OFFSIDE TEMPTATION DELETED SCENES

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 Hensley told herself it was about the grass stains and the sweat. Practical. Responsible. Motherly, even—if your definition of motherly was pushing a six-foot wall of muscle into your shower and telling him to hurry before your son got home.

“Hydrate,” she said, tossing him a towel.

“I’m literally under running water,” Ryan said, grinning like sin. Droplets tracked down his chest, mapping routes she had no business memorizing.

The front door thudded open. “Mom? Ryan? You guys here?”

Both of them froze. Steam and silence.

Hensley mouthed, Oh my God.

Ryan mouthed back, Breathe.

A bottle of shampoo skittered off the ledge, thunking into the tub. Hensley clapped a hand to her mouth; Ryan reached for her waist and pulled her closer into the curtain’s shadow. Heat—his, the water’s, hers—made every inch of her aware.

“Bathroom?” Jamie called, footsteps drawing nearer down the hall.

Hensley pressed against tile and said a prayer to every deity she’d ever ignored. Ryan leaned in, voice a whisper against her ear. “We’re fine.”

“You’re naked,” she hissed.

“You say that like it’s a problem.”

The doorknob jiggled. Hensley’s heart sprinted. She grabbed Ryan’s face and kissed him because panic made bad decisions feel like oxygen. He kissed back like he’d been waiting all day for the signal, hands firm at her hips, mouth sure. The curtain clung to her shoulder; water slid down her spine; his laugh rumbled against her lips when she swatted the faucet to cooler.

“Mom?” Jamie again, closer now. “Coach texted me—practice ran late. I’m gonna grab a snack.”

Hensley tore away, breathless. Ryan bit back a curse and braced an arm above her head, shielding her from the spray. “You good?”

“No,” she whispered, then kissed him again because apparently she’d decided to ruin her own life one glorious taste at a time.

Out in the kitchen, drawers opened. A cabinet thumped shut. The ordinary sounds of home sharpened everything forbidden. Ryan’s thumb stroked below her ribs, an anchor. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

She didn’t. Instead she smiled, wicked and helpless. “Thirty seconds.”

His answering smile was disastrous. He backed her into the corner, the water a hush, his breath a promise. Mouth to mouth, teeth to lip, the kind of heat that lived in the gap between restraint and recklessness. When the fridge door closed, they sprung apart like teenagers—ironic—eyes bright, chests heaving.

“Shower’s free when you’re done hydrating,” she whispered, slipping out, hair damp and mouth swollen, pretending to care about a laundry basket.

In the hallway, she inhaled. In the bathroom, Ryan exhaled. In the kitchen, her son asked, “We got any salsa?” and the world kept spinning like it didn’t even notice two people learning how to breathe and not burn down a house.

Later, when the coast was clear and the towel was secure, Ryan leaned in the doorway and lifted a brow. “Thirty seconds?”

She smirked. “Next time, try for forty.”

“Next time,” he echoed, like a vow. And then he was gone, and she had to put an entire life back on like a sweater that suddenly fit too tight.