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🔞🔥Click to Read more about📜Ellison And Joycelyn: A Love Beyond The Rules📜

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Novel Yang Booming

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PERSON_PROFILE

💖🔞💋Joycelyn Maynard slept with her boss after the company retreat. Now, watching him sleep beside her, her eyes traced the contours of his perfect abs as she swallowed nervously. 'Does this mean... I'm gonna be fired?' she wondered.

Ellison Grant's piercing gaze met hers. "We're getting married. I'll take responsibility."

Her mind went blank. 'Since when did successful men become so old-fashioned? One night together, and he's already talking marriage?' she thought.

*****

"Joycelyn, you're now twenty-six. Don't tell me you're still a virgin?" The teasing words from her colleagues at the company retreat echoed through Joycelyn's mind as she leaned against the hotel corridor wall.

Having never been kissed, she'd dodged their questions by downing several drinks, then excused herself, claiming intoxication.

Now she fumbled with her key card, the door stubbornly refusing to open. Frustrated, she pressed her flushed face against the cool surface, only to stumble forward as it suddenly swung inward.

Ellison stood before her, his chiseled features cast in shadow.

Joycelyn blinked in confusion. 'Why is he in my room?' she wondered, mesmerized by his commanding presence. 'This has to be a dream.'

"Is there something on my face?" His eyes narrowed, voice rough with barely contained desire.

"Mhmm." The sound escaped her lips before she could stop it, soft and breathy.

Standing before this usually untouchable man, she recalled her colleague Selene Whitmore's whispered words.

"A man like Mr. Grant must be incredible in bed," Selene had said, and now here he was, larger than life.

Joycelyn's tongue darted across her lips as heat bloomed through her body. 'If I can't have him in real life,' she thought, 'at least I can enjoy this dream.'

She launched herself forward, pushing the door shut behind her. "Mr. Grant, they say any woman who gets to spend a night with you must be very lucky." Her lips curved into a playful smile. "Care to test that theory?"

The air crackled between them as their eyes locked. Ellison, his own judgment clouded by alcohol, felt his control slipping as her soft curves pressed against him. Instead of pushing her away, he pulled her closer.

"Is this what you want? Huh?" he murmured against her ear, his proximity sending shivers down her spine.

"Yes," she breathed, the word barely a whisper.

Her eyes, glazed with desire and wine, held him captive. Up close, his features were even more striking than the glimpses she'd caught at the office.

She found herself tracing every perfect line with her gaze—from his sculpted brows to his straight nose, finally lingering on his parted lips. Her expression shifted from seductive to innocent as their eyes met again.

The way she looked at him—he knew exactly what was going on. In one fluid motion, he took control, pressing her against the wall. His fingers guided her hand to his belt, his voice husky with restraint. "Help me with this."

Before she could respond, his lips claimed hers in her first kiss. She melted into him as he deepened the kiss, her inexperience yielding to his expertise.

Her heart thundered in her chest. The kiss was both tender and commanding, more real than any dream could be. Every nerve ending sparked with electricity as she fumbled with his buttons and zipper, following his lead.

Perhaps because she believed it was a dream, there was no pain—only pleasure. Under his gentle guidance, she even found herself taking initiative, discovering that the normally stern boss was surprisingly tender and skilled, though his stamina proved overwhelming.

*****

The next morning, Joycelyn drifted between sleep and wakefulness as footsteps approached. 'Why does this dream feel so real?' she wondered, her brow furrowing as Ellison's voice reached her ears.

Reality crashed in as she opened her eyes to find him approaching, a towel slung low on his hips. Her gaze traced involuntarily over his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and the tempting V-line disappearing beneath white terry cloth.

Memories of the night before flooded her mind, each more explicit than the last. Color rushed to her cheeks, then drained away just as quickly.

"Mr. Grant! Why are you here?" She clutched the sheets tighter. "Last night, we... we..."

The words stuck in her throat as his eyes studied her flustered expression. "What exactly are you trying to ask?" He was curious.

"I mean, last night, did we..." Her tongue tied itself in knots.

"We did." His simple confirmation hit her like a thunderbolt.

Clinging to one last thread of hope, she stammered, "But did we actually..."

