Little Rose

Hell. Fighting a hangover of this magnitude is absolute, unadulterated hell.

I open my eyes with tremendous difficulty, immediately wincing as a terrible, blinding brightness violently pierces my retinas. A loud, skull-pounding ache reverberates behind my temples, making me groan in absolute agony. I try to turn to the side, burying my face back into the pillows so my heavy head doesn’t hurt anymore, but a sudden, terrifying realization violently kicks me in the chest. I jolt, my eyes snapping wide open in sheer panic as I practically launch myself into a sitting position.

This isn’t my room. I am lying in a completely strange, unfamiliar bed.

"Oh, no," I breathe out, my voice raspy and completely dry.

My trembling hand runs over the crisp, high-thread-count white sheets. I let out another pathetic grunt, throwing my back against the expensive mattress. Damn it. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I try to piece together the fragmented, chaotic mess in my brain, and the crushing, suffocating memories of the previous night immediately crash down upon me with the force of a speeding train.

I had bought ingredients to bake a pie. I had gone over to Nolan’s house to surprise him. I remember the exact, traumatic sight of pushing that bedroom door open and catching Nolan, my boyfriend, fully naked in bed with Chloe. The sharp, suffocating betrayal that had immediately seized my chest. I remember fleeing the apartment, desperately attempting to drown that agonizing pain in copious amounts of harsh booze at a random bar. And then, the confusing, unbelievable reality of meeting Desmond Sterling there.

Desmond. My father’s absolute best friend. My boss.

I finally understand why I ended up inside Desmond Sterling’s private bedroom. But of all the millions of people I could have run into last night, did it seriously have to be him?

Forcing myself up from the comfortable mattress, I swing my bare legs over the edge of the bed and tentatively glance into the nearby full-length mirror. I am horrified to realize I am a total, disheveled mess. My eyes are heavily smeared with running black makeup, making me look like a tragic raccoon. My hair is a wild, tangled bird's nest, and I am wearing absolutely nothing on my physical body except for a massive, white men's button-down shirt. The luxurious fabric hangs completely loose off my shoulders and dangerously stops right at my mid-thigh.

"Great, Rosalie... just great," I mumble into the quiet room.

I entirely ignore the sheer chaos of my appearance. My mouth feels like it is stuffed with dry cotton, and I am desperately hunting for caffeine to cure this splitting headache. Cautiously, I sneak out of the bedroom, walking on my tiptoes to hunt for coffee. I pray to whatever higher power is listening that Desmond has already left for the company, sparing me the great, unbearable humiliation of facing him right now.

But I freeze completely in my tracks the second I turn the corner.

Desmond is still here. He is casually leaning against the sprawling kitchen island, peacefully drinking from a dark ceramic mug. The morning sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, brilliantly highlighting the fact that he is shirtless. His sculpted, deeply defined abs are fully exposed to the morning light, perfectly showcasing the rigid eight-pack and the deep V-line disappearing dangerously beneath the low waistband of his sweatpants.

When his piercing green eyes finally pause on my freezing figure, he is in the middle of swallowing a mouthful of his coffee. His prominent Adam’s apple bobs smoothly with the motion. He slowly lowers his mug, a deeply attractive, knowing smirk lifting the corner of his lips.

Trying my absolute best to act casual despite the loud hammering of my heart, I force a completely fake smile and move closer to the island. I stretch my body across the wide kitchen counter to grab a clean mug and reach for the coffee pot. But as I stretch forward, my innocent movement causes the oversized white shirt to dangerously ride up my thighs, exposing an indecent amount of my bare skin and the curve of my hips.

I acutely catch his gaze. His piercing green eyes deliberately trail down the exposed curve of my hips and trace the bare length of my thighs with an intense, burning heat. But the second I look back up at him, he quickly averts his gaze, clearing his throat awkwardly and taking a generous, deliberate sip of the bitter coffee.

His intense gaze makes a strange, sudden heat pool in my stomach, even if he didn't mean to look.

Feigning complete innocence to combat the heavy tension, I boldly reach out my hand. I brazenly run my manicured fingernails directly over the stiff, hard ridges of his eight-pack, feeling the incredible, rock-solid muscle contracting instantly beneath my fingertips.

"What wonderful arms!" I playfully comment, squeezing his bicep with exaggerated admiration.

A sarcastic, knowing smile immediately plays on Desmond's lips. "I work them to be," he replies smoothly.

He awkwardly clears his throat again at my bold physical touch, shifting his weight against the marble counter. He looks down at me, murmuring in a low, vibrating tone, "You like my body, huh."

Unabashed by the thick, undeniable tension hanging between us, I heavily tease back, shrugging my shoulders. "It’s good for the eyes, of course I do."

