16

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, only to slip the moment her foot touched the bathroom floor—landing hard in an ungraceful heap.

Ryan Carter heard the loud thud from the bathroom and rushed in without a second thought about propriety.

There lay Chloe Johnson, sprawled across the tiled floor.

She'd actually come in here to shower? Ryan groaned, rubbing his forehead as he took in her soaked clothes clinging to her body. This situation was spiraling out of control.

He hauled her upright, grabbed a towel to blot the water from her hair, then wrapped her in a large bath sheet that barely contained her silhouette. Steering her out of the bathroom, he found a robe and handed it to her. "Put this on," he said, turning his back like a proper gentleman.

Chloe complied without protest. Once changed, she swayed before him asking, "Can I sleep now?"

Ryan studied her—the oversized robe swallowing her frame, making her look like a child playing dress-up.

Guiding her to sit on the bed, he knelt to roll up the sleeves several folds. As he began blow-drying her hair, Chloe nestled against his chest, her yawns growing sleepier by the minute.

"Go to sleep." Ryan said softly as he finished blow-drying her hair, watching Chloe's drowsy eyelids flutter.

"I want to sleep holding you." The moment she lost the warmth of his chest, Chloe's eyes flew open in protest.

Ryan remembered that night in Japan—she'd been drunk then too, demanding the same thing.

After this exhausting night, he was tired himself. And judging by Chloe's stubborn expression, she wouldn't settle down unless he complied.

He exhaled deeply and pulled her down onto the bed.

Chloe immediately curled into him, her cheek pressed against his chest as she listened to his heartbeat. ​"Ryan... I like you so much," she murmured.

Ryan froze. She'd said his name—said she liked him. Was she lucid?

Can you trust a drunk's words? They say drunken words are sober thoughts. But what did "like" mean to her? She could like objects, activities, or all the people around her—where exactly did he stand on that spectrum?

"Chloe, say that again." Her simple words had effortlessly reignited his hope.

"I've liked you for so, so long... I just realized it now. But why don't you like..." Her voice trailed off as sleep claimed her. The word "me" dissolved into dreams.

Ryan's heart soared.

"I've liked you for so long—I just realized it now." Did that mean she finally understood his place in her heart?

Ryan Carter felt his long-dormant heart begin to stir back to life—all because of one drunken confession.

Holding her close, he finally surrendered to exhaustion as well.

The night wrapped around them, warm and still.

Chloe Johnson was the first to wake, her eyes fluttering open to find herself pressed against Ryan Carter's chest.

Being held like this felt incredible—his embrace was so warm, so comforting. She wished she could stay wrapped in his arms forever.

But reality was reality. No matter what, she couldn't forget the fact that he was gay. If he could hold her like this, he must see her as one of his own kind, right?

Now that she finally understood her own feelings, the truth of his sexuality hurt even more.

Her small fingers toyed with the buttons of his pajamas as she considered whether she should stage a little seduction. After all, books said men were most susceptible in the morning—if she teased him now, would it have any effect?

She wanted him to "recover" as soon as possible. Because she had fallen for him, and she wanted him to love her back.

One button, two buttons, three... Her trembling hands slowly undid the buttons of Ryan's pajama top.

She stole a glance at his face—still asleep. Emboldened, she unfastened the rest, parting the fabric to reveal his chest.

Who knew a man's body could be this captivating? Weren't women supposed to be the ones who made mouths water? Yet as she took in the broad planes of Ryan's torso, the memory of his near-naked form from yesterday morning flashed through her mind. Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed hard.

No wonder men liked other men—male bodies could be just as alluring. At least, Ryan Carter's certainly was.

Her hand, almost of its own will, drifted to his chest—only for her touch to startle Ryan awake.

His eyes flew open to find Chloe Johnson's hands roaming his body. Lately, she seemed determined to push him to the edge—but why?

When her gaze met Ryan Carter's darkened eyes, she froze like a thief caught red-handed. Flustered, she pressed her lips to his, cutting off any protest before it could form.

