The first thought Park Sandara had upon waking up wasn’t really a thought. It was more of a pained sensation, best described as “Ow, dear God, kill me now.”

After many seconds, it became quiet clear that neither death nor blessed unconsciousness