𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

37.

What does he mean by "he doesn't have me"? And that ominous 'yet'? Has he seen through me? He might have, but even if that’s true, it doesn’t add up for him to lay his cards out so openly. Something’s off here.

Right, time to change the subject before I spiral into overthinking. "Why were you drinking?" I ask, genuinely curious. It’s an actual mystery because after the drama with Mrs. Lozero at NextGen Pharmaceuticals, we came home, had a simple dinner, and he went back to being his usual brooding, silent self. We went to sleep, no fuss, no sudden emotional breakdowns. So when exactly did he manage to start hitting the bottle?

It’s weird. Not that I ever expect normal from him, but him getting drunk wasn’t exactly on my bingo card for the night.

It’s even weirder that I can’t push him off. There are only two logical explanations: either Faye’s body is just too weak (because in my original world, I was practically a gym queen), or this damned villain is too strong for his own good. Has he finally ditched his bullied-victim facade for good?

"Lemme make you some sobering soup," I say, tapping his nose in an attempt to lighten the mood—which, considering our current provocative position, is kinda laughable.

But does he move? Nope. Instead, he's like a clingy koala that refuses to let go.

His brows furrow in a way that’s both frustrating and… well, sexy. Of course, they are. Why wouldn't they be? "Why do you keep trying to push me away, Faye?"

"You're drunk," I answer simply, though I get the distinct feeling he’s talking about more than just the physical push. Great, now we’re getting into emotional territory. Typical.

But he doesn’t seem to be listening anymore, lost in his own thoughts. How is this man holding himself above me like this for so long? Is he even human? My arms would have given out ages ago.

"Faye," he drawls, saying the name like it’s a melody, the letters slipping off his tongue too smoothly. It makes me jealous that it's not actually my name.

"Mhmm?" I respond, not expecting a coherent answer anymore. He’s too far gone to reason with. At this point, all I can hope for is that he keeps talking and doesn’t try anything stupid. Falling back asleep? Yeah, that’s officially off the agenda.

"Faye, Faye," he murmurs, over and over again, his frown deepening with each repetition, as if the name itself is a puzzle he can’t solve.

And now I’m stuck under him, wondering how exactly I got here, listening to him whisper someone else's name like a lovesick idiot. Lovely.

Then, as if struck by some grand epiphany, his eyes light up—reflecting the faint glow from outside like stars scattered across the sky. For a moment, I think, Is he even real? Because seriously, how can a man be this beautiful? But, if I’m being honest, it’s not just his looks pulling me in. It feels deeper, like we’re connected on some cosmic level, like we have soul ties or something equally dramatic.

"Your name," he says suddenly, like that’s supposed to explain everything.

Humoring him, I raise an eyebrow. "What about my name? Isn’t it pretty?"

He hesitates, looking genuinely puzzled before answering, "Not pretty."

Wait—excuse me? Did this man just insult my name? The nerve. He quickly glances at my face, as if to gauge whether I’m offended. Honestly, if it were my real name, I’d probably be a little hurt, but since I’m playing the part of someone else, I go ahead and put on my best sad-girl face. Ugh, the things I do for this mission. I swear, I am so done with this ridiculous world.

Sensing that I’m definitely bothered, he stumbles over an explanation. "It doesn’t suit you."

I blink. What does he mean, it doesn’t suit me?

Is he drunk and delusional now?

"Then what would suit me?" I ask, curiosity piqued. Any earlier plans of turning him into a law-abiding citizen just fly right out the window.

He furrows his brows, clearly conflicted. "I don’t know," he mutters, looking both confused and yet oddly certain that ‘Faye’ is definitely not it.

Before I can process the utter absurdity of the situation—or defend the honor of my fake name—he suddenly leans in and dives straight for my lips.

Wait—what?!

His lips press firmly against mine, warm and insistent. He tugs at the blanket between us, and I'm still trying to figure out how we went from a casual name discussion to this. By the time I snap back to reality, the blanket has already been tossed into some distant corner of the room.

His hands find my waist, strong and commanding. With one effortless motion, he pulls me on top of him, leaving me straddling his lap. His lips continue to devour mine, not just kissing but exploring, like he's trying to commit the feel of them to memory.

I'm breathless, heart racing, and frankly, a little too caught up in the moment to process the speed of how everything's unfolding. The room feels warmer, his body firm beneath mine, and I can feel every movement, every slight shift, as his hands grip my waist, grounding me in the here and now.

My body reacts on instinct, my teeth tugging on his soft, firm lips, grazing them just enough to feel their delicate texture, knowing that the slightest bit of pressure could make him bleed—but I don't want him to. Not yet.

His breath grows ragged, each warm exhale brushing against my face, turning my already flushed cheeks into what I imagine must be a deep crimson. His hands move with a slow deliberation, pausing at the hem of my shirt before slipping underneath. The moment his fingers press against my cool, bare skin, a shiver runs through me. His touch is molten, tracing paths of heat up my spine, igniting nerves I didn't know could feel this good. I'm not wearing a bra, and he knows it.

His hands glide over my back, possessive, exploring every inch like he's a traveler lost in a desert, thirsty for more. Each caress sends sparks shooting down my body, pulling a quiet gasp from my lips.

His mouth leaves mine only to trail a series of feather-light kisses along my cheeks. He lingers at my eyelids, my brows, my nose- each touch is soft, reverent, yet electric, as if he's memorizing every feature with his lips.

My body responds in ways I can't control, a slow-burning heat gathering between my thighs as I straddle him. The pressure of his hardness beneath me is unmistakable, pressing into my thighs, but he's in no hurry. His movements are methodical, almost teasing, as he savors every inch of my skin, making sure to leave no part of me unexplored. It's intoxicating, this slow burn, like he's pulling me apart piece by piece without saying a single word.

A/N: kudos to smut authors I always thought it was easy but like dayum this is not easy AT ALL and as always thank you for reading.
~VOTE, COMMENT, SHARE AND FOLLOW~