Anya blinked blearily at the figure towering over her. She tried to sit up but swayed, clutching the sheets. "Room service?" she mumbled.
"Do I look like room service?" His tone dripped with disbelief.
Her eyes traced over the hard lines of his chest before she managed a half-smirk. "Hmm. You could pass for dessert."
The man dragged a hand down his face. "Unbelievable." He reached for her arm, intending to haul her up. "Get out."
"No." She slumped back down. "Too comfy."
"Lady, this isn't your room."
"It's mine tonight," she whispered, her voice breaking on the last word. Something raw slipped past her drunken bravado, and for a moment, he paused. He saw it—the pain shadowing her eyes before she turned away.
He should have called security. He should have thrown her out. But instead, when she suddenly lurched forward and vomited all over herself, his instincts betrayed him.
"Damn it." He cursed under his breath, guiding her toward the bathroom. She clung to him weakly, murmuring apologies.
For someone who claimed not to care, his touch was surprisingly gentle as he cleaned her up, draping a towel around her trembling shoulders.
When she looked up at him, eyes glossy with unshed tears, something in his chest tightened.
"You'll forget me tomorrow," she slurred, lips quivering. "Everyone does."
His jaw clenched. He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong—but instead, when she leaned closer, he didn't push her away.
Her lips brushed his.
And against his better judgment, he kissed her back.