"Yes, we did," he replied firmly.

Her sharp intake of breath echoed in the sudden silence.

"Having regrets now?" His expression remained unreadable.

She wrestled with her answer. Objectively speaking, her first time with a gorgeous, skilled partner had been incredible. But sleeping with her direct superior? That was career suicide.

"Well, Mr. Grant," she began carefully, "I was drunk last night and barely remember anything. We're both adults—can't we just forget this and go back to normal?"

His lips curved into a dangerous smile as he studied her. "You're still in my bed and already trying to pretend this never happened?"

Catching sight of the hickeys she'd left on his collarbone, she pulled the sheets higher. "Then at least turn around so I can get dressed."

Instead, he moved toward the bed, his weight making the mattress dip. Her breath caught as his handsome face loomed over hers. She tried to retreat, but he caught her wrists, pinning them above her head.

In their struggle, the sheet slipped to her waist. Skin met skin, sending tingles of electricity through her body. A shiver ran down her spine.

"Mr. Grant—" Her protest died in her throat.

Her heart raced as heat flooded her face. His weight pressed her into the mattress, the position simultaneously thrilling and mortifying. The tension in his features as he held himself in check only made him more irresistible.

"You said you couldn't remember anything," he murmured, his intense gaze holding hers. "Then let me refresh your memory."

Her blush deepened as she tried to look anywhere but at him. A glimpse of his taut muscles reminded her exactly how well-equipped he was. Even as a novice, she knew that desire, once unleashed, was impossible to contain.

His masculine form pressed against her once more. His teeth grazed her pale collarbone, drawing a soft whimper from her lips.

"Mr. Grant!" She meant to stop him, but her breathy moan betrayed her.

Now fully sober, she found him even more overwhelming than before. This was the final day of the company retreat—they were supposed to head back after lunch. If they delayed much longer, her colleagues would surely notice. But he seemed intent on taking his time.

"Please," she whispered urgently.

"Soon," he promised.

She was losing her mind. Biting her lip, she fought to contain the embarrassing sounds threatening to escape.

Just then, a knock at the door interrupted them, followed by the sound of executives laughing in the hallway.

"Mr. Grant, lunch is ready. We'll be departing for the office afterward," a voice called out.

Joycelyn grabbed this chance like a lifeline. "Mr. Grant, we need to go. We can't be late, and it would be terrible if anyone found out." Her earlier boldness had vanished completely, replaced by panic.

Frustration flickered across Ellison's features at the interruption. Rolling away, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and made a call. A ringtone sounded from the hallway.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Joycelyn clutched the sheet to her chest. Spotting a white shopping bag with women's clothing beside the bed, she snatched it up and hurried to the bathroom.

"Go ahead without me." He spoke into the phone. "I'll be down shortly." The voices outside soon faded away.

Joycelyn dressed as quickly as possible, wincing slightly at her tender muscles. As she emerged, another phone rang in the room.

Ellison was buckling his belt when he reached for it. "Yes?"

Joycelyn froze in the bathroom doorway, noticing that was her phone in his hand.

She lunged forward in panic, forgetting her soreness. Her legs betrayed her, and she stumbled. Still on the call, Ellison caught her effortlessly with one arm.

"Hello?" He spoke into the phone.

Joycelyn snatched it away, ending the call. Her stomach dropped as she saw the caller ID—Selene Whitmore.

Meanwhile, in the hallway outside Joycelyn's room, Selene exchanged shocked looks with their coworkers.

"Did a man just answer Joycelyn's phone?" She paused, eyes widening. "And that sexy voice... it sounded exactly like Mr. Grant."

..............................................................................
Joycelyn stared at her vibrating phone, her nerves jangling as Selene's name flashed across the screen. She shot up like a startled rabbit, her usual composure shattering.

"This is a disaster. They must be suspicious." Her typically clear head spun as she faced this unprecedented situation, her delicate features pinched with worry.

Ellison extended his hand for her phone.

"What are you doing?" Her face crumpled with alarm as she instinctively pulled back.

"Let me handle it," he said, his deep voice brooking no argument.

Though she resisted, his commanding presence made her fingers loosen their grip.

"Just... don't say anything weird," she pleaded, watching with bated breath as he answered.

