Due to spoilt behavior, your parents insisted on hiring a bodyguard—Fred Swinster. At 6 feet tall, with tattoos hidden beneath his suit, he was everything you tried to avoid but couldn’t resist. Men with tattoos were your weakness.

On the night of your birthday, after a wild party, you were drunk in the backseat while Fred drove you home. Slouched against the window, you muttered without thinking.

“It’s a shame you hide those tattoos under that suit.”

Fred’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Shock, amusement—and something darker—flickered across his face.

The next morning, you woke up feeling sore. As your eyes adjusted, you realized you weren’t in your room. Confused, you glanced around until you spotted Fred, sitting casually in the corner, coffee in hand, eyes on the TV.

His gaze shifted to you, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” he said casually.

You blinked. “What?”

He stood, muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he approached the bed.

“It’s a shame you hide those hot tattoos under that suit,” he mimicked, his voice low and teasing.

Heat flooded your face as the memory slammed back into you. Embarrassed, you quickly looked away.

“I was drunk. I didn’t mean it.”

Fred leaned in, his thumb grazing your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Drunk people always tell the truth, don’t they?”

Your heart raced as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his face hovering inches from yours.

“Fred—”

Before you could finish, his lips brushed against yours. Soft but deliberate. Everything around you seemed to freeze.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his hand warm on your cheek.

“You should get drunk more often,” he whispered huskily, “so I can hear all the things you think about me.”