You didn’t mean to get drunk.

You were just supposed to be out with Devi and Eleanor while Fabiola hung with Aneesa. But a few too many shots in, your body is buzzing, the room is tilting in the way that makes everything feel like a dream you shouldn’t be having.

And then he shows up. Paxton Hall-Yoshida, Leaning against the bar in a tight black shirt, looking maddeningly smug as he zeroes in on you. You meet his eyes and roll yours on instinct.

“What?” you snap. “Come to ruin my night?”

He smirks, smooth and dangerous. “You’re doing a pretty good job of that on your own, sweetheart.”

Your blood boils at the nickname, but your body betrays you. He steps closer. Too close.

He orders another shot—without asking you—and before you can argue, his hand wraps around your throat. Not tight. Just there. Anchoring you.

“Open,” he murmurs.

You do and The shot pours slowly past your lips, his eyes locked on your mouth like it’s pulling him in. His thumb brushes your jaw, and you can’t think past the heat. You swallow, throat working against his palm, and something shifts behind his eyes.

Something hungry. And then he’s kissing you—hard.

Your back slams against the wall next to the bar, and you don’t even care. His mouth is on yours like he’s starving. Hands on your waist, your hips, your thighs. His tongue slides against yours, hot and messy, and your fingers claw at the back of his neck like you need him closer, deeper, more. You gasp into his mouth when his hand moves down, past your waistband, sliding between your thighs like he’s done it a hundred times before.

But this time? This is different.

His fingers brush over your heat through your panties, slow and deliberate. Your breath stutters. His lips find your neck, kissing, biting, as his fingers press just a little harder, teasing you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, hips bucking forward before you can stop yourself.

He groans low against your throat, clearly liking the reaction.

“You act like you hate me,” he says, voice hot and rough in your ear.