In the end, Arianna couldn't bring herself to say no. She stayed.

The night hung low, a velvet curtain draped in starlight. Outside, the trees whispered in the breeze, their leaves rustling against the windowpane. Within sixty seconds, Arianna was already regretting her decision.

She watched, frozen, as Maxwell walked over and sat down right next to her. He hadn't bothered with a shirt. His torso was completely bare, exposed with a casual indifference that made her lungs constrict.

She had to hand it to herself. She really had a knack for timing. Both times she’d come over, he’d just stepped out of the shower. If she’d arrived a minute earlier, she might have caught the full, water-slicked spectacle.

Her thoughts spiraled. By the time she realized where her mind was wandering, it was already too late to rein it in. Her cheeks burned. She pressed the back of her hand against her face, trying to play it cool as she reached for her glass of milk.

Maxwell caught her eye, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.

She took a small sip, her fingers pale and slender against the glass. The steam from the milk fogged her vision, clinging to her lashes like dew. The flush on her skin deepened. He couldn't have known that beneath her calm exterior, her heart was stampeding like a wild stallion.

Her peripheral vision was entirely consumed by him. His pecs were defined, his abs a roadmap of taut, powerful muscle. A bath towel hung dangerously low at his hips, held by little more than a prayer. Arianna didn't dare imagine what lay beneath that precarious knot—though, from the subtle outline, her imagination was doing plenty of work on its own.

"Arianna."

The low, playful rumble of his voice snapped her out of the haze. She jerked, her face turning a violent shade of red as she looked up. "What? What is it?"

Maxwell studied her for a beat, his gaze lingering. "Are you hot?"

He didn't need to ask. He could probably see the heat radiating off her skin.

"A-a little."

"I can turn the AC down if you want."

"Yes, please," she managed to choke out.

As he stood up to adjust the thermostat, his back was turned to her. She couldn't tear her gaze away. If his chest was impressive, his back was a masterpiece. He had the silhouette of a natural-born athlete—broad shoulders tapering into a lean, narrow waist. The muscles rippled and coiled with every movement, defined and devoid of an ounce of excess.

He was dangerously, ruinously attractive.

She was still staring, wide-eyed and unblinking, when he turned around. Maxwell didn't hurry back to the sofa. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, relaxed and watchful, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"What are you looking at, Mrs. King? You’ve been very focused."

Arianna’s heart skipped.

The heat flared across her ears and down her neck, turning her into a boiled shrimp. She nearly scrambled off the sofa, her voice coming out in a stuttering mess. "I—I wasn't looking at anything. I was just..."

Maxwell waited, patient and amused. "Just what?"

Just...

She couldn't conjure up a lie fast enough. She closed her eyes in despair, her voice barely a whisper. "If I told you I was looking at the desk behind you, would you believe me?"

"Why look at the desk?"

Maxwell glanced back at the furniture with practiced indifference before strolling toward her. The way he carried himself—so effortless, so nonchalant—made it impossible to tell if he’d bought her pathetic excuse or was just humoring her.

He sat down beside her again. The proximity was a sensory overload.

Arianna didn't dare look up, focusing intensely on her milk.

"Just looking?" he asked, his voice a soft, velvet hum.

Arianna stayed silent. What was she supposed to say?

Maxwell tilted his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He used that melodic, hypnotic voice to lure her in. "Do you want to touch it?"

Arianna went rigid.

Was he talking about the desk? Or something entirely different?

She blinked, forcing her expression to remain neutral. "Touch... what?"

"You tell me."

"..."

"Do you want to feel the texture?" Maxwell pressed, his tone coaxing, dangerous. "Arianna, I wouldn't mind."

Arianna finally understood. He hadn't believed her for a second. He’d known from the very beginning that she was lusting after him.

Her blood surged, turning her skin hot. Even the warm milk in her hands suddenly felt scalding.

"You've got the wrong idea," she stammered.

She just wanted to look. To enjoy the view. She had no intention of actually reaching out—not that she even knew how that would work. The very thought made her palms sweat. "I really don't."

"I know," Maxwell chuckled, his eyes never leaving her. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a slow, deliberate drawl. "But I have the right idea."

Arianna froze.

The sofa suddenly felt like it was made of rocks. Her posture turned rigid, her fake smile plastered on like a mask. Maxwell sat there, shirtless and shimmering like a fallen angel, refusing to let her off the hook.

"Relax. I really wouldn't mind," he teased, nudging her. "Are you sure you don't want to try?"

She wanted to. The thought was a siren song, and she was already half-drowning in it. She risked a tiny, shameful peek at his abs. But she couldn't lose control—not like this, and certainly not with the way the air in the room had turned thick and heavy with intent.

If she stayed, she wasn't sure she’d make it out in one piece.

"No. I'm not interested," she snapped.

She shot up from the sofa, desperate to escape. She turned on her heel and bolted, but her coordination failed her. She caught her foot on the leg of a chair, her balance shattering in an instant. She tipped, tipping hard toward the side of the sofa, a sharp gasp dying in her throat.