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Chris stepped out of the bathroom, towel draped around his waist as he dried off. Normally, he'd walk around shirtless after a shower, but with Zoey downstairs, he reconsidered. Smirking at the thought of how she'd react if he did, he pulled on a simple singlet and a pair of shorts. After running a towel through his damp hair, he left the room, door clicking softly behind him.
As he descended the stairs, slow and casual, he started to hear something. Muffled sounds.
His brows furrowed. What was she up to now?
He picked up his pace, curiosity piqued—only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight in front of him.
Zoey was sprawled out on the couch, legs parted shamelessly. One hand was under her shirt, the other buried in her shorts. Her head was tilted back, eyes shut, soft moans slipping from those lips that had haunted him since the day they met.
"Zoey?" he called out, voice low and shocked.
Her eyes flew open, horror flashing across her face—but something was off. The Zoey he knew would never do something like this, especially not with him still being the supposed villain in her story. Unless...
His eyes darted to the wine cellar.
The door was open. A single glass sat abandoned near the front.
His chest tightened. Dread crawled up his spine as he walked over, trying—and failing—not to hear the continued soft whimpers Zoey was letting out behind him.
He lifted the glass to his nose, inhaling sharply. Then his gaze scanned the bottles—until he spotted the one she must have touched.
Shit.
It wasn't the bottle they'd been drinking earlier. It was the other one—the one he'd warned Stanley to get rid of. The damn thing had the same design, but the content? Completely different.
That wine had been mixed with a male-focused aphrodisiac. Strong enough that Stanley barely ever drank more than half a glass. And judging by the empty cup and Zoey's stubborn streak? She'd probably had two. Or more.
Chris let out a long sigh, rubbing his forehead as a headache started to form. This wasn't supposed to happen.
He glanced back at her—and froze.
She was still going at it, writhing with need, her face flushed and desperate. Even after already reaching her peak, she clearly wasn't anywhere close to satisfied.
Damn it.
Half a glass would've hit him hard. And she drank a whole damn refill. Maybe more.
He sighed again, heavier this time. A part of him—it wasn't even a small part—wanted to go to her, touch her, give her the relief her body was screaming for. But his conscience whispered loud: tomorrow, she'd hate him. Rip him apart.
Still, watching her like this… hearing those breathy moans?
He groaned under his breath.
This night was far from over.
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