Christina’s POV
I stumbled into the mansion, tipsy and giggling at so ridiculous Ysolde had just texted .Sothing about a guy trying to deep-throat a corn dog and nearly dying for it.Pure cody gold.
My laughter died instantly when I spotted Hudson. He sat dead center in the living room like the final boss in a video ga, his eyes locked on the door, waiting. The intensity in those blue eyes made my heart skip several beats.
"Shit," Akira whimpered inside .
"Drank way too much," I mumbled, pressing fingers against my temples. "Gonna crash now..."
I wobbled toward the stairs, clinging to the banister like it was my lifeline. Hudson’s eyes followed , and I could feel his stare on my back. Each step felt heavy as he watched .
The second my bedroom door closed behind , I collapsed against it, breathing hard like I’d outrun a predator. Which, technically, I had.
"That was close," I whispered.
"Too close," Akira agreed. "He seed angry."
I jumped into the shower, letting hot water wash away the bar sll. As steam filled the bathroom, my mind filled with images of Hudson that weren’t entirely appropriate.
"Damn you, Ysolde," I muttered, thudding my forehead against the shower tile.
Earlier tonight at the Cider & Smoke, Ysolde had interrogated like I was on trial for "Cris Against Getting Laid," questioning every sexless mont I’d spent under Hudson’s roof.
"So you’re telling you haven’t slept with him?" Ysolde had asked, her martini halfway to her lips. "At all?"
I’d shifted uncomfortably. "Not since that one night at the hotel. Before the fake marriage."
She’d given a look of pure disbelief. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you? You sleep in the sa house as that walking sex dream and don’t jump him? Did your libido die?"
"I don’t sleep in his room," I’d corrected. "And my libido’s fine, thanks."
"Yeah, clearly." She’d rolled her eyes so hard I feared they might get stuck. "That’s why you’re living with a man who looks like sin personified and not riding him like you stole him. I’d be all over that before breakfast and again before bed, just for the cardio."
"I’m not you. And it’s all fake, rember?"
"Fake marriage doesn’t an fake orgasms. Under normal circumstances, you’d have jumped him already. Admit it."
"Maybe," I’d conceded.
Technically, I already had.
"So what’s stopping you now?"
"I don’t want complications."
"You overthink everything. Chrissy, honey, I love you like pack, but you’re a total coward. You move slower than... what’s a really slow animal?"
"Tortoise?"
"Slower than a constipated tortoise. Life’s short. You like him, right?"
"’Like’ is stretching it—"
"Fine. You like his body?"
"Well, yeah. I have functioning eyes."
"Are you hung up on anyone else?"
"No."
"Is he?"
"I haven’t asked."
"That ans no. So what are you waiting for? Go ho, rip his pants off, and ride him like you’re in the Kentucky Derby. And if you need pointers, I’ve got so videos—"
That’s when the bar’s speakers had crackled with an announcent they were closing early.
Now I flopped onto my bed in an oversized t-shirt, still hearing Ysolde’s advice echoing in my head.
"Damn you, Ysolde," I groaned into my pillow. "Could’ve at least sent the instructional video."
My traitorous mind had already started creating its own movie starring Hudson Laurent.
A knock at my door nearly gave a heart attack.
"Luna Christina," Geoffrey called softly. "I’ve brought lemon water and pain relievers in case you need hydration. May I co in?"
I quickly composed myself. "Thanks, Geoffrey. Door’s open."
When the door swung open, it wasn’t Geoffrey standing there. Hudson took the tray from the butler’s hands and strolled into my room like he owned it. Which, technically, he did.
Our eyes locked in silent combat. My phone slipped from my nerveless fingers and smacked square in the face.
"Fuck," I muttered, rubbing my cheek. Perfect. A bruise to match my wounded dignity.
"Just put the tray down, please. I’ll drink it later."
No response.
I turned slowly to look at him.
Hudson remained standing there, two steps from my bed, his eyes intense and unreadable. He said absolutely nothing.
I rolled over and buried my face in the duvet. "Ugh, migraine. So tired. Passing out now."
Please leave. Please just go.
I lay motionless, barely breathing. The tray clinked as he set it on my nightstand, but I heard no footsteps walking away. Just silence. Terrible, weighted silence.
My heart hamred so loudly I was certain he could hear it. Each second stretched into eternity.
Nearly suffocating, I risked a peek in the wardrobe mirror.
His gaze was fixed firmly on my lower half. I suddenly rembered I was wearing only an oversized t-shirt. No underwear. And when I’d flopped onto the bed, the hem had ridden up to mid-thigh. Exactly where Hudson’s eyes were locked.
He wasn’t moving. Just watching. The intensity of his stare felt like actual hands caressing my exposed skin. I couldn’t fix my shirt without acknowledging I knew he was looking. That I cared.
So I played dead. A half-naked, mortified corpse.
After what felt like forever, he moved. I tensed, but all he did was step forward and gently pull my blanket up over . He tucked in like a child, though his lingering touch suggested anything but paternal feelings.
"Good night, Christina," he murmured, his voice low and rough.
Then he was gone.
I groaned into my pillow, my body on fire.
"You should have said sothing," Akira whined.
"Like what?" I muttered. "’Please stop looking at my ass’ or ’Want to join ?’"
"I vote for the second option," Akira replied cheekily.
I threw another pillow over my head, trying to smother both my embarrassnt and the heat pooling low in my belly.
Sleep was going to be impossible tonight.
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