His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 72

Summoning her courage, she had walked up to him and softly offered to help him dry his hair.

Her fingertips had accidentally brushed against his hot, firm abs.

She wanted to touch him. She had wanted to for a long time.

Her cheeks had instantly burned a bright red, her heart pounding so fast it threatened to leap out of her chest.

But the man simply looked down at her with calm amusement. Through the haze of alcohol, his gaze was dark and magnetic, pulling her in like a rip current.

He had washed away the scent of liquor, leaving only a faint, clean scent of cedarwood mixed with a heavy wave of raw masculinity.

"What are you feeling for?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

Whitley's heart was in a panic, but she forced herself to play dumb. Looking up at him with wide eyes, she said, "Are these muscles? I don't have any of these."

He looked down at her flushed face and suddenly smiled. "Yeah. If you like them, you can touch them as much as you want."

He had a beautiful voice. The cadence of his words was incredibly pleasing to the ear, and the alcohol only made it richer.

Usually, he was so cold and composed. Hearing such indulgent, doting words from him created a stark, intoxicating contrast that made her heart flutter.

Whitley's mind went blank. Meeting his gaze, she was completely disoriented by his casual flirtation.

She couldn't help but wonder how a man who looked so aloof and disciplined could be so seductive underneath it all.

She didn't want him to look down on her.

He seemed so experienced.

Biting her lip, she boldly declared, "Then I'll touch them for the rest of my life."

He didn't quite catch that. Leaning down slightly, he arched an eyebrow. "Hmm? What did you say?"

At well over six feet tall, he towered over her by more than a head. The height difference alone was overwhelmingly imposing.

Whitley looked up at his lips. Flushed from the drinks, they looked incredibly tempting, like crushed cherry blossoms.

With every word he spoke, they were utterly captivating.

Staring at him, she murmured, "Clive, lower your head when you talk to me, please?"

"My voice is soft, you can't even hear me."

Surprisingly, he obeyed, slowly lowering his head until their warm breaths mingled, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of alcohol.

Seizing the opportunity, Whitley stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips firmly against his.

They were so soft.

Her chest tightened painfully.

It was all fake.

The gentleness, the indulgence, the intimacy—all of it had been a lie.

It was nothing but an illusion, easily shattered the moment reality set in.

She forced down the turbulent emotions surging in her chest, keeping her tone perfectly flat.

Looking at him now, his eyes were cold, emotionless, and entirely unfamiliar.

She couldn't read him anymore.

"Nothing," Whitley replied.

Clive looked at her. "My mom said you weren't feeling well. If you're going to the doctor tomorrow, I'll go with you."

"What exactly is wrong with you?"

She met his gaze head-on, staring straight into his eyes as she enunciated every word. "You just asked Yelena what was wrong with her. So I want to know, what do you think is wrong with me?"

The moment the words left her mouth, the air in the room instantly froze, and even the warm lighting seemed to turn stark and cold.