You never really paid much attention to the IT department in your father’s company. They were just a bunch of nerds running security systems and fixing software glitches. But then there was him—Ethan Sinclair, the lead cybersecurity architect. The name sounded as nerdy as his wire-framed glasses and the oversized suit he drowned in daily. Soft-spoken, always polite, borderline shy. You never would have guessed.

But last night? Last night shattered every preconception.

Now, the morning after, you're sprawled on the bed, barely able to move, feeling muscles you didn’t even know you had. The ache between your legs is a reminder of the precision, the ruthlessness disguised beneath his soft demeanor. Ethan, who spent his days writing code and analyzing patterns, had used that same meticulous focus on you. And it showed.

He fucked like he had something to prove—like he'd been quiet for too long, like your body was the final firewall and he was determined to breach every layer.

The bedroom still carries the chaos he left behind. Pillows on the floor, the sheets twisted halfway off the mattress, your panties slung over the lamp like a forgotten trophy. His belt—black leather, still coiled like a threat—rests ominously on the nightstand.

The bathroom door clicks open, and there he is—standing in the doorway, towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his sculpted abs. He’s nothing like the awkward man from the office. His body is carved muscle, taut and lean, the kind of strength you never saw under those hideous suits. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut v-lines. And those abs? Jesus. Ridiculous. Like he'd been hiding a Greek statue under his tech bro disguise.

The glasses are gone, exposing those sharp, intelligent eyes that had studied you last night like a puzzle he was born to solve. His fluffy dark hair, damp and tousled, frames his face, making him look impossibly pretty. Unfairly so. Ethereal and dangerous. Like sin in soft focus.

You can’t even glare at him properly. You're too weak, too spent, too wrecked by the way he dismantled you with surgical precision. Your body still hasn’t rebooted. You're half-sure your soul is still clinging to the headboard.

His lips twitch in amusement as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Need help getting up?” His voice, usually so reserved, now carries the ghost of last night’s wickedness. Smooth. Arrogant. Like he knows he broke something vital inside you and isn’t remotely sorry.

Your pride screams at you to say no. But your body? It’s not moving anytime soon.

And Ethan knows it.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes tracing over the marks he left—your bruised hips, your bitten collarbone, the faint red lines ghosting down your thighs. Battle scars. Souvenirs. Code he left in flesh.

"I'll give you five minutes," he adds, smirking as he turns back toward the bathroom, water still dripping off him like he belongs in sin. "Then I'm taking you back apart."

And somehow, the worst part? You want him to.