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“I never claimed to be a gentleman, Thalia,” he answers without the slightest trace of shame. His voice is smooth, almost lazy, but laced with a certainty that makes my skin prickle. “I don’t have the time to court, to chase someone, and I don’t want to.” He winks at me casually, like every word he says should be taken as law.

Then, in one swift motion, he closes the distance between us, stopping a breath away from my lips. My lungs stop working. I’m holding my breath, convinced he’s about to kiss me. My body gravitates toward him instinctively, pulled like a moth to a flame.

But the kiss never comes. Instead, his lips curve into a smile. He shakes his head, amused, and before I can recover, he pushes off the counter, slipping easily away from me.

I’m left breathless and stunned, watching as he strolls to the bar in the living room. He pours himself a glass of whiskey like nothing just happened, while I’m still standing there, my heart racing… like he’d kissed me senseless.

I thought he was going to kiss me. Worse, I was ready to let him. God, I wanted him to.

Heat had already pooled low in my belly, anticipation buzzing under my skin. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep these past weeks. Or maybe it’s something far simpler—my body, desperate to know what sex feels like, and no longer caring who delivers it. Those are the only logical explanations.

He looks at me over the rim of his glass, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I told you what I want from you, Thalia. One night of sex, no attachments, no responsibilities after. Tomorrow morning, we go back to our lives like nothing happened.”

He pauses, taking a sip, letting the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating, every second dragging like an eternity.

“If you accept, the bedroom’s down there.” His chin lifts in the opposite direction, toward the elevator. “If not, you’re free to leave.”

Dismissed. Just like that. The nerve.

A laugh bubbles up my chest, sharp and disbelieving. Of course. This is Ethan Hardy. As he himself admitted, he doesn’t have time, and he doesn’t care to chase anyone. Women fall at his feet—or straight into his bed—eager to give him whatever he demands. Demands, no asks. Because that’s how he’s used to living. Always getting exactly what he wants.

So why am I still here? Everything about him is absurd—his arrogance, his detached way of speaking, the selfish rules he lives by. I don’t want to have anything to do with him.

But then a thought slips in, dangerous and cutting—that’s what he thinks about me. He expects me to be intimidated, to walk away. That I can’t handle his proposition. That he’s already won.

And just like that, the decision is made.

I flash him a sweet smile, playful, almost innocent, and wink. Then I walk to where I left my backpack by the door.

His eyes follow me, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. I can feel the weight of his stare on every step I take.

I pick up the bag, slide my phone inside, then cross the room with measured steps, my hips swaying enough to make sure he notices. I leave the bag on the couch and head toward the hallway, toward the bedrooms.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Ethan,” I say, not bothering to turn my head. My voice drips with challenge. “It would be disappointing to find out you don’t know how to treat a virgin.”

Then I disappear down the hall, my heels clicking against the hardwood, each step more confident than I actually feel. I choose the farthest door without hesitation. Knowing him, it has to be his bedroom.

The satisfying sound of him choking on his whiskey echoes in the living room. I almost laugh.

He thought he had won. The man doesn’t even know the rules of this game yet.

“What the fuck, Thalia?” His voice snaps behind me when I push open the door and step inside the dark, masculine space. The scent of cedarwood and his cologne hits me instantly, clean, intoxicating.

Bingo. His bedroom.

“Thalia, look at me,” he demands, his footsteps closing in fast now, no trace of that lazy detachment left. His hand lands firmly on my shoulder, spinning me to face him. His grip is warm, almost searing. “Repeat what you just said.”

I turn slowly, my back inching toward the bed, the mattress brushing against the back of my thighs. My heart drums against my ribs, but I don’t let it show. My lips curl into a playful smile.

“What? That I’m a virgin?” I ask with wide-eyed innocence, letting the words drip from my tongue like honey.

The atmosphere tenses. It’s subtle at first, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it. But I do.

His jaw flexes, eyes dropping briefly to my mouth, then lower, like he’s recalculating something, like everything he said out there is suddenly being rewritten in real time. His breathing changes, deeper, slower—forced.

For the first time since I met him, Ethan Hardy hesitates.

His hand slides from my shoulder down my arm, but instead of pulling me closer, he pauses halfway, fingers hovering like he’s not sure whether to touch me at all.