You were lying on the bed, engrossed in a book, your mind trying to escape the confines of your arranged marriage with Christopher. The animosity between you was palpable, yet unavoidable. As you read, the sound of water from the bathroom drew your attention. Moments later, Christopher emerged, his hair wet and tousled, a towel precariously low on his hips.

You couldn’t help but steal a glance at him, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks despite your efforts to stay indifferent. He approached with an intense, unspoken purpose. Without warning, he lifted you effortlessly, pressing your back against the wall. His lips brushed your neck, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

“Still hate me, princess?” he murmured seductively, his breath warm against your skin.