Desmond rubs the back of his neck, breathing deeply as I turn away to pour my coffee. As I take a long, desperate sip of the rich caffeine, I casually gesture to the oversized garment covering my body. "By the way, did you change me? Your shirt looks great on me."

Desmond then casually explains the highly mortifying situation. His voice is flat and blunt. "They called your emergency contact from the bar. Since your father is currently out of town on business, I was officially called as your emergency contact. I had to go pick you up." He pauses, grimacing slightly in disgust. "And yes, I changed you. You had disgustingly thrown up all over yourself during the night. I had to physically strip you naked and wash your clothes because I wouldn't let you anywhere near my bed covered in puke."

I completely freeze, the hot coffee burning my tongue as the weight of his words hits me. Before I can fully process the deep, mortifying humiliation of this powerful, older man completely stripping me naked, Desmond steps dangerously close to me.

His large, muscular arms shoot out, slamming heavily against the back of the couch, physically caging my shoulders. I am completely trapped between the furniture and his towering, imposing frame. He leans in, his face inches from mine, murmuring directly against my sensitive ear.

"What a cocky girl," he breathes.

His husky, deep voice sends a sharp, electric shiver traveling straight down my spine, making the fine hairs on my neck stand up. The scent of his cedarwood cologne aggressively invades my senses, followed immediately by his strict, unyielding command:

"Go get ready. We need to get to work."

Spooked by the sudden, undeniable thrill pooling hot and heavy in my lower belly, I duck under his arm and frantically flee the apartment. I practically sprint out the front door, intensely thankful that my boss is conveniently also my direct neighbor. The hallway is entirely empty, and I take a massive, shaking breath of air before rushing next door to my own unit.

However, the second I enter my own familiar apartment, my fragile sense of safety shatters.

Sitting innocently on my living room couch is my purse. The sight of it instantly triggers a mortifying, aggressive flood of fully suppressed memories from the car ride last night. The fragmented pieces violently snap together.

I remember stumbling into my apartment building. I remember Desmond trying to leave me safely at my door, but I had stubbornly grabbed him. I distinctly remember tightly clinging to his firm, muscular waist with both arms, drunkenly demanding that he take me to his place instead of leaving me in mine.

And then comes the absolute worst memory of all. A memory so vivid it makes my entire face burn with intense, unbearable shame. I vividly remember leaning my face directly into his strong neck. I remember deeply inhaling his masculine, woodsy cologne, feeling the pulse of his vein against my cheek. And then... I actually licked his neck with my tongue!

Groaning loudly in absolute, soul-crushing horror, I drop my hands to my face. I practically sprint to the bathroom and lock myself inside, leaning heavily against the solid wooden door. I am breathing hard, completely overwhelmed by the disastrous reality of my drunken actions.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I push myself off the door and stand before the large bathroom mirror. My reflection is truly pitiful. I look absolutely devastated, but the caffeine is slowly kicking in, and I desperately need to take a much-needed shower to wash the lingering scent of alcohol and Desmond's sheets off my skin.

With trembling fingers, I slowly start unbuttoning his oversized white shirt. The fabric falls open inch by inch, but as it fully parts, my breath suddenly hitches in my throat. I completely freeze at my reflection.

Underneath Desmond’s shirt, I realize with stark horror that I am still wearing the wickedly sheer, highly transparent white lace lingerie I had specifically put on yesterday morning just to please Nolan.

The delicate, thin lace bra is entirely see-through, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. My nipples are perfectly and clearly visible against the transparent white fabric. The matching panties sit dangerously low on my hips, the sheer material barely covering my clit, leaving my entire pelvis fully exposed like a scandalous gift meant to be unwrapped.

I suppress a dark, entirely inappropriate giggle at the twisted irony of it all. I had worn this to surprise my cheating boyfriend, but instead, it was Desmond Sterling who had seen it.

My mind suddenly and involuntarily wanders. I vividly imagine exactly how Desmond must have physically reacted while carefully undressing me out of my vomit-stained clothes. I picture his large, calloused hands slowly peeling off my dress, only to be confronted with this wickedly sheer, highly transparent lace. He had seen everything. He had seen my completely exposed nipples and the thin strip of fabric hiding my clit. He had to physically maneuver around this delicate lingerie to clean me up and slide his massive shirt over my naked body.

The highly provocative thought alone sends an unexpected, wicked rush of heavy heat straight down to my core. A sharp, intense wave of sexual arousal flares aggressively between my legs, making my panties slightly wet with undeniable desire. I gasp softly at the sudden, overwhelming sensation.

Quickly, I press my bare thighs tightly together, physically fighting against my own wild, incredibly inappropriate thoughts. I grip the edge of the bathroom sink, my knuckles turning white as I continue to stare deeply at my flushed reflection in the mirror, entirely terrified by the sudden, fierce awakening of my own desires for a man who is entirely off-limits.

*Oh no, this is dangerous...*