POV Noelle
I've officially lost my fucking mind.
That's the only explanation for why I'm standing in my kitchen at 11:47 PM wearing sleep shorts that barely qualify as fabric and a tank top with no bra, hunting down my bodyguard like some kind of sexually frustrated predator.
I should’ve gone to bed an hour ago.
But instead I’m trying to pretend like I’m here for a glass of water and not to provoke the man who’s been avoiding me like I’ve got the plague—or worse, a personality.
The kitchen is dark except for the under-cabinet lighting, casting everything in this golden glow that makes me feel like I'm in some kind of seduction movie.
Which, let's be honest, I basically am.
My tank top clings to my skin, and the air is thick with something electric. It’s not heat. Not really. It’s him.
Owen.
Shirtless. At the sink. Forearms flexed, jaw tight, holding a mug like he might crush it with sheer willpower.
Jesus Christ, the man has incredible forearms.
This is it. My big finale. Weeks of wardrobe warfare, strategic stretches, “accidental” brushes and perfectly timed thirst traps—and tonight I go full send.
"Couldn't sleep," I announce, padding barefoot across the cold tile.
He doesn't turn around. "Noelle."
"Owen." I move closer, close enough to smell his cologne mixed with something that's purely him. "You're up late."
"Go back to your room."
"I'm thirsty."
"There's water in your bathroom."
"I want juice."
"There's juice in the fridge in the morning."
I open the refrigerator anyway, making sure to bend over just enough that my shorts ride up. "Hmm. What about milk?"
"Noelle." His voice is a warning wrapped in barely controlled restraint. "Go. To. Your. Room."
His voice is low. Dangerous. It should scare me. It doesn’t.
Instead of obeying, I close the fridge and turn to face him. His knuckles are white where they grip the mug, and there's a muscle ticking in his jaw that makes my pulse quicken.
“Why?” I ask, stepping closer. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Owee?”
That gets him.
His shoulders tense. His fingers flex around the mug. Slowly, he sets it down and turns. His eyes rake over me in a way that makes every inch of skin hyper-aware.
He doesn’t even have to touch me, I can feel it.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says.
I tip my head, letting my hair fall to one side. “You make it sound so dramatic. I’m just walking around my house.”
“In a glorified strip of fabric that barely qualifies as shorts.”
“Funny,” I smirk, “I don’t remember you being so concerned about my wardrobe before.”
“I wasn’t looking at you then,” he growls.
“And now?” I take another step, close enough that I can smell his cologne—clean and dark and addictive. “Are you looking at me now, Owee?”
He snaps.
One second I’m teasing, the next my back hits the marble counter hard.
My gasp sticks in my throat. He’s in front of me, towering, his arms caging me in. His whole body vibrates with restraint that’s about two seconds from shattering.
“You want to play games, little girl?” His voice is a rasp now, low and lethal. “You’ve been parading around this house like a goddamn invitation. You think I don’t see you? Every short skirt, every stretch, every look, every fucking sound you make purposely.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing?” he snaps. “Think I can’t smell how badly you want to be fucked?”
I can’t breathe. Not properly. His body is so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes.
"Testing me for weeks," he growls, his face inches from mine. "Seeing how far you can push before I snap. Well, congratulations, angel. You won."
My entire body is buzzing like it’s about to come undone. This is what I wanted. This—his control, his fury, the tension crackling between us.
But now that I have it, I’m trembling.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I whisper, but even I hear the shake in my voice.
He laughs, dark and humorless. “Don’t play innocent. You don’t have a clue what you’re asking for. You think this is some slow-burn love story? That I’m going to kiss you under fairy lights and tell you how beautiful you are?”
He leans closer, and I feel his breath on my mouth.
“I don’t do sweet, angel. And for sure I don’t do gentle.”
My breath catches.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing my jaw. Then he grips my throat—firm, not hard. Enough to make me freeze.
Enough to feel that spark jump straight between my legs.
“You don’t even know what you’re tempting,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “You want to be ruined? Come on, say it.”
But I don’t say anything. I can’t, my voice won’t come.
He slides his hand from my throat down my chest, pausing over the swell of my breast. Then lower, over the waistband of my shorts. His fingers slip beneath, slow, deliberate, dragging a shiver from my spine.
My thighs clench involuntarily. I’m soaked. Embarrassingly so.
"I don't do kissing and tender words and soft touches." His voice drops to a whisper. "What I do would break a little virgin like you in half."
The word hangs between us like a confession I never meant to make.
Virgin.
Fuck…
My eyes widen, and I watch Owen's expression shift from anger to realization. The hunger in his eyes gives way to something else—surprise, concern, maybe even a hint of protectiveness.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "You really are a virgin."
It’s not a question.
I can’t speak. Can’t even blink.
I want to deny it. Want to laugh it off, make some sarcastic comment about assumptions. But the words stick in my throat because he's looking at me like he's seeing me for the first time.
Owen’s hand jerks back like I burned him. He steps away, one, two feet then three, like distance will fix the damage already done.
“For fuck’s sake…” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "I thought you were just playing at being innocent. But you actually are, aren't you?"
Heat crawls up my neck, and I want to disappear into the fucking floor. "So what if I am?"
"So everything," he snapped. "You have no idea what you're trying to seduce, angel. And you're sure as hell not ready for it."
"You don't know what I'm ready for."
"I know you're twenty-one years old and think you want something you can't even comprehend."
His eyes fixed on my lips, and I swear to God, I might stop breathing.
"I know you're daddy's little princess who's never had a man's hands on her body. Never been touched by someone who knows exactly how to make it hurt so good you'll beg for more."
My pulse is hammering so loud I'm surprised he can't hear it. "Owen..."
"I know you think you want me to be your first, but you don't understand what that means. What I am." His eyes are intense, searching. "You someone who'll worship your body like it's something precious."
"What if I don't?"
"Then you're lying to yourself."
He steps back for another feet, and I immediately feel the loss of his warmth.
I straighten slowly, hugging my arms around myself. “Why does that change anything?”
He looks at me like I just said the dumbest thing on earth. “Because you’re not a game I can afford to lose.”
My voice is barely audible. “You already touched me.”
“Yeah,” he bites out. “And that was a mistake. One I’m not making again.”
The shame crashes over me like a wave—hot, stinging. But underneath it, something darker simmers.
Something hurt and furious and alive.
“I didn’t ask you to babysit me,” I snapped. “You’re not my father, you’re not my keeper. You’re just some guy doing a favor.”
"Go to bed, Noelle.” His voice hardens. “Before I forget why I'm supposed to be protecting you instead of corrupting you."