Dirty Delivery (Bound & Delivered #1)

Chapter One

Savannah

I’ve always considered myself reasonably organized. My lesson plans are color-coded, my bookshelves are arranged by genre, and I never leave the house without a to-do list. Being in control is my superpower, and I wield it like a shield against the chaos of the world.

Unfortunately, my friend Sarah is a chaos enthusiast and seems determined to spice up my otherwise predictable existence. Her latest mission? Monthly subscription boxes of adult toys. Yes, you read that correctly.

“Because you’re not getting any younger, Sav,” she’d said, handing me a gift card with the kind of smugness only best friends can get away with. “And let’s face it, a woman has needs.”

Needs? Sure. But I don’t recall “battery-operated boyfriends” being on my to-do list. Still, I didn’t have the heart—or the guts—to turn her down. So now, like clockwork, my doorstep becomes the stage for my own personal walk of shame.

So, when the doorbell rings at precisely 7:00 p.m., I’m already halfway down the hall, knowing exactly who it is and why he’s here.

Rylan Doyle: tattooed delivery guy, professional smirker, and bane of my meticulously organized existence.

I yank the door open to find him standing there, that damn smirk tugging at his lips and a familiar package in his hands. His light brown hair is tousled as though he’s just run his hands through it, and his piercing green eyes sparkle with amusement when they meet mine.

But it’s the tattoos that always catch my attention. Swirling patterns and intricate designs cover his hands and forearm peeking out from the rolled-up sleeves of his delivery uniform. My gaze lingers, tracing the shapes, the subtle curves and lines that seem to draw me in without effort. I follow the contours instinctively, as if memorizing every detail could somehow etch them permanently in my mind. There's a pull, a magnetic force I can’t quite explain—like gravity, subtle but inescapable. For a moment, I let myself drift, absorbed in the sight before me.

Then reality taps me on the shoulder, bringing a flush of heat to my face as I catch myself. I blink, shake off the trance, and glance away, hoping he didn’t notice how long I’d been staring. Yet the image remains imprinted on my thoughts, an echo that refuses to fade. I can still feel the soft hum of awareness tingling just beneath my skin, as if my body is reluctant to let the moment go.

He doesn’t say anything about it, but I swear his smirk deepens.

“Evening, Ms. Fields,” he says smoothly, holding the package out like it’s some kind of peace offering, his tone dripping with amusement. “Another special delivery for you.”

My cheeks flame instantly. Of course, he has to say it like that, as if the contents of the discreetly labeled Boudoir Bliss box aren’t already mortifying enough. I bite the inside of my cheek and pray the ground will kindly swallow me whole.

“Thanks,” I mutter, snatching the package from his hands with more force than necessary. My fingers brush against the inked skin on his knuckles, and I pull back quickly, the heat spreading all the way to my ears. His grin widens and I can practically feel him cataloging my reaction for future teasing.

“You know,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe, “if you ever need a second opinionon . . . whatever’s in there, I’m more than happy to help.”

I glare at him, clutching the box tighter to my chest. “Pretty sure I’ve got it covered, thanks,” I snap, but my voice comes out higher than intended. His low chuckle follows me as I retreat into the house, slamming the door behind me. Stupid tattoos. Stupid smirk. Stupid Rylan.

Rylan

Walking back to the van, I can’t help but grin. Savannah Fields is hands down the highlight of my route. She’s uptight, sharp- tongued, and more fun to mess with than she’d probably like to admit.

Every month, like clockwork, she orders something from Boudoir Bliss. She probably thinks the discreet packaging hides her secret, but come on— I’m the delivery guy. She’s not fooling anyone, least of all me.

Tonight was no different. Her blush practically screamed, “please, Earth, swallow me whole,” and I’m not going to lie—it’s adorable. And then there was that moment when her gaze got caught on my tattoos. She thinks I didn’t notice, but I did. I notice everything about her.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I flex my fingers against the wheel, glancing down at the ink that snakes across my skin. The tattoos are bold, unapologetic and everything I’m not supposed to be in Savannah’s world. And yet, I keep showing up at her door month after month just to see the way she blushes and fumbles.

It’s a game we’ve been playing, unspoken and addictive, and I don’t think either of us knows how to stop.

I shake my head, laughing softly at myself. It’s just a delivery, I remind myself. But deep down, I know it’s more than that. Tomorrow, I’ll see her again, and for those brief moments, the rest of the world will fade away.

Not that I’d ever admit it.