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Because this man?

This man is going to look so good in bunker lighting.

His gaze drags up my body again, like he’s reading a menu, and I swear to God I feel it under my skin, like he’s got some kind of x-ray vision calibrated specifically to detect dirty thoughts and ruined panties.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

And fuck me, the voice.

Rough. Sleep-rumpled. A little gravel, a little growl, like he hasn’t had his coffee yet and I’m the substitute.

My thighs press together instinctively, because of course they do.

That voice could narrate a home repair video and I’d still end up naked by the time he hits step three.

I blink, putting on my best wide-eyed, sweet-girl face. “Hi! I hope it’s okay I just came in. The door was open.”

He wipes his hands on a rag and stands. Full height. Full weight. And full frontal assault on my ability to think with anything but my uterus.

Jesus.

His shirt is gray and snug and stained with grease and god-tier sweat marks. His arms are bare, tattooed, corded with muscle, and gleaming just a little where his skin catches the light.

He’s wiping his hands like he’s thinking about where else they could go.

I want to volunteer.

“I’ve got a generator,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m about to offer myself as payment. “It’s not turning over this morning and the fridge is acting up, and I know it’s early and you’re probably busy, but I really need someone who knows what they’re doing.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

Oh, don’t act surprised, baby. You left the door open. I walked through it. This is fate with a wrench in its back pocket.

“I’d pay extra,” I add quickly, because men love a bribe. “You’d only be there a few minutes. Probably not even worth pulling out your tools.”

Liar. I want him to pull out everything.

Dean studies me for a second, like he’s checking for warning signs.

Buddy, they’re all here. Flashing red. Sirens. The whole nine yards.

But I look soft enough. Just a woman in a nice shirt and jeans, with damp hair and a problem to solve.

He cracks a small grin. Smug. Crooked. Shameless. “Where’s the place?” he asks.

Hook. Line. Me, flopping on the floor.

I hand him a card with my address. “Just outside of town. You wouldn’t have to fight traffic or anything. First driveway after the old mill.”

He tucks the card into his back pocket, and I swear my pupils dilate watching his fingers disappear behind that absolutely perfect ass.

I wonder if he’d let me bite it later.

“I’ll cancel my eight o’clock,” he says, and shrugs like it’s nothing. “Be there in twenty?”

I beam like a girl who didn’t just orchestrate an entire fake emergency to lure a man into her underground sex-bunker.

“That would be amazing,” I say, voice all honey. “Thank you so much, Dean.”