A quick errand

The message was still open.

“Nice. Busy. Talk later.”

That was it. Jason’s entire reply to the photo she'd sent—just a soft mirror shot of her in the hallway, sunlight slipping through the fabric of her skirt, the shape of her thighs barely veiled. She hadn’t gone too far. Not lingerie. Not lewd. Just… enough. Enough to feel like a woman, not just a mother.

But all she’d gotten was four words.

Emily exhaled, lips parting in frustration as she rolled forward through the green light—and nearly missed the car whipping through the intersection crosswise.

Shit!

She gasped and jerked the wheel. Tires shrieked. The car rocked. She barely avoided a T-bone, turning just in time to clip the passenger side of a sleek black SUV with a hollow metallic SCREEEEECH—paint scraping paint, her mirror twisting sideways.

The SUV veered hard and braked, hazard lights flashing.

Emily’s heart pounded as she eased over to the shoulder, clutching the wheel with both hands. Her mouth was dry. She could already feel heat rising under her skirt, not just from the embarrassment or panic—but from the way her body remembered adrenaline.

Her thin shirt clung to her chest with every breath, nipples stiffening beneath the damp cotton. She had left the house in just a t-shirt and breezy skirt—panties underneath, but no bra. The nursing bra had been pinching all morning, her breasts still sensitive, full, tender in the late afternoon heat.

The SUV door slammed.

Out stepped a man—late 30s, tall, crisp shirt rolled up at the sleeves, dark slacks that showed no wrinkle or softness. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharper than they had any right to be.

He walked straight up to her window.

Emily instinctively opened the door.

“You weren’t looking,” he said. His voice was low. Controlled. “You could’ve killed someone.”

“I—I didn’t see—”

“You were distracted,” he continued. “On your phone. Not watching the light. And now you’ve damaged my car. Do you know how easily I could have the police here?”

She flushed.

He stepped closer. She had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. He didn’t break eye contact.

His eyes dropped to her chest, and he didn’t pretend not to look. “You not even wearing a bra, are you?”

Emily’s mouth opened. Closed.

“I’m not going to report it. Not if you cooperate.” He leaned in just slightly. “Exactly. No questions.”

She stood frozen.

“Drive,” he said. “This address.”

And then, flatly, like he was reading it from memory: a string of numbers, a street name, and a ZIP code.

He gave her one more glance—down her body this time—then turned and walked back to his SUV.

She stood there, blinking, the wind teasing her skirt. Her nipples poked through the cotton. Her thighs brushed together, slick with nerves and something hotter. The moment hung heavy in the air.