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His hands went to her hips to push her off before he did something foolish, but instead of doing the reasonable thing, his hands lingered, fingers digging into her skin as he held her there.

He ached to thrust up but held back. His fingers twisted into her underwear, the fabric cutting into her skin. The thin fabric was practically translucent now, thoroughly wet. He pulled harder and the sound of the fabric tearing filled the room. He wanted to rip them off entirely, fuck her right there.

“Yes,” Grayson rasped in agony. “You hate me.”

“I don’t hate this,” she said, licking his throat. He groaned. He didn’t hate it either, not one bit, and she could tell. Her mouth hovered in a wicked smile over his skin until she put his chain between her teeth and tugged. It bit into his skin, and his blood roared.

With gargantuan effort, he gently pushed Lucy onto her back and rolled off the bed. He tried to catch his breath, but he could hardly stand, his knees were so wobbly. He went for the door.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, voice hurt. He turned back, taking in the sad expression on her face. He couldn’t bear it.

“No, baby, I’m not,” he said, coming back around the bed. “But why don’t you go to sleep? You’re talking nonsense.”

It was the witch-wine, he knew. He pulled off his shirt, holding it over her head. She lifted her arms, and he dressed her.

Her hand snaked under the shirt, and she pulled out her bra, throwing it at him. The strap whipped against his face.

“Mm, much better,” she said, stretching. She yawned, blinking slowly, getting comfortable. “Come, lie down.”

He did as he was told, and she snuggled up against his chest, apparently no longer ravenous, but sleepy.

He stroked her hair, listening to her breathing deepen.

And as she fell asleep beside him, he couldn’t help but wish this was real.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Lucy

The next morning when Lucy woke, she had absolutely no idea who or where she was. Her head was pounding, and there was a supersweet taste in her mouth, as if she had eaten a pound of candy.

Slowly, she remembered that was one of the hangover effects from witch-wine.

She had been wrong. The hangover was just as bad.

Prying her eyes open, she took in the crumpled sheets of the bed she was lying on. The space next to her was empty but rumpled, and behind a door she could hear a shower running.

Lucy looked down at herself. There was a pair of large socks discarded around her feet, as if she had kicked them off while sleeping, and her legs were completely bare. She was wearing a man’s shirt that did not look familiar in the least, and she had no idea where her bra was.

She lifted the shirt. Her underwear was intact but ripped at the seams. A heated memory burst into her mind: fingers tangled around her hips, tugging the fabric, the sound of it tearing.

The night came back to her in fragments, then in full images: the dinner at Mateo’s for Grayson’s birthday, the soft expression on his face as he made a toast to her. Coming home and having shots … her and Charles laughing and dancing … then …

Oh no.

She clearly remembered taking off her dress and straddling Grayson, how hard he had been beneath her as she rubbed against him. The memory shot a bolt of heat straight between her legs, and she moaned, pressing her thighs together to stop the ache.

But what else had happened? She couldn’t remember.

She looked around. Where was she? It looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place why.

Before she could analyze it further, the door opened. She realized the shower had been off for a few minutes now. Steam billowed out of the doorway, revealing Grayson wiping his wet blond hair with a towel, another towel slung low around his hips.

His chest was bare and gleaming with water. She watched the droplets trickle down, down, down. She had the urge to lick them off his stomach and drag her mouth lower.

She forced her eyes back up and met his gaze just as he noticed she was awake. Grayson paused.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re up.”