The air was thick with the mingled scents of gasoline, old rubber, and freshly-burned oil—a scent Jacob had long since come to associate with serenity. He stood in the center of the driveway, leaning his weight back against the hood of the 1967 Impala, its glossy black surface still warm from the sun's unforgiving gaze. The car was a beast of machine-flesh, glistening like obsidian, reflecting the world in its curves. Jacob pressed his palms back into it, the metal cool but not cold, slick in parts from where he'd just wiped away the remnants of grease. His broad, calloused hand—its fingers dusted with oil, its knuckles scabbed from one too many wrench slips—rested on the curve of the windshield, while the other lazily cradled a crystal tumbler filled with some cold, amber-brown liquor. The glass clinked lightly as he moved, the ice catching the sunlight, refracting it, like jagged diamonds melting into shadows.
He breathed out slowly. Not heavily. Slowly. The kind of breath that isn't just exhalation—it's release. His lungs filled again, dragging in the crisp edge of early evening air, scented now with the faint perfume of lavender and cigarette smoke—Amelia's mix, always dancing somewhere on the wind when she was near. His caramel skin drank in the light like velvet, muscle layered atop muscle in a way that didn't seem possible unless a sculptor, gone mad with lust and vision, had carved him from a single slab of onyx. Every line of his body spoke of history—scars buried beneath tattoos, veins that pulsed like ancient rivers under a thick hide of dark gold.
His torso was bare, revealing a chest that looked as though it had been hewn from volcanic stone—jagged yet symmetrical, wide and powerful. His abs, sharp and thick, were like canyon ridges under moonlight, the kind of abs you didn't just notice—you studied. Every groove between them seemed to have been cut with intention, thick enough to catch shadows in their depths. His arms hung loose, thick and heavy, like dormant weapons. Muscles dense and fully alive, not swollen by vanity but by function. There was a wildness to them. A primal utility. You could see in the curve of his biceps the kind of strength that could tear apart a car door or cradle a lover's head with unbreakable gentleness.
Ink ran along both arms like holy scripture scrawled in the language of myth. On the outside of his left palm, the symbol of the Gambling Demon rested like a branded omen—its linework fine, coiling with malice and grace. Other tattoos—the serpent encircling a sword, a bleeding eye framed by thorny laurels, runes only he could read—twisted up his triceps, down the interior of his forearms, disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks. His tongue flicked out for a brief moment, a habit when his thoughts slowed, revealing the glint of a tongue piercing that caught the sunlight and tossed it back like a blade. His earrings—loops of silver running from the lobe halfway up his cartilage—rattled quietly with the breeze, whispering secrets to the air around him.
His nipples were pierced too. Twin rings of dark metal, gleaming faintly with the faintest residue of sweat, shimmered slightly in the soft light of the descending sun. The chill of the wind caught on his skin, running over the thick slabs of his traps, curling down the deep canyons of his lats. His back, when he rolled his shoulders, seemed like a living terrain—his lats flaring out slowly, lazily, like the wings of some ancient predator bird stirring before flight. There was something mythic about it. Something not meant to be observed, yet impossible to look away from.
He closed his eyes—not in sleep or weariness, but in indulgence. The way someone closes their eyes when the wine is perfect, when the song hits the soul. And in that stillness, something shimmered beneath his skin, like a storm humming in silence. He drank in the stimuli like a man long denied: the warmth of the metal behind him, the sting of cool air on sweat-slicked skin, the faint, predatory eyes watching him from the porch—Amelia's curiosity, Mrs. Jones's silent confusion, and Mr. Jones's barely restrained fury.
He could feel them. Their gazes were not arrows, but currents. Amelia's lingered longest, almost reverent. He could sense the way she tilted her head just slightly, the way her eyes traveled down the line of his torso, the way her thighs might have pressed together beneath her sundress in response to the quiet power of the man who stood before them like a modern god. And Mrs. Jones, caught between maternal propriety and the undeniable fact of Jacob's beauty—beauty not as mere appearance, but as gravity. As something that reorients all understanding around it.
And then there was Mr. Jones.
Jacob didn't need to open his eyes to feel the storm radiating from the man's clenched fists. Rage. Masculine pride boiling over. The kind of territorial rage that flares in the presence of a man who makes you feel lesser just by standing still. But Jacob didn't move. He didn't flinch. He merely existed. In full. Unapologetically. Like the Impala behind him, he wasn't designed to be understood—he was designed to dominate. His presence sucked the air out of the world around him, made the birds fall quiet, made the insects hesitate.
He hummed then. Low. Almost a growl. A sound of pleasure, yes, but more than that—a resonance of soul touching sensation. The kind of sound a lion makes in the early hours, when his territory is secure and his belly full. The cold air whispered over his skin, caressing every nerve like a lover's breath. The ecstasy he felt wasn't loud. It was not a fire. It was a slow-drip opiate flooding the cathedral of his nervous system, curling into the edges of his mind palace like smoke under a closed door. It was molasses in the gears of time, the soft pulse of electricity up the spine, that perfect tingle when everything—body, mind, soul—aligned in communion with the moment.
He let his head roll slightly to one side, dreadlocks brushing over his collarbone like heavy vines. His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely a whisper, yet it thundered.
"…I love days like this."
Not to anyone in particular. Not for the sake of performance. Just a fact. A line delivered to the universe itself. He tilted his glass slightly, ice clinking again, and took a slow sip. Let it settle. Let it burn its trail down to the furnace that was his gut.
The rag he'd been using to clean his hands was stained black and brown, cast aside now on the hood beside him like a flag of completion. He flexed his fingers once—slowly—admiring the tiny trails of grease that still traced the lines of his lifeline. Every smear, a memory. Every callus, a choice. He existed like this for a long moment. Utterly unmoved. Utterly unhurried. The storm in Mr. Jones was growing—but he didn't care. Let it grow. Let it scream. Let it crackle in the silence like thunder warming up.
