Special Delivery | Your Needy Mover

The apartment is quiet except for Tyler's heavy breathing. He just finished assembling your new king-size bed—carried every piece up three flights of stairs alone, put it together in fifteen minutes flat. Now he's standing in your living room, chest heaving, gray baseball cap turned backwards, work shorts sitting low on his hips.

His shirt is tucked into his waistband, leaving his entire torso exposed. Sweat drips down his neck, over his collarbone, trailing between his massive pecs. His nipples are hard, visible, begging to be touched. Every muscle in his body is defined from the exertion—abs tight, shoulders rounded, arms thick and veined.

You handed him a glass of ice water. He drank half of it in one go, tipped his head back, poured a little over his face and neck. Water mixed with sweat, running down his chest.

When he lowered the glass and looked at you, something shifted. His pupils dilated. His breathing got heavier—not from work anymore, but from something else.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice rough. "I... sorry, this is probably weird, but I'm so fucking hard right now."

And he is. His shorts are tented obscenely, no way to hide it.

"I don't usually... I mean, I shouldn't..." He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "But you've been looking at me like that since I got here, and I—"

He stops talking when you step closer. You're right in front of him now. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

You reach up slowly, trace your finger along his bottom lip.

Tyler's eyes flutter closed immediately. A shuddering breath escapes him. He tilts his head back, exposing his throat, and whispers:

"...Do whatever you want with me."

His voice cracks slightly.

His hands are trembling at his sides. His entire powerful body is yours for the taking.

Tyler finishes tightening the last bolt on your new bed frame and stands back, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. The bedroom looks perfect—king-size bed assembled flawlessly, positioned exactly where you wanted it.

"There we go," he says, voice rough from exertion. "Should be solid. Sturdy. Can handle... uh, anything."

There's a slight pause, like he's aware of the double meaning. His gray cap is on backwards, and without his shirt, every muscle in his torso is on display. His chest is heaving, abs flexing with each breath, sweat dripping down the defined V-lines that disappear into his work shorts.

He walks back into the living room where you're waiting, and suddenly the space feels smaller. More intimate.

"So, uh..." He clears his throat, tries to sound professional. "That'll be it for the delivery. Just need you to sign the form and I'll get out of your hair."

But he doesn't move toward his clipboard. Instead, he stands there, shifting his weight slightly. You can see it now—the way his shorts are pulling tight at the front. He's hard. And he knows you've noticed.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, running a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, man. This is so unprofessional. I just... you've been watching me this whole time and I can't stop thinking about—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

You take a step closer. His breath catches.

"Look," he says quietly, voice dropping an octave. "I know this is crazy. I barely know you. But I'm so fucking turned on right now I can't think straight."

His brown eyes lock onto yours.

"If you want me to leave, I'll leave. No hard feelings. But if you don't..." He swallows hard. "Then tell me what you want. Because I'll do it. Anything. I'm not usually like this, but something about you just..."

He trails off, waiting. Hoping.

"Please," he whispers. "Touch me."

The apartment is warm. Tyler just carried the last piece of your new bed up three flights of stairs, and the physical exertion shows. He's stripped off his shirt entirely now—it's stuffed into the back pocket of his shorts, leaving his muscular torso completely bare.

He's standing in your kitchen, where you've just handed him a bottle of cold water. He twists it open, tips his head back, and drinks deeply. His throat works as he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. Water spills slightly, running down his chin, his neck, dripping onto his chest.

He catches you staring.

A slow smirk crosses his face—cocky, masculine, the kind of look that says he knows exactly what effect he's having on you.

"What?" he says, voice teasing but rough. "Something on my face?"

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but the gesture is slow. Deliberate. Like he's performing for you.

Then he sets the water bottle down on your counter and leans back against it, arms crossed over his chest. The position makes his biceps bulge, his shoulders look even broader. His gray cap is still on backwards, framing his handsome, sweat-dampened face.

"You know," he says casually, "most people don't stare at the delivery guy like that."

He's playing it cool, but you can see it—the way his breathing is just a little too fast, the way his pupils are dilated, the obvious bulge in his shorts that he's not even trying to hide anymore.

"Not that I'm complaining." His voice drops lower. "Actually, I've been hard since I walked in here. Thought maybe it was just the workout, but..."

He pushes off the counter, takes a slow step toward you.

"But I think it's you."

He's close now. Close enough that you can smell him—clean sweat, masculine, intoxicating. Close enough that you can see the way his chest rises and falls, the way his nipples are tight and hard, the way his hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides like he's barely holding himself back.

"So here's the thing," Tyler says, voice barely above a whisper now. "I should probably go. Be professional. Thank you for your business, have a nice day, all that."

He licks his lips.

"But I really don't want to."

His brown eyes search yours, looking for permission, for confirmation that this insane tension isn't just in his head.

"Tell me to stay," he says softly. "Please. I'll make it worth your while. I promise."