Magnus stiffened.
His hands reacted before his mind did—gripping her waist, fingers digging in as her body pressed flush against his. Every inch of him went taut, painfully alert.
Her unfocused eyes lifted to his. “Sophia… Graves,” she murmured, her breath brushing his lips.
Magnus went utterly still.
The sound of his name attached to hers sent a sharp tremor through him.
His grip tightened unconsciously.
“You and I are married,” she went on, slurring softly. She slipped one hand between them, tapping his cheek, then her own. “That means I’m yours now. So it’s Sophia Graves.”
His grip tightened around her waist. His throat went dry, heat flaring behind his eyes as he stared back at her. For some reason, he didn’t hate it. Not in the slightest.
“It’ll be Sophia Magnus Graves,” he muttered, voice low, eyes locked onto hers.
The name sat on his tongue far too easily. The shower continued to rain down on them, the water tracing lines over her face, her collarbone, the curve of her throat. He was acutely aware of how close his mouth was to that pulse.
Her expression shifted.
Just like that, the warmth vanished.
Her brows drew together, lips twisting. “Then I don’t want it.”
She shoved him hard in the chest.
Magnus stumbled back a step, shock flaring first—then irritation, then something hotter and far more dangerous.
“You—” he snapped, jaw clenching as anger surged up fast and vicious. “I should’ve just left you at that damn bar!”
“Yes, you should have,” she slurred, lunging forward again, palms flat against his shoulders as she turned him around and shoved him toward the door. “Get out. Now. Get out!”
Her hands pushed him past the threshold.
Magnus ground his teeth, stumbling out of the bathroom, his suit soaked, hair plastered to his head. He whirled to glare at the door, ready to give her a piece of his mind—but it slammed shut before he could act, leaving him seething.
He stormed toward the closet, yanked off his wet suit, and threw on trousers. With a towel wrapped around his shoulders, he mopped at his hair, dripping water all over the floor.
Just as he reached for the T-shirt he’d thrown on the bed, the bathroom door creaked open.
His eyes flicked automatically—and froze.
Sophia emerged, her hair still damp, clinging to her shoulders. She wore only a towel, which covered her chest and reached just above her thighs. Water dripped down her skin, glistening in the dim light. Even after her bath, her drunk eyes held that mischievous glint.
She stepped closer, holding his gaze. Magnus was rooted to the spot, unable to move, his chest tightening.
Then, without hesitation, she arched up on her tiptoes and kissed him.
He froze, shocked. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Her hands slid to the back of his head, pulling him closer.
The next second, she shoved him back. The back of his leg struck the edge of the bed, and they tumbled together in a tangle of limbs and breath.
Before Magnus could recover, Sophia was already moving—climbing over him with fluid confidence. She straddled him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. Her gaze locked onto his.
Her eyes never wavered as she grabbed his hands with both of hers, pulling them upward. His eyes widened as he tilted his head to see what she was doing. Sophia had spotted the tie he had tossed aside and was now looping it around his wrists, securing him to the bed’s headboard. He strained against the restraints, but the tighter he pulled, the tighter they became under her grip.
“How drunk are you, Sophia?” he rasped, trying to pull free.
