7
Lia
My system for hangovers is simple: lean into the pain. In my experience, if you make yourself as miserable as possible right when you wake up, then you can push through the worst of it in a few hours and have a relatively normal day.
I fall mindlessly into my go-to pilates routine.
Mostly core and legs, with only minimal and unintentional arm work.
It fucking blows, but between the hangover I need to beat, the alcohol calories I’m consuming this weekend, and the low, low balance in my bank account that says “get more social media sponsors, Lia, for the love of God,” this workout really needs to happen.
Halfway through my routine I hear the front door creak open. I expect to see Andy leaving for a morning jog. What I see instead is much worse.
“Good morning, Amelia.”
I tilt my gaze up, holding my body in a rigid plank.
“Good morning, skidmark.”
Owen stands a few feet away, rotating his ankles and shaking out his arms. The vantage point inspires him to say, “You’re looking hot and annoying, as always.”
“Eat my ass.”
“I will if you beg.”
“Mmm, no, I don’t think so.” I shift backwards into a downward-facing dog position, aforementioned ass high in the air as I stretch through my back and legs. “I think we both know you’d be the one begging.”
He doesn’t respond, just shakes his head, puts his ear buds in, and takes off.
Thirty minutes later, I’m chugging a second glass of water in the kitchen and fantasizing about a long, cool shower. I’m objectively disgusting—body drenched in mist from the salty ocean air and sweat made of last night’s liquor. That’s exactly when the front door opens again.
Owen marches in, carving a path straight for the only bathroom. I halt him with a call of, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
He stops in his tracks, rotating slowly to face me. “Shower.”
My glass of water clinks against the granite. “No you’re not.”
“I’m not?”
“Nope. Me first. I’m disgusting.”
I try to stride past him but he sidesteps me, planting himself squarely in my path. “Okay, well I am too.”
“Just give me like twenty minutes. I hate feeling sweaty.” I step to the right.
Owen mirrors me. “So do I.”
The glimmer in his frigid blue eyes tells me everything I need to know. He doesn’t really care about showering first. He just can’t pass up an opportunity to piss me off.
“You’re really gonna fight me on this?”
“I sure am.” He plants his hands on his hips, pushing the hem of his workout tee up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin.
And suddenly, inspiration strikes.
Why fight fair when I know exactly what will knock him off-kilter?
“Hmm,” I muse, taking one step back. “What a shame. You’re too slow. You see, I’m already half-naked.”
Before he has time to process, I reach down for the edge of my tank top, pulling it over my head. The cotton shirt lands on the floor with a soft flop.
Bullseye.
Owen’s face melts, expression slackening as his eyes travel down my body of their own volition.
And I may not like him, but I love this.
The power. The control. My posture is perfect, shoulders back, leggings clinging to my thighs, breasts pillowing over the top of my purple sports bra, as I watch this fully-grown man with an Ivy League law degree be intellectually cowed by a pair of tits.
But—to his minor credit—he doesn’t capitulate quite yet. He shakes himself awake, then reaches for the hem of his own shirt.
“Funny,” he says as he pulls it off and tosses it aside. “So am I.”
And this is a surprise.
Owen’s appearance has always been… uninspired. Perpetually overdressed and sternly professional. Gray pants. White shirts. Black shoes. Generic rich-man watches. Even when he mentioned having tattoos, I was envisioning something rigidly structured. A uniform style, evenly spaced.
Instead, I see a free-flowing patchwork of black ink scattered across his chest. Not everywhere, but throughout. Words and images, simple linework and full shading, eclectic but… lovely. A caterpillar on his chest. Cursive script across his ribs. A snake looping around his collarbone—
“Like the view, Amelia?”
My gaze snaps up, cheeks warm.
Dammit. He will not win this round.
My chin dips an inch, eyes narrowed to slits. He’s ready to play, and so am I.
Wordlessly, I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my leggings. The spandex shimmies down my legs until I kick them to the side and I’m left standing in nothing but my thong and bra (I really hope my friends and brother don’t wake up right now, but I’m unwilling to lose this fight for the risk.).
And it pays off.
Owen has lost all subtlety. His eyes scan every inch of my body—my legs, my stomach, back to the breasts he was ogling before, cycling through on repeat, buffering, buffering, buffering...
“Like the view, Owen?”
Unlike me, he’s slow to react to the words. His gaze traces a languid path up my body until he meets my eyes.
I expect to find embarrassment in his expression, or even anger.
But no. A cocky smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, head shaking slowly like he loves whatever this is—the challenge, the temptation.
We’re writing the rules of today’s game in a language neither of us speaks fluently. It’s new and wild and thrilling.
“You should’ve been a lawyer,” he says, voice a warm drip of honey.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“For my benefit.” Two thumbs tuck into the waistband of his shorts. “I so rarely meet someone to really go toe-to-toe with, in the courtroom or otherwise. But you? You’re vicious.”
He drops his shorts to the ground, standing before me in nothing but black boxer briefs. The air is thick between us. Summer heat and sweat and the delirious limbo of the unfamiliar.
Whatever game this is, we’ve clearly determined that looking is allowed. So we do.
Owen looks… strong. Not cut. Not some overly sculpted gym bro Instagram model, but strong, like he could toss me over his shoulder and carry me exactly where he wants me. I shouldn’t like that thought—couldn’t live with myself if he or anyone else found out I just had that thought—but damn.
“Seems we’ve reached a stalemate,” he says, all feigned nonchalance despite the scrape of the words in his throat, the front of his briefs barely concealing his growing need.
“Does that mean you’re done?” I ask. “You concede?”
He arches an eyebrow. “I never said that.”
Then the spirit of Satan takes me by the hand, guiding my way. “In that case...”
I reach across my body, grabbing hold of the elastic band below my breasts, not hesitating for a moment before pulling it up over my head, completely exposing my chest.
Owen’s palms slam over his eyes. “What are you doing!”
Triumph stretches a smile across my face. Lia 1. Owen 0.
His eyes are still covered as I stride past him into the bathroom, pausing at his shoulder to murmur, “Try not to make too much noise when you think about me later.”
The bathroom door slams shut, the shower turns on, and I hear a loud “Fuck!” from the hallway. I’m grinning as I step under the water.