POV Noelle
"You did what?!" Jamie's voice slices through the campus hallway like a goddamn megaphone attached to a nuclear siren.
Heads turn. Doors crack open. I can feel twenty pairs of eyes on us, and all I want is for the ground to swallow me whole.
"Jesus Christ, Jamie, tell the whole world why don't you," I mutter, yanking him by the sleeve and dragging us into the nearest alcove.
"Noelle." Jamie's eyes are the size of dinner plates, hands clutched to his chest like he's fending off cardiac arrest. "Are you telling me that Owen Tate walked in on you butt-ass naked this morning?"
"Not walked," I correct. "Stormed. Splashed me with cold water like I was a house fire. Then saw my boobs. Then ran away like a Victorian gentleman seeing ankles for the first time."
"And he didn't jump you on sight?" Jamie looks personally offended by this travesty of justice. "Nothing? No grabby hands? No accidental towel slips? Not even a dramatic gasp?"
I cross my arms, which does absolutely nothing to help my wounded pride.
"He looked. Trust me, he looked. His eyes went all dark and hungry for about three seconds. Then he bolted out of the room like his dick owed my father money."
Jamie blinks slowly, processing this information. "I mean, technically..."
"Don't say it," I warn, pointing a finger at his face.
He holds up both hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm just saying. The man's loyal to the daddy who signs his checks. You, my love, are forbidden fruit wrapped in designer labels and daddy issues."
"More like caged fruit," I mutter. "Locked in a golden tower with a criminally attractive Disney prince at the gates who won't even acknowledge that I have functioning lady parts."
"Oh, he acknowledges them," Jamie says with absolute certainty. "The question is what he's planning to do about it. Because honey, no straight man runs away from naked Noelle Morris unless he's fighting some serious internal warfare."
The thought sends a little thrill through me that I absolutely should not be feeling. "You think?"
"I know. The man's hanging on by a thread, and you're out here with scissors." Jamie grins wickedly. "Speaking of cutting loose, there's a bonfire party tonight. Drew's hosting it out by the cliffs. Booze, fire, drunk college boys pretending to know how to play guitar."
"Count me in," I say without missing a beat. "Let's go burn something. Preferably my remaining inhibitions."
"That's my girl."
* * *
Night falls fast, and with it, my sense of reason.
I'm standing in front of my full-length mirror, tugging a slinky little black dress over my hips. The fabric clings like a second skin, ending mid-thigh and dipping low enough in the front to be classified as a weapon of mass distraction.
No bra. No panties. Just me, this dress, and enough bad decisions to fuel a small revolution.
I add shimmer to my collarbones for good measure, spritz my favorite perfume between my thighs and fluff my hair like it owes me money.
Looking at my reflection, I barely recognize myself.
This isn't the girl who tutors shelter kids on Saturdays. This isn't even the girl who got rescued from Warren's attempted assault.
This is someone else entirely—someone dangerous and reckless and absolutely determined to push Owen Tate past his breaking point.
The plan is simple: get drunk, get flirty, get Owen so worked up he either snaps and kisses me or finally admits he wants me.
Either outcome works.
Then, of course, comes the voice of doom.
"Where are you going?" Owen's voice snaps like a whip from the hallway, thick with suspicion and something darker.
"Out," I reply sweetly, slipping in an earring and admiring how the movement makes the dress shift dangerously. "Bonfire party. You know, college kid stuff. Drinking, dancing, gossiping."
"Then I'm coming with you."
I turn slowly, deliberately, letting him see just how little of this dress actually covers me. His eyes track down my body and back up, jaw clenching like he's in physical pain.
"Whatever you like, Daddy Tate," I say innocently, brushing past him close enough that my bare arm touches his. "I do self-defense now, remember? Don't you think I'm capable of surviving some guy with a man bun and a bong?"
"You're not that great yet," he mutters, but his voice is rougher than usual.
I smirk over my shoulder. "Neither are you, apparently."
The drive to the beach is silent except for the tension crackling between us like live electricity.
Owen grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white, and I spend the entire twenty minutes pretending to fix my lip gloss while watching him watch me in the rearview mirror.
The bonfire rages against the night sky, sending sparks flying up toward the stars like tiny prayers or curses.
People dance barefoot in the sand, red cups in hand, bodies glowing gold under the flames.
It's exactly the kind of scene that would give my father an aneurysm and Owen a stress ulcer.
Perfect.
Jamie passes me a red cup filled with something sweet and evil, and I don't ask questions. The first sip burns, the second goes down smoother, and by the third, my skin is buzzing with liquid courage.
Three drinks in and the world feels like velvet.
Boys flirt with varying degrees of success. Girls laugh too loud at jokes that aren't funny. Someone's brought a guitar, and a drunk rendition of "Wonderwall" is already traumatizing nearby seagulls.
I dance in a loose circle with people whose names I don't know and don't care to learn.
Drink sloshing, hair whipping in the salt-tinged wind, feeling too good to care that Owen is standing ten feet back with his arms crossed, eyes tracking my every movement like a predator studying prey.
"You look like trouble tonight," Jamie catches me by the wrist and spins me, nearly sending my drink flying.
"I am trouble," I grin, downing what's left in my cup and immediately reaching for another.
The night blurs into a kaleidoscope of laughter, music, and liquid confidence.
Another drink. A twirl around someone's shoulders. A girl throwing up in the dunes while her friends hold her hair.
Owen's gaze getting darker, more dangerous, more completely focused on me.
I'm in the middle of attempting to teach a guy named Brad how to do a proper spin when I stumble, legs wobbling like a newborn giraffe.
A large, familiar hand grabs my elbow, steadying me.
"That's enough," Owen's voice growls into my ear, low and commanding. "You're done."
"I'm not drunk," I try to argue, but the words come out slurred and sugary.
"You're wasted, Noelle."
"I'm fu-un."
"You're embarrassing."
His hand tightens around mine and he starts dragging me through the crowd, muttering something about irresponsible behavior and brain cells that I clearly don't possess.
I giggle the entire way to the car because apparently my filter has completely abandoned the ship.
He opens the passenger door with more force than necessary. I climb in like a tipsy kitten, all uncoordinated limbs and zero dignity.
When he takes his seat, I slowly turn around and begin to crawl.
"Jesus Christ," Owen hisses. "What are you doing?"
I crawl right over the center console, somehow managing not to flash the entire parking lot in the process, and settle myself squarely on his lap, knees on either side of his thighs.
His body goes rigid beneath me, every muscle tense.
I press my forehead against his, close enough that our breaths mingle, close enough to see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, close enough to feel dangerous.
"I'm not wearing panties," I whisper against his lips.