Joanne leaned forward, still sitting on the bed, and shoved at the drawer. JD held it open.
"You have
wild
preferences, Ms. Smith." His voice was amused, tinged with something almost
mocking
. He cocked his head, eyeing the scandalous item inside. "What is that... about eight inches? And the girth... Is that even
realistic
?"
He smirked, pretending to reach toward the
big, long, pink pleasure thingy
.
Joanne rolled her eyes, her face
burning
. His scent was too close—too distracting. She slapped his hand away, but he didn’t budge.
"It’s pretty realistic," she muttered. "It might be rare, but some men have it this... big..."
Her stomach clenched.
Liam did.
The thought sent another wave of heat to her face—
not
the kind she welcomed. Humiliation prickled under her skin, creeping up her neck. Between the fever and sheer mortification, she felt like she might
pass out
. But before that, she
had
to close the damn drawer.
She pushed harder, but JD still held firm, unmoved.
He had
so
many questions.
Where did she even
get
this idea?
P*rn?
How often did she
use
it? Was it a regular habit? Or was she just... extra?
Was she even getting any?
Had she been without a boyfriend for
that long
?
Before he could voice a single thought, something else stole his attention—Like a guard dog distracted by a dangling steak, JD went silent.
His gaze dropped—Lower.
And landed directly on her chest.
She was only wearing a slip...And she was
bending down
...
His brain
short-circuited
.
His hand tightened on the drawer. For the first time in his life, JD
understood
what people meant by
temptation
.
She was oblivious to the effect she had on him, still struggling with the drawer, still completely unaware that the thin strap of her slip had slid down her shoulder.
She
hadn’t
noticed. But
he
had.
His jaw locked. His throat went dry.
His body
reacted
.
JD had always prided himself on his self-control.
As a
Winchester
, he was used to women throwing themselves at him—prancing, seducing, doing
anything
to win his attention. Even as a teenager, he never lacked admirers, and as a man, he never
wavered
.
To him, a body was just a
body
.
Fat cells and tissue. Nothing more.
He was
desensitized
to a woman’s naked form.
Until today.
Until
her
.
His body burned in ways it never had before. His mind screamed at him to look away—
but his eyes weren’t listening
.
He was acting like a goddamn
pervert
.
And he
didn’t care
.
He wanted to bury his face in the softness of her chest.
He wanted to inhale her scent, to press her down into the mattress and climb on top of her, to sink deep inside her until nothing else existed—
"Oh,
fuck!
"
Her sharp curse cut through his haze like a blade.
JD jolted, clearing his throat and jerking his gaze to the side—away from the very thing that had just tested every ounce of restraint he had.
Was he caught?
Was he going to see the mortified expression on her face? He didn’t have the guts to see.
Joanne, however, hadn’t noticed JD’s glace. Only her inappropriate attire. She yanked her strap back into place, curling up on the bed, pulling her knees close as though she could shrink into herself and disappear.
She was
never
this careless.
Never.
What the hell was happening to her?
Was she...
getting numb
to JD’s presence?
This was dangerous.
He
was dangerous.
At the end of the day, he was still a
man
. What if he
snapped
?
JD exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t
mean
to make things worse. But he didn’t want to
apologize
either.
If she confronted him—
demanded
an explanation—he could at least
say something
. Maybe even admit that whatever the hell this was between them, it wasn’t
just
an accident.
Instead, since she was not saying anything, he smirked, trying to play it off.
"This is
sexual harassment
, you know." His voice was deliberately light, teasing. "You’re my boss, and this might constitute as—"
"
Sorry!
"
The word shot out of her like a bullet.
JD froze.
He hadn’t expected that.
In this situation, wouldn’t most women
blame
the man? Call him a
pervert
? Berate him for
staring
?
Why the hell was
she
apologizing? What was her thought process?
Joanne tried to stand. Her legs wobbled. JD instinctively stepped forward to steady her, but she twisted away, refusing to look at him.
Her body swayed. She was so damn
vulnerable
—physically, mentally.
"I..."
Her voice cracked.
And then—
The world around her darkened.
JD lunged forward just in time to catch her before she collapsed.
She slumped against him, her strength
gone
, but he had enough for both of them. He carried her effortlessly, placing her back on the bed with more gentleness than he ever thought himself capable of.
She was
light
.
Too light.
"I can carry you up the stairs, Jo," He brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering against her skin longer than they should have.
His heart pounded.
He wanted to do
more
.
To see her lying there, vulnerable and soft, made something inside him
snap
.
He
wanted
her.
Desperately.
And for once in his life—
He wasn’t sure he could fight it.
JD leaned forward, pressing his lips against her cheek.
And that was
not
enough.
The sharp chime of the doorbell yanked Joanne from the depths of unconsciousness.
Her head
throbbed
.
A dull, relentless pain pressed against her skull, pulsing behind her eyes. It felt like she’d been rolled down the
entire
Appalachian Mountain—twice—then tossed into a dryer for good measure.
She groaned, squinting against the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. Her limbs ached, her muscles stiff and sore as if she’d fought a battle in her sleep.
The doorbell rang again.
And again.
Each chime was like a hammer against her skull.
Then, just as her vision cleared, the ringing
stopped
.
Silence.
Her fingers moved instinctively to her face, brushing over her cheek... then her lips.
Something felt
off
.
A strange warmth lingered there, like a ghost of a memory she couldn’t quite grasp. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember.
There was a dream...
A dream where she’d felt
warm
all over. Secure. Protected. Held.
Her stomach clenched.
With a sharp inhale, she shot up.
A rolled hand towel tumbled onto her lap—dried and still faintly warm.
Her gaze flicked to her sides. Two more neatly rolled towels rested beside her, as if they’d been placed there deliberately.
Her brows furrowed.
And then she noticed—
She wasn’t wearing what she had been before.
Her slip was
gone
.
Instead, she was draped in a shirt.
A
man’s
shirt.
JD’s shirt.
The realization hit her like a freight train.
Her breath hitched.
Her fingers trembled as they clutched the soft fabric, her mind racing to piece together the missing fragments.
What the hell happened here?