"This is Ellison Grant. I found this phone last night and will have my assistant return it shortly." His gaze swept over her anxious face. "As for the owner..."

Joycelyn's breath caught in her throat as she watched him, terrified that one wrong word would destroy her career. His deliberate pause had her muscles coiling with tension.

Her eyes desperately telegraphed: 'Say something—anything!'

Noting her distress, he deliberately prolonged the moment, privately amused by her reaction. His lips curved slightly as he continued smoothly, "I'm unaware of her whereabouts."

Relief flooded through her. She'd narrowly escaped catastrophe.

"I'll have the phone delivered to your colleague." After hanging up, he set it beside his own.

"Okay, so when should I go downstairs?" She raised worried eyes to his. "Won't people notice?"

Her cheeks burned with mortification. Already shy about romantic matters, sleeping with her boss made her want to crawl into a hole and disappear.

He studied her expression carefully, maintaining his composure while she fidgeted. "Everyone's in the restaurant now. Wait here and leave later," he said calmly.

"Okay." She perched on the bed's edge, twisting her fingers together.

Without hesitation, he began dressing right in front of her. His model-worthy physique and chiseled features moved with practiced elegance.

Each glimpse of him sent her heart racing. 'Selene wasn't wrong,' she thought. 'These cool, composed types really are something else behind closed doors.'

"I'll take responsibility for this," he stated while fastening his buttons.

Her head snapped up in surprise before she shook it vigorously. "No, no, absolutely not! We're both adults—this was mutual. You don't need to take it to heart."

She was just an ordinary office worker fresh out of college, while he was a powerful and wealthy man—way out of her league. She repeated variations of "no need," her expression screaming resistance.

His brow furrowed slightly. Her reaction made him wonder if he seemed like some villain forcing himself on an innocent girl. "But I'm serious," he emphasized.

"So am I! Let's just never mention this again. My only request is that no one else finds out." She dropped her gaze to her feet, wilting under his intense stare.

After studying her silently, he relented. "Fine. I'll head down first."

"Mm-hmm." Her relief at his departure was palpable.

He cast her a final glance before leaving with both phones.

Alone at last, she flopped onto the bed with a groan, pummeling the comforter in frustration. "You've lost your mind, Joycelyn! Of all the men in the world, you had to sleep with Ellison?"

After wallowing sufficiently, she reasoned enough time had passed for her colleagues to be downstairs. She washed her face, donned a mask, and carefully checked the hallway.

Finding there was no one outside, she slipped out quietly, opting for the emergency stairs over the elevator.

Linda Lorne stood by the stairwell, frowning as she watched Joycelyn emerge from Ellison's suite.

After descending several flights, Joycelyn reached her room and quickly packed. She loaded her luggage onto the bus before heading to the dining hall.

As a Fortune 500 powerhouse, Grant Group employed countless talented individuals. Though brilliant women filled its ranks, Joycelyn stood out. Her presence was like morning mist—ethereal, pure, refreshing—carrying an enigmatic grace that set her apart.

Sharp-eyed Selene spotted her immediately. "Joycelyn, over here!" she called, waving enthusiastically.

As Joycelyn returned the wave, she felt an intense gaze upon her. Turning slightly, she met Ellison's eyes. His sculpted profile and penetrating gaze—the same eyes that had devoured her the night before—sent her pulse racing.

'Why is he still at the entrance?' she wondered. 'Wasn't he supposed to be downstairs already?'

"Sweetie, are you still drunk?" Selene asked, rushing over to link arms. "You're walking funny."

"Oh, I twisted my ankle in these heels yesterday," Joycelyn mumbled, heat rising to her cheeks. After last night's abandon and this morning's encore, her legs felt like jelly.

"Hmm..." Selene's knowing smirk widened. "One night away and you're all shy like a blushing flower." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Don't tell me you got tipsy and jumped our Mr. Grant? That walk screams 'too many positions, too much fun.'"

She had a sly grin plastered on her face, as if to say, "You can't fool me, I've got my eye on you."

Joycelyn nearly collapsed at her friend's astute observation. "Keep your voice down!" she hissed, her face flaming. "People can hear you!"