Jacob was in no rush.
Because in this moment, he was the story.
And he was winning.
---
---
Amelia stood just inside the threshold of the porch, her fingers wrapped absently around the edge of the screen door, holding it open a crack as though she might step out. But she didn't. She couldn't. Her body wouldn't let her. Not yet. Her lungs were full but not breathing. Her thighs pressed close together beneath the soft cotton of her sundress, an involuntary ache humming low in her belly. There was something molten in her, slow and building, a quiet tide of heat rising behind her ribs, beneath her skin, in the place where hunger wasn't for food but for him.
She wasn't watching him.
She was devouring him.
Jacob stood like a monument to something long-lost and primal—like a deity sculpted in forgotten temples, hidden behind vines and prayers never spoken aloud. The way the late sun fell across his skin was almost cruel, gilding every inch of him in warmth, catching the sheen of sweat on his collarbones, dripping down the cords of his neck, sliding along the ridges of his torso. His caramel skin, rich and deep and beautiful beyond reckoning, looked like polished bronze—except alive, breathing, vibrating with quiet power.
Every inch of him looked like a sin she was ready to commit. His body wasn't just fit—it was engineered. By gods, by fate, by rage and discipline. His lats spread out behind him like he could lift the whole sky if he so chose. His dreadlocks were thick, ropes of shadow, some tied back, others loose and catching on the wind like wild tendrils. They framed his face like a mane. He was a lion, even in stillness.
And his face—that fucking face.
Sharp cheekbones dusted with black stubble that framed his jaw like a line drawn with purpose. His lips were full, the bottom one always seeming just slightly more relaxed, like he was always about to smirk. His eyes—when open—held weight, depth, the kind of gaze that didn't look at you but through you. And even now, as his eyes were half-lidded in that heavy, indulgent pleasure, Amelia felt like he could see her. Like he knew.
He shifted slightly.
Not dramatically. Not performatively. But with a deliberate, delicious slowness that screamed of ownership—not just of his body, but of reality. One hand reached behind him, and she saw the dense movement of muscle across his back, every ridge shifting beneath the skin like tectonic plates under pressure. He turned just enough for the light to catch on his pierced nipples—twin silver hoops catching the gold of sunset like stolen halos.
And then he brought the pitcher to his lips.
It wasn't just a drink. It was a ritual.
The liquid inside was this swirling, mesmerizing color—like liquid nebula, like melted opal, a blend of violet and rose and cosmic shimmer. It wasn't something normal. Of course it wasn't. He wasn't normal. Of course his drinks would be as strange and hypnotic as the rest of him. He raised it to his lips, his eyes half-lidded, lashes thick and long enough to make her jealous. The muscles of his forearm flexed with the motion, veins prominent, dancing beneath the tattooed skin like lightning.
And then he drank.
The world slowed.
She felt it—this breathless pause in everything around her. The birds didn't chirp. The wind stopped moving. Her heart stilled.
The liquid passed over his lips, and he let it linger. Let it touch every corner of his mouth like he was savoring it. His throat flexed with the swallow, and then—
"Fuuuuck," he moaned, the word pulled long, thick with indulgence, drawn out like it was pulled from somewhere low in his spine. His voice, low and gravel-smooth, dragged over her skin like silk dipped in honey and heat. It wasn't just a groan. It was an experience. A sound that carried the weight of centuries of satisfaction. Of battles fought and won. Of lust barely restrained. Of a man tasting something he made, something he owned, something he earned.
Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched tighter.
God, he was beautiful.
Not in the neat, boyish way men on television were called beautiful. He wasn't clean-cut. He wasn't safe. He wasn't charming in a way that made you want to take him home to meet your mother. He was dangerous. He was fucking dangerous. And the terrifying part—the addictive part—was that he knew it. Knew exactly how every inch of him pulled eyes, twisted guts, snapped expectations like brittle bones.
And he relished it.
There was a calmness to him, yes, but it was the calm of a predator resting in the sun. A man who let himself be still, who chose not to move, because nothing around him was a threat. Not even the man whose fury could be felt from a dozen yards away. Mr. Jones could be radiating like a sun gone nova, but Jacob didn't flinch. He basked. He indulged. He breathed deeply of the world as though every molecule of air had been tailored for his lungs.
The rag on the hood still held the memory of his touch. The grease on his hands—now cleaned—still stained his knuckles faintly, like a lover's perfume clinging after the kiss. The scent of oil and heat still curled off him like incense from the altar of some sensual god.
Amelia swallowed hard. She felt it, the thickness of her own breath. The way her heart pounded behind her sternum like a fist demanding entry. Her thoughts were fog. Her thighs ached. Her nipples pressed tight and uninvited against the fabric of her dress. She hadn't touched herself in days, and now every nerve in her body felt alive with want.
Her hands curled tighter on the doorframe.
She shouldn't be staring.
She should turn away.
She should say something.
But she couldn't. Because she wasn't just looking at Jacob—she was witnessing him. And witnessing him was like standing in front of something sacred and violent. Like standing at the edge of a battlefield soaked in moonlight. Like hearing a gospel sung by someone who'd been to hell and back.
She thought of his tongue piercing, flashing silver. Thought of those lips wrapping around anything. Thought of his arms around someone's waist. Thought of the way he might moan when not sipping a drink but thrusting into her.
Her knees almost buckled.
And then, suddenly, his eyes opened. Slowly. Lazily. As though he'd known the entire time she was watching. He didn't smile. He didn't wink. He didn't say a single word.
But he looked at her.
And for that single heartbeat of a moment, she swore—she felt it—that he owned her.
Not because he asked.
But because he could.