he murmured.
Willow let out a surprised laugh, her lips tingling from his touch. “That’s absurd.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s too early in the year for ripe plums.”
His husky chuckle shook them both. “You’re entirely too logical for your own good.” He leaned in again, his breath warm against her ear. “A thorough kissing could mend that.”
She stiffened slightly. “I don’t want mending.”
“Perhaps not. But I think you do want kissing.” His lips barely grazed her temple before trailing down the curve of her cheek. “Don’t you?”
She did. Oh, she did.
She couldn’t deny it. Not when he was touching her like this. Not when her body was betraying her, leaning into him instead of pulling away.
Her heart pounded wildly, and despite every effort to reason herself out of this, a single thought kept echoing in her mind.
Attwell needed comfort. And in return, she could glimpse what it felt like to be needed.
To be kissed.
To be called sweet.
To be desired by a desirable man.
“Just this once?” she breathed.
“Just this once.”
So long as they both knew this was nothing but a diversion, a harmless way to pass the time… it couldn’t hurt to pretend. Could it?
Her breath caught as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. Then her cheek. Then her jaw.
And finally, her lips.
This time, it wasn’t just a light brush. He deepened it, coaxing, teasing, until she felt something unraveling inside her. His tongue flicked against the corner of her mouth, testing, tasting. When she gasped softly, he took his chance, sweeping inside, claiming her in a way that left her head spinning.
Willow froze, instinct taking over.
She pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the damp fabric of his shirt beneath her fingers. Then, just as suddenly, she pushed him away.
Attwell exhaled a low chuckle, stroking her hair with surprising gentleness, his fingers untangling the damp strands. “Shush,” he murmured. “Kissing is like any skill. It takes a bit of practice.”
His lips brushed over her ear, his voice dropping to a velvety whisper. “Think of it like dancing.”
Willow stiffened. “I don’t dance.”
“Then we’ll start slow.” He kissed the line of her jaw, a silent reassurance. “Just surrender to the rhythm of it. Follow my lead.”
They tried again.
This time, he caught her upper lip between his own, sucking gently before releasing her. Then he did the same with her lower lip, his movements patient, deliberate. A slow unraveling.
And then his tongue swept between the two.
The heat of it sent shivers down her spine.
He rubbed his tongue over hers in a slow, coaxing motion, and after a hesitant moment, she responded—tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. The deep rumble of approval in his throat sent something thrilling through her, a spark that flared into something hotter.
Attwell tilted his head, shifting angles, and it suddenly made sense.
She understood now why he’d compared kissing to dancing.
Because he had moves.
Not just a mindless push and pull, but something fluid, controlled. A rhythm. A silent conversation.
Willow quickly found herself breathless, her body overwhelmed by sensation.
Willow held his gaze, something shifting between them.
Something dangerous.
Something real.
Willow knew she should walk away. She should laugh it off, insist she wasn’t that kind of woman, and demand a proper extension. But she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
And then, as if sensing her hesitation, he leaned in just enough for his breath to ghost over her lips.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she closed the space between them.
It was supposed to be a simple kiss—a reckless, impulsive mistake. But the moment their lips met again, something inside her snapped.
He groaned against her mouth, his hands tangling in her hair, and she found herself pressed against the doorframe, drowning in the heat of him.
This is insane. This is dangerous.
But it felt so good.
Her fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he answered with a low, approving growl. His lips traced a path down her jaw, lingering at the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“God, you taste sweet,” he murmured. “Didn’t expect that.”
She barely registered his words. Her head was spinning, her body a live wire of sensation. She had never been touched like this before—like she was something desirable.
And she wanted more.
Maybe it was years of loneliness, years of rejection, years of being overlooked and forgotten. Or maybe it was just him—the way he made her feel, like she was the most fascinating thing in the world.
She didn’t stop him when he guided her inside. Didn’t resist when he pulled her onto his lap, his hands roaming her curves with slow, deliberate possession.
“Are you sure?” he murmured against her lips, his fingers tracing the hem of her shirt.
Willow exhaled shakily. Was she?
Her heart warred with her mind.
But when she looked into his eyes—intense, hungry, waiting for her answer—she knew.
For once in her life, she wanted to say yes.
Then came the knock.
Willow froze.
Another knock, sharper this time.
A voice, feminine and impatient.
“Baby, open up! I forgot my car key.”
Willow's blood ran cold.