Seeing Joycelyn's unusual embarrassment only encouraged Selene further. "Am I wrong? You got drunk, ran into our gorgeous boss, and thought 'I'm 26 and still haven't experienced a man.' Next thing you know..."

She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "That would explain why he answered your phone this morning!"

Joycelyn's already scarlet face darkened further. Each of Selene's guesses hit frighteningly close to home. "That's ridiculous," she protested weakly. "What romance novel are you living in?"

Noting Joycelyn's guilty yet defensive expression, Selene's grin widened. She spotted Ellison approaching, surrounded by executives.

"If you won't tell me, I'll just ask Mr. Grant himself." Selene raised her hand in greeting. "Hi, Mr. Grant!"

Joycelyn's heart stopped as she stared at the approaching Adonis, panic threatening to overwhelm her. She worried that if Selene brought it up, he would use the chance to expose their fling and make her "take responsibility."

Her stomach dropped as she realized her carefully constructed denial was about to come crashing down.

..............................................................................
"Last night—" Selene began, but Joycelyn swiftly stepped forward, cutting her off with a sincere nod to Ellison.

"Thank you for finding my phone, Mr. Grant," she interjected smoothly. "Those documents in my phone are irreplaceable. I can't tell you how grateful I am."

Joycelyn's matter-of-fact attitude and effusive thanks over a mere phone made Selene's words die in her throat as she stared in confusion.

"Just a small matter," Ellison murmured, his gaze flickering momentarily.

"We shouldn't keep you from your meal. Please, go ahead, Mr. Grant." Joycelyn tugged Selene aside, her forced smile not quite reaching her eyes. Her gaze locked with his, silently pleading for his discretion.

After several long beats of eye contact, he moved toward the dining table without another word.

Only when his group had passed did Joycelyn release her breath, her body damp with nervous sweat from those few tense moments.

Selene had intended to gossip, but she found herself completely captivated by Ellison's charm. "God, he's even more stunning up close," she sighed, watching him go. "Any woman who lands him must have been born under a lucky star."

A genuine laugh escaped Joycelyn. "If your parents knew what was going on in your head, they'd probably blow a gasket!"

"Whatever." Selene rolled her eyes. "Let's eat. I need to get home to my man."

Relief washed over Joycelyn as her food-loving friend got distracted by the arriving dishes, dropping all questions about the previous night.

The retreat ended after lunch. While executives took their luxury cars, staff boarded the company bus. From her window seat, Joycelyn's thoughts drifted until Selene's squeal snapped her attention forward.

"Look! Mr. Grant's Rolls-Royce is incredible." Selene pressed her face to the glass. "Why couldn't I be so lucky? I wouldn't mind snagging a guy that hot and rich!"

Studying the million-dollar vehicle, Joycelyn felt the stark divide between their worlds.

Her phone buzzed insistently with messages from her mother. Before the retreat, her family had attempted to set her up with a short, older man offering a hundred-thousand-dollar engagement gift.

She'd refused, hoping it would blow over like previous matchmaking attempts. Instead, the marriage pressure had only intensified.

To delay the inevitable confrontation, Joycelyn haunted the library until well past 10 PM before finally heading home.

Taking a steadying breath outside her door, she turned the key. The scene inside stopped her cold—her belongings strewn across the floor while her mother Iris Mercer wept on the couch.

"Who threw my things?" Joycelyn's fists clenched at her sides.

"Look who finally graced us with her presence," her stepsister Octavia Mercer drawled without looking up from her game.

Joycelyn's stepfather Phineas Mercer immediately threw down his cigarette on the balcony and stormed in, his palm cracking across her face.

"We raised you, and this is how you repay us?" he roared. "We found you a good match with a generous offer, and you stood him up. Where were you? Out whoring around until this hour?"

Only her mother's intervention prevented a second blow. The harsh slap left Joycelyn's cheek throbbing, her eyes wide with disbelief.

For years, she'd endured their abuse and insults, surrendering most of her salary to support them while subsisting on a few hundred dollars a month. Her dutiful sacrifice had earned her nothing but an attempt to sell her off like cattle.

Something inside her snapped. She swung her bag at his face with all her strength. "How dare you hit me! Not even my real parents raised a hand to me!"

