The next challenge: finding my bed. I know it was the one farthest from the door, but the darkness makes distance hard to judge. I stretch my arms out in front of me like a zombie from a B-movie, shuffling forward. My shin connects with something hard—probably the corner of the bed frame—and I bite back a curse.
I sidestep, hands groping through the dark. My fingers brush against fabric—sheets, a comforter. This must be it. I feel along the edge of the bed, finding where the covers are turned down. Perfect.
I grasp the side of the comforter and fling it back with dramatic flair, probably more vigorously than necessary. The soft whoosh of fabric is satisfying. I lean forward, ready to fall face-first into the welcoming embrace of a mattress.
Instead, I land on something decidedly un-mattress-like. Something solid. Warm. Moving.
Human.
My alcohol-slowed brain takes several seconds to process this information. In that time, I’m sprawled across what is undeniably a person’s body. A male person. A male person who smells like woodsy cologne.
Slade.
Oh god.
Suddenly, a deep, sleep-roughened voice cuts through the darkness. “Can I help you?”
2
Slade
THE WEIGHT OF ANOTHER body lands on my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. I’m instantly awake, my medical mind cataloging sensations before I’ve processed what’s happening. Weight distribution suggests male, roughly one hundred seventy pounds. Breathing pattern indicates intoxication. The darkness is absolute, but I don’t need light to know who’s sprawled across me. Owen. My roommate for the weekend. My best friend’s future brother-in-law. And currently, a very drunk man in my bed.
“Can I help you?”
His body tenses, then shifts.
“Oh shit,” he slurs. “Shit. Sorry. Wrong bed.” His voice comes from inches away, warm breath fanning across my face.
Owen tries to roll off me, but his limbs are disconnected from his brain’s commands. His knee slides between my thighs as he attempts to gain leverage. His elbow digs into my shoulder, then slips. He falls forward again, his chest pressing harder against mine.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “M’not usually this…uncoordinated.”
I remain still, allowing him to sort himself out. This close, his scent is stronger—whiskey, yes, but underneath that, something clean. Soap, maybe, or shampoo. His hair brushes against my jaw as he lifts his head.
“Let me help.” My hands find his shoulders in the darkness. His skin is smooth and warm beneath my palms. The professional part of my brain notes his muscle tone—excellent, but not overly developed.
Owen tries again to move, shifting his weight to his left. His hips slide against mine, creating friction that sends an unexpected jolt through my body.
“Fuck, sorry,” he mutters. “I swear I can…stand and everything.”
As he continues his efforts, I find my mind wandering to earlier today—Owen’s face when Ava introduced us. Those blue eyes widening as he looked up at me. The flush that crept across his cheekbones when I caught him staring. The fullness of his lips as they parted in surprise when our hands touched, reaching for his fallen wine glass.
I’d noticed these details, the way I notice everything. People are puzzles of data points to me—heart rates, breathing patterns, micro-expressions. I observe because observation is what keeps my patients alive on the operating table. But with Owen, the observations had lingered, replaying in my mind throughout dinner like a sequence I couldn’t quite diagnose.
Now, with him close to me in the darkness, those insights take on new significance.
His hip bone grinds against mine as he makes another clumsy attempt to extricate himself. The movement sends a new electriccurrent through my lower body—a current that makes no logical sense. I don’t get aroused by men. Never have. My dating history is exclusively women.
Yet here I am, my body responding to the accidental friction of Owen’s movements.
“Almost got it,” he mumbles, though evidence suggests the opposite. His right leg tangles with my left, and he loses balance again. This time when he falls, his face lands in the crook of my neck, his lips brushing my collarbone.
My cock twitches in my boxer briefs.
This is…unexpected.
His breath is hot against my skin, coming in quick, shallow bursts. The weight of him is substantial but not uncomfortable. In fact, it’s strangely satisfying.
