Putting me to bed in his apartment?

I should be angry. I should kick and scream and insist he bring me back to my sister immediately. What I shouldn’t be is turned on. Except I am, and that pisses me off way more than His Royal Presumptuousness tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me off to his bedroom cave-man style. What’s going on in my pants right now makes about as much sense as his idea that I’d actually go to bed with him. Even if his cheek weren’t still red from the last time he got fresh with me, he knows I have no intention of signing his ridiculous NDA. Thinking he’s bluffing, I slide down his torso a bit so I can get a look at his face, stopping when I feel something against my leg. It has to be the pot pipe—there’s no way he sporting a hard-on. Except it seems bigger than what I remember. I shift in his arms a little to get a better feel.

He stops walking.

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