"Your father's dead!" Phineas stumbled back, spitting the words. "I'm your father now. If I hadn't pitied you and your mother, I wouldn't have taken in such worthless burdens."

"You dare?" Ice crystallized in Joycelyn's voice as she stood tall, unflinching. "I worked my way through college with loans and part-time jobs. My mother works herself to exhaustion supporting you. Who's the real burden here?"

Her entire frame vibrated with rage. "You manipulated my mother into signing over my father's house. You'd be on the street without us!"

The fury in her eyes promised retribution for every moment of suffering he'd caused.

..............................................................................
"Joycelyn, please." Iris's soft voice carried a subtle rebuke. "Phineas wants what's best for you—a stable future." Her swollen eyes betrayed hours of tears, yet here she was, still playing peacemaker.

Exhaustion swept through Joycelyn as she closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath. "That hundred-thousand-dollar engagement gift—why not sell off your own precious daughter instead?"

"God, I wouldn't marry that troll," Octavia drawled from her perch on the couch, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "You should grab the offer while you're young enough to command a decent price. Once you hit thirty, you'll be damaged goods."

Cold fury settled in Joycelyn's chest as she met her mother's eyes. "Mom, is that really what you think too?"

Her mother's averted gaze spoke volumes. The message was clear—Joycelyn had no real place in this family.

"Octavia." Iris's weak protest earned only a contemptuous eye roll from her daughter.

"Either marry him tomorrow or get out of my house!" Phineas's voice thundered through the room.

"Mom." Joycelyn's voice cracked with disappointment. "What was the point of all these years?"

Iris opened her mouth, but Phineas cut her off. "I'm your man now—your lifelong partner. A married daughter is like water under the bridge. You can't count on her anymore."

"Listen to your father, dear," Iris whispered, thoroughly cowed.

"My father is dead." Joycelyn's words could have frozen hell as she stared at Phineas.

"Then get out!" he roared. "Get out of my house, you ungrateful snake. Let's see how long you last on your own, you worthless parasite!"

Something died in Joycelyn's heart as she watched her mother's passive acceptance. Without a word, she stuffed her clothes into a suitcase and strode toward the door. "Don't worry, I'm going."

Her defiance caught Phineas off guard. "And don't bother coming back!" he shouted at her retreating form.

With no glance backward, Joycelyn took her suitcase and got into the elevator.

*****

Rain hammered the streets as Joycelyn came out.

She plunged into the downpour, each icy drop another strike against her skin. Tears mingled with rain on her face as she dragged her suitcase through puddles, her clothes plastered to her trembling frame.

Lightning split the sky. Thunder crashed overhead. She dropped into a crouch, hands clasped over her head. These storms had haunted her since the rainy night that claimed her father's life.

Finding shelter beneath a bus stop, she huddled against the plastic wall. The wind howled, driving sheets of rain sideways. Tonight, even basic survival seemed an impossible task.

Her eyes burned from all the crying as she checked her phone—5% battery. 'They say God never closes a door without opening a window,' she thought bitterly. 'But my life's just one slammed door after another.'

With a hollow laugh, she pulled up the company directory and found Ellison's contact.

Her fingers moved before her brain could object, sending a message..[Mr. Grant, I'm Joycelyn Maynard. Does your marriage offer from this afternoon still stand?]

The moment she hit send, self-loathing crashed over her. She'd rejected him twice today already; she had no reason to think he would agree to help her now.

..............................................................................
Ellison stood by his grandmother's hospital bed, concern cracking his stoic mask as he watched her breathe through the oxygen mask.

His phone's vibration broke the sterile silence. A message lit up his screen—his eyes sharpened with recognition as he read it. He then sent a one-word response. [Yes.]

The speed of his reply caught Joycelyn off guard. Wiping tears away, she typed with trembling fingers: [Could you pick me up? We need to talk.]

His terse agreement felt like salvation. Maybe a marriage of convenience wasn't the worst option.

She had barely sent her location when her phone died, taken by either rain or drained battery.

'If he comes, I'll marry him,' she decided. 'If not, be it.'

As Ellison moved to leave, his grandmother's fragile grasp caught him.

"You stubborn boy," Isolde Grant whispered.

