Chapter 1: The Chocolate Sin

Chapter 1: The Chocolate Sin

The rumble of thunder wasn't just outside; Leo felt it resonating deep in his chest. It vibrated through the floorboards of May Albright’s cozy living room, a primal drumbeat scoring the tense silence between them. Rain lashed against the windowpanes, blurring the world outside into a watercolor mess of dark greens and grays, effectively trapping them in this bubble of warm, dim light.

“Well,” May said, her voice a little too bright, a little too formal. She pushed a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture he was already starting to find utterly captivating. “It seems you’ve saved me from a night of 19th-century darkness. Thank you, Leo. I owe you one.”

Leo leaned back against the plush sofa, a slow, easy smile playing on his lips. He’d used the flickering circuit breaker in her fuse box as his Trojan horse, a legitimate reason to knock on the door of the main house. He was just the tenant in the guesthouse, the college kid renting for the summer. But every glimpse he caught of his landlady—gardening in a wide-brimmed hat, carrying groceries from her car, her silhouette framed in the kitchen window—had sparked a low, persistent hum of desire inside him.

“It was just a loose wire, Mrs. Albright,” he said, intentionally using the formal address. He liked the way it created a barrier, a tension he was dying to break. “But I’m not turning down a reward.”

A flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—danced in her intelligent brown eyes. For a moment, she looked less like a guarded, 39-year-old divorcée and more like the woman she might have been before life had bruised her. “I was just about to open a bottle of wine to celebrate the survival of my refrigerator’s contents. Would you join me?”

“I’d love to.”

The simple act felt momentous. The pop of the cork was cannon-shot loud in the quiet room. She poured two glasses of deep red Merlot, her movements graceful and practiced. When she handed him a glass, her fingers brushed his. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up his arm. He saw her breath hitch, her composure faltering for a split second before the mask of polite distance slid back into place.

They sat on opposite ends of the sofa, the space between them a tangible, humming void. They talked about his literature classes, her freelance graphic design work, the ferocity of the summer storm. It was all safe, all surface-level, but underneath, another conversation was happening in stolen glances and the slow, deliberate sips of wine. With each glass, the void between them seemed to shrink, the air growing thicker, charged with unspoken questions.

Leo watched the way the lamplight caught the red highlights in her hair, the elegant column of her throat as she swallowed. He wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling behind that carefully constructed wall. He was twenty-one, full of a restless, impulsive energy. She was composed, mature, and so breathtakingly beautiful it made his teeth ache. The age gap, the tenant-landlord dynamic—it was all forbidden, and that only fanned the flames higher.

“You have a scar,” she said suddenly, her voice soft. She gestured with her glass toward his face. “On your eyebrow.”

He instinctively touched it. “Childhood accident. Fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat. I was a very heroic seven-year-old.”

She laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that was more intoxicating than the wine. “And did you rescue the cat?”

“The cat,” he said, leaning a little closer, lowering his voice, “climbed down on its own the second I hit the ground. Laughed at me, I swear.”

Her smile lingered, and in that moment, the last of the pretense between them seemed to dissolve. She wasn't Mrs. Albright anymore. She was May. And he wasn't just the kid from the guesthouse. He was a man, looking at a woman he wanted more than his next breath.

The storm chose that moment to unleash a deafening crack of thunder, so loud it made May jump, sloshing a bit of wine onto her hand.

“Oh!”

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Leo was moving. He closed the distance between them, taking her hand in his. “Let me,” he murmured, and brought her knuckles to his lips, licking away the single drop of red wine.

The world stopped.

Her skin was soft, the taste of wine and May intoxicating. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted in a silent gasp. He didn't release her hand. Instead, he threaded his fingers through hers, watching her, giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn't.

That was all the permission he needed. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers.

For an instant, she was stiff with shock. Then, a shudder ran through her, and she melted against him. It wasn't a tentative, questioning kiss. It was a collision. Her surprising passion rose to meet his youthful boldness, a frantic, desperate heat that spoke of long-repressed loneliness and a sudden, reckless hunger. His free hand went to the back of her neck, tangling in the hair she always kept so neatly tied up, pulling the pins free until it cascaded over his fingers.

She moaned into his mouth, a sound of pure surrender that sent fire straight to his groin. He pushed her back gently against the sofa cushions, his body half-covering hers. The kiss deepened, becoming a frantic exploration. He tasted wine and want and a sadness he was determined to erase.

His hand slid from her hair, down her shoulder, over the conservative fabric of her blouse until it found the curve of her breast. She gasped against his lips but arched into his touch, her silent permission screaming louder than the thunder outside. He fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, his fingers clumsy with need. He didn't want the barrier. He needed her skin.

He pulled back, just for a second, his green eyes locking with her dark, dazed ones. “May,” he breathed, a prayer and a plea.

Her answer was to guide his hand to the front clasp of her bra. With a click, it came undone.

He pushed the lace aside, his breath catching in his throat. He lowered his head, worshipping the pale, soft swell of her breast with his mouth, laving, tasting, suckling until she was writhing beneath him, her hands fisted in his hair. This was what he’d imagined in his solitary nights in the guesthouse—her, undone, her control shattered by his touch.

Then, his eyes caught on something on the coffee table beside them: a small, elegant box of Dairy Milk Silk chocolates, a single, foil-wrapped square sitting beside it.

An idea, impulsive and wicked, sparked in his mind.

He pulled away from her breast, earning a soft whimper of protest. He grinned, a flash of his boyish charm mixed with a decidedly nasty streak. “Wait,” he whispered.

He reached over, snatching the foil-wrapped square. May watched him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes clouded with confusion and arousal. He unwrapped the chocolate, the crinkle of the foil deafeningly loud. He broke off a piece, popped it into his mouth, and then leaned down to kiss her again.

The shock on her face was exquisite. The kiss was no longer just about raw lust. It was a game. The rich, sweet chocolate began to melt between them, a slick, decadent river of sin mingling with their saliva. He used his tongue to paint the sweetness across her lips, into her mouth, turning a moment of pure heat into something impossibly intimate, playful, and profane.

She moaned, a different sound this time—one of overwhelmed delight. She was lost in the sensation, in the taste, in the sheer audacity of it. The game emboldened him, fired him. His hand, which had been resting on her stomach, slid lower, over the waistband of her trousers, tracing the delicate line of her hip.

He felt the heat of her through the fabric, the slight tremor that shook her frame as his fingers danced at the threshold. The scent of chocolate, wine, and her unique, musky arousal filled his senses, a potent cocktail of obsession.

Her hips lifted instinctively, a silent, desperate invitation.

He dipped his fingers beneath the waistband, finding the damp silk of her panties. She was so wet for him. The realization was a punch to the gut, a victory that made his head spin. As the last of the thunder faded to a distant rumble, he pushed his fingers deeper, finding her, slick and waiting, her body clenching around him in a silent, desperate plea.