On the day after my postgraduate exams, my roommate dragged me to a bar to celebrate. After enduring 168 days of grueling exam prep, I wore the shortest, boldest skirt of my life to the bar that night. My killer waist-to-hip ratio, paired with my sweet, innocent face and hairstyle, created a striking contrast.

Hmph, my bar boys won't know what hit them when Fernanda Reed walked in.

But damn, my first sip of alcohol tasted worse than battery acid!

I'd assumed I could handle three drinks, yet one glass left me utterly disoriented.

While my friends flirted with young guys, I slumped alone at the bar. A man from the next table offered me a drink. Clueless about bar etiquette, I took a tiny sip. He smirked and left, but I didn't care—I desperately needed the restroom.

At the sink, a stunning guy walked in. I gaped at him in the mirror. Holy cow! He was hot! My romantic cravings just hit peak levels.

He glanced at me, startled, but before he could dry his hands, I stealthily pounced into his arms.

He tried to push me away—probably a germaphobe—but I clung to him like a leech. No way I was letting this pristine hottie escaped!

"Why are you here?" he inquired resignedly.

I grinned at him, "Hehe, hunting for a guy with eight-pack abs and… skills."

Then I squinted, admiring his flawless skin, smooth as silk. I shamelessly poked his cheek. So smooth. I was obsessed.

Hehe...

His embrace smelled so intoxicating... until the alcohol churned in my stomach.

I didn't expect the alcohol to hit me so hard; after just one glass, I couldn't hold it in.

And then, as expected, I ended up dirtying his white shirt.

He hauled me to his place, tossed me onto the sofa, and headed to the shower and change. I felt hot and dizzy, perhaps thinking about seeing his abs, so I started undressing and stumbled toward the bathroom.

He'd just wrapped a towel around his waist when I barged in. "Stay back," he warned.

But I ogled his eight-pack abs.

Wow! What a perfect body! I wanted to touch it so badly.

Of course, my sober, well-behaved self would never dare. But drunk and slightly unhinged, I acted without hesitation.

Hmm, so firm, yet smooth to the touch, not bad. My skin burned as I pressed desperately against his cool body, seeking relief.

Realizing something was off, he cursed under his breath before carrying me to his bed, intending to dress and take me to the hospital.

I clung to the bed, slowly inching toward him. The room's heating made me extremely uncomfortable, my skin felt dry and parched.

Though my eyes were closed, it was as if I had a GPS guiding me to wrap my arms around his slender waist from behind.

In my mind, a thousand threads seemed to intertwine. My mouth was dry, my face felt aflame, and I reached for his lips, seeking water.

He turned away, avoiding my lips. "Stop it, let me get dressed and take you to the hospital."

I nestled in his arms, whining softly.

To him, it sounded like a haunting, irresistible plea.

He unscrewed a bottle of water and tried to feed me. However, I swayed like a child, spilling the water everywhere.

It dripped from my lips and chin, down my slender neck, soaking the white camisole.

My chest rose and fell like a snowy mountain range.

His temple throbbed heavily, and he resolutely pinched my mouth, forcing water in.

I choked painfully, tears streaming from my closed eyes, pitiful and wretched.

He took a deep breath, carried me to the bed, covered me with a blanket, and went to the bathroom for a wet towel.

I kept kicking the blanket, my limbs twisting and turning.

The pillow was soaked, my tears continued to fall, and my chest started to itch.

At first, it felt like a few venomous bees stinging here and there, targeting sensitive spots, both painful and itchy.

Then it got worse, a dryness from inside out, like being stranded in a desert, desperately needing water. I reached to remove my camisole, intending to unhook my bra.

He came over and grabbed my wrist, saying no.

Feeling both aggrieved and uncomfortable, I opened my tear-filled eyes, "I feel terrible."

I looked at him earnestly, clutching his clothes, climbing up like a child denied a treat.

"I feel terrible, can you help me?" My language skills were failing, repeating the same sentence, constantly climbing onto him, as if grasping a lifeline.

What did it mean to be blinded by her allure? He was experiencing it firsthand.

The handsome guy wrapped his arm around my waist, trying to pull me off, "You idiot, you've been drugged."

In my dazed state, I seemed to hear a mix of annoyance and helpless affection.

"I'll take you to the hospital."

I vaguely heard the word hospital, but it didn't register in my mind. I vaguely realized he wanted to take me away, but where to?

I didn't want to go anywhere. Why was a host being so fussy? Did he only serve wealthy women?

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