"I didn't mean to worry you, Grandma. I've found someone—we're getting married tomorrow. No more stress, okay?" His voice held rare tenderness.

Hope flickered in Isolde's tired eyes. "Really?" She struggled to sit up.

Gently easing her back down, he tucked her blankets close. "Really. I'm going to get her now. You'll meet her in the morning. Rest now."

"Promise you're not lying to me."

"Never."

The world knew Ellison as ruthless and driven, but for his grandmother, his patience was infinite.

After briefing the nurses, he grabbed his keys, ready to head out.

"Mr. Grant, there's a Category 3 hurricane today. It wouldn't be safe for you to drive," the bodyguard reported promptly, stepping forward as he saw Ellison preparing to leave.

"It's fine." Brushing off his warning, Ellison left for the parking lot.

His black Maybach cut through the storm like an avenging angel, driving toward its destiny.

Fierce wind battered Joycelyn's small frame beneath the bus shelter. She clung to her suitcase, the tempest offering no real protection.

Fear of missing Ellison kept her rooted despite the need for better shelter. Rain hammered the roof like buckshot while trees thrashed in the gale.

Just as despair settled in her bones and she was about to find another shelter, headlights pierced the darkness and a black car approached through the pouring rain.

The Maybach pulled up smoothly. Ellison stepped out, ignoring the storm's fury. Rain instantly plastered his suit to his frame, but his focus remained on the girl before him—lost, hurt, like an abandoned kitten in the storm.

"Get in," he said simply, taking her suitcase.

His voice cut through chaos. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I thought you weren't coming," she whispered, swollen eyes meeting his.

Though the storm had left her trembling, his presence sparked something warm in her chest, like dawn breaking through the endless night. Her tears of desperation turned to relief, hope kindling in her gaze.

Seeing her drenched state, he took her icy hand. "Inside. Now."

She stared at his sharp profile, finding unexpected comfort in his grip.

The wind chose that moment to tear the bus stop sign loose, sending it hurtling toward them. In one fluid motion, he pulled her against his chest.

His body became her shield, steady and immovable. She felt his sharp flinch and heard his muffled grunt of pain.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, voice tight with worry.

"It's nothing." Ignoring his injured arm, he guided her to safety.

Once he put the suitcase away, he climbed into the car, soaked to the bone. The sealed doors created their own world apart from chaos.

"You must be injured. Let me look at your arm," she insisted, remembering the metallic crash.

"Home first," he said curtly without much explanation.

The drive passed in tense silence, Joycelyn gripping her seatbelt like a lifeline. Forty minutes brought them to his private garage.

"Here we are." He lifted her damaged suitcase with his good arm.

"Mr. Grant?" Her voice came congested from the cold. "Shouldn't we discuss terms?" She stood by the car door, her reddened eyes watching him with uncertainty.

"Change your clothes first." He carried her suitcase and strode toward the elevator.

She followed like a shadow, head down—worlds away from last night's bold drunk girl.

He stopped, waiting for her cautious approach.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw the black leather shoes and dripping hem of his suit pants. Looking up, she found him waiting for her.

"State your terms," he said, authority rolling off him. "Or we do this my way."

Sniffling, she spoke directly. "Marriage to appease my family. Your identity stays secret. No announcements. Divorce in six months to a year. Separate bedrooms."

Unable to meet his intense gaze, she looked away and added weakly, "You... you said you'd take responsibility."

They both knew she had no leverage.

"First three points accepted. We'll discuss divorce later." He tilted her chin up. "Explain the separate rooms."

Forced to meet his eyes, wet hair dripping, she stammered, "I want my own space, in case you... in case..." Her pale face flamed crimson as words failed.

His subtle smile and rain-slicked hair radiated raw magnetism.

"In case I want you, I come to your room?" His deep voice held dangerous promise. "Is that what you're trying to say?"

..............................................................................
"Well, if there's a need, both of us should cooperate," Joycelyn murmured, her cheeks flushing pink.

"Okay, let's go," Ellison said, his voice steady and sure. He turned and walked toward the elevator, Joycelyn trailing behind him, her heart pounding.

