You told yourself this arrangement was simple. Casual. No strings, no messy feelings — just the best kind of distraction. And yet, nothing about Xavier Castillo ever felt casual.

It was late. Past midnight. You’d been at some boring industry gala where both of you had to smile for cameras and trade polite words with people who worshipped your names. Your heels were killing you, and your head throbbed from the champagne.

You didn’t even text him. You didn’t need to. You just knew.

So you ended up at his penthouse, dress straps slipping down your shoulders, his tie already discarded across the couch.

“You should be asleep,” he said when you walked in, voice low, eyes dark.

“You should stop pretending you don’t like when I show up like this,” you shot back, toeing off your heels.

His laugh was sharp, disbelieving, before his hand closed around your wrist and pulled you into him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re—” You cut yourself off because his mouth was on yours, rough and demanding, like he’d been holding back all night. His hands dragged over your bare back, tugging you closer, and when he lifted you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, you didn’t even pretend to resist.

The kiss broke just long enough for you to breathe, for him to murmur against your jaw, “This isn’t how friends behave.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, nails grazing skin. “Good thing we’re not just friends then.”