Ryan stared in shock. Did she even realize what she was doing? Shouldn't the alcohol have worn off by now?

The oversized robe gaped at her chest, revealing far more than she probably intended. Though she'd once complained about being "flat," he found the view quite... scenic—Damn it, where the hell are these thoughts coming from?!

By the time he regained focus, Chloe's mouth had migrated to his chest, her warm tongue lapping at his skin like melting ice cream. The sensation sent desire roaring through him.

Where did she learn such provocative tricks?

With a groan, he hauled her up by the shoulders until they were face-to-face.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Ryan's voice came out gravel-rough.

"Seducing you." She blinked innocently.

Wasn't that obvious? Did he have less experience than she did?

"Who am I?" He needed proof she wasn't still drunk. This wasn't just reckless—it was setting his blood on fire and testing his self-control.

"Ryan. Ryan Carter." Did he not know his own name? Or did he think she'd lost her mind? Please—she'd never been more clear-headed.

She was determined to see this through! Breaking free from his grip, she straddled his waist, arms looping around his neck to pull him close. Their bodies pressed together—her softness through the thin robe against his bare chest, her long legs pinning his, her hips grinding against his... God! He felt his body betray him with an unmistakable reaction, blood roaring for release even as his mind screamed to retreat.

"Stop." Ryan shoved her away and bolted for the bathroom. One more second and his resolve would've crumbled completely.

He'd run again. This little experiment was over—but maybe it had worked? His face had been flushed, his expression torn between agony and pleasure.

Perhaps she'd found the right "medicine." A slow, targeted treatment might just cure him yet.

Next time, she reminded herself, she'd tie him down so he couldn't escape.

If only Chloe knew the truth—the man beneath her was far from needing any "fixing."

She considered moving in with him. That way, she could "administer treatment" daily and keep his so-called lovers away. Decision made.

Ryan emerged from the shower, freshly dressed, his composure barely restored.

"Get some more sleep. I'll take you to lunch at noon." Ryan fastened his cufflinks, avoiding her gaze.

"Ryan," Chloe hopped off the bed, planting herself squarely before him, ​"what if I moved in with you?"

He'd never refused her before—she prayed this wouldn't be the first time. Though honestly, she already knew how to ensure his compliance.

"No." The word shot out of him like a bullet.

Absolutely not. If she moved in, God only knew what bold moves she'd attempt next. He'd be dead within a week—blue balls were no joke.

His instant rejection made tears spring to her eyes. Was he afraid she'd interrupt his... activities?

"Do you hate me?" she whispered, ducking her head as her vision blurred.

Ryan's resolve wavered at her wounded expression—but yielding now would be self-sabotage.

Clearing his throat, he grasped for logic: ​"A girl living with me? The rumors alone—"

"But Ethan's enlisted! Mom and Dad moved back to the countryside. I'm terrified being alone—the dark, the gas stove... What if there's a fire? Or carbon monoxide poisoning?" She piled on every catastrophic scenario, watching with satisfaction as Ryan's face paled. Bullseye.

Had Ryan Carter stopped to think logically, he'd have realized: If Chloe were truly in danger at home, the Johnsons would never have left her alone. But her doomsday scenarios had short-circuited his reasoning—his heart nearly stopped at the mental images. By the time his pulse steadied, he'd already nodded agreement.

"Let me fix your tie." Beaming at his surrender, Chloe snatched the silk from his hands and knotted it with practiced flair.

As she adjusted the fabric, Ryan caught himself wishing this could be their daily ritual—her smoothing his collar each morning before he left for work.

"There's milk and pastries in the fridge. Eat breakfast," he ordered on his way out.

The moment the door closed, Chloe sprang into action: laundering his sheets, folding freshly dried clothes.

When noon arrived, she didn't wait for Ryan to fetch her—she marched straight down to his office.

After lunch, she dragged him to the department store. Stocking up on toiletries was predictable, but then she steered them toward the lingerie section.

Research mission: Did he prefer conservative cotton? Playful ruffles? Sheer lace? If she cracked his taste, she could weaponize it.