As they stepped inside, Joycelyn kept her head down, her wet hair dripping onto the floor. She looked like a lost puppy, shivering and small behind his commanding presence.

Despite his expensive suit being soaked and her broken suitcase in hand, Ellison maintained an air of calm composure as if nothing could ruffle him.

Relief washed over her. He had pulled her out of despair, after all. No woman could resist being cared for in her darkest moments, even if they both had their own motives.

"We're here," he announced as the elevator doors opened. He carried her suitcase out, glancing back at the girl, who still stood there, dazed.

"Oh," she murmured, quickly following him.

The villa was stunning, with cool gray tones that made the space feel crisp and refreshing, much like Ellison himself. Every detail was meticulously crafted, like a piece of art. She had never entered such a beautiful, spacious home before.

"The guest room hasn't been used. I'll get you bedding from my room. Go take a shower and change your clothes," he said, handing the suitcase to her.

His every word carried the authority of a superior. His voice was cool and commanding, brooking no argument. She didn't dare look at him, only nodding obediently. "Okay."

She dragged the suitcase with its broken wheel into the guest room. The space boasted a new bed and sofa, far nicer than her small room at home. Clean and bright, it was several times larger than her previous space, with its own bathroom. She felt a flutter of excitement.

Opening the suitcase, she froze. No wonder it felt so heavy—the broken case had let water seep in. All her clothes were soaked. She rummaged through everything, finding nothing wearable.

"All wet?" he asked, looking at her suitcase.

She bit her lip in frustration. "Yeah, I'll use a hairdryer later."

"I'll get you something to wear," he said and left the room.

She crouched on the floor, watching his soaked pant legs, her heart racing. Her skin felt hot enough to dry her wet clothes by body heat alone. As she gathered her clothes to wash, he returned with a black shirt.

"Use my bathroom. There's no hot water or shower gel here," he said.

She looked at the black shirt, lifting her wet face to reveal red, swollen eyes filled with timidity. She stood there gazing at him, clearly hesitating.

"Don't catch a cold. I'll help wash your clothes," he said, tossing the shirt at her and scooping up everything from the suitcase. The strength difference between them was stark—she had struggled to lift them.

Watching his wet figure, her face flushed deeper. Holding the black shirt, she hesitated but remembered his gentlemanly behavior. 'We're not even officially married yet,' she thought. 'He should still behave.'

But she misjudged how men could be. Or perhaps Ellison misjudged his own limits.

He put her clothes in the washing machine along with his shirt. Returning, he saw her cautiously moving toward his room. His clear eyes narrowed slightly.

She entered the master bedroom in amazement. 'Money sure is good,' she thought. His bedroom alone was as big as a three-bedroom apartment. Unsure where the bathroom was, she stood there, dazed.

Ellison approached from behind. As she pushed open the bathroom door, he wrapped an arm around her waist, lifting her inside.

The door closed with a soft click. She stood there wet and sticky, looking up at him in shock.

"What... what are you doing?" she stammered.

The previously composed man was now shirtless, standing in the bathroom with her.

"To avoid catching a cold, we'll shower together," he said calmly, making her blush deeply.

"No, you go first. I'll wait," she struggled to escape.

Ellison, seeing her embarrassment, let go but lifted her onto the counter, standing close. "Embarrassed?" he asked.

"No." She shook her head, water dripping from her hair onto her pale face, making her look soft and vulnerable.

He cupped her face. "You bit and scratched me yesterday. Today, you'll wash me as punishment. Fair, right?" His deep voice in the quiet bathroom was mesmerizing.

She blushed deeply, her eyes flickering over his bare chest. He had a perfect body, tall and well-built. Rainwater dripped from his hair, tracing the contours of his muscular frame, down his throat, and across his broad chest.

She saw the bite mark she had left in retaliation for the pain he had caused her.

Perhaps it was the first time she had seen a man so closely. She couldn't look away, her eyes lingering on his wet, defined abs, remembering the feel of his hard muscles. Her body grew hot.

He took in her every expression. "Don't I look better without clothes? Hmm?"

She covered her face with embarrassment. "I don't want to answer that."

He carried her under the shower, the warm water making her already hot skin even hotter. He guided her hand to his pants. "Help me take them off."

Novel Yang Booming

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