Page 42

How humiliating.

We spent the night together.

I had sex with Zayn Thomas.

No.

Not just sex.

He devoured me, leaving no part of me untouched.

Fragments of last night crash into my mind one after another, each memory more vivid than the last, and the realization makes my stomach twist.

I pushed him until he finally snapped.

Me.

I started everything without a shred of shame, never stopping to think about where it could lead or what it might do to the professional relationship we’ve worked so hard to build.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice rough with sleep as he watches me, his back resting on the headboard. “Are you okay?”

The warmth in his tone only makes all this worse.

Heat floods my face.

Mortified, I scramble out of bed, clutching the sheet tightly around my body as if it can hide what happened between us.

I don’t even want to imagine what I look like after a night of nonstop sex in nearly every position imaginable, only to fall asleep with my makeup on.

“Zayn,” I murmur, bending to gather my dress from the floor.

Domane. (EN: God.)

Why are my bra cups so sticky?

And where the hell are my panties?

No.

I don’t have time to look for them.

I need to leave.

Now.

Every second I stay in this room makes my embarrassment grow heavier, but forcing the words out feels even harder.

“Please forget what happened last night,” I say, unable to meet his eyes. My fingers tighten around the fabric in my hands. “I’m sorry… and I promise it won’t happen again.”

The silence that follows lasts only a moment, yet it feels endless.

I hope he doesn’t think I’m incapable of maintaining a professional relationship with a man.

I hope he doesn’t think this is a normal occurrence whenever I work closely with someone.

Worst of all, I hope he doesn’t believe I took advantage of the fact that he’d been drinking just to get him into bed.

He’s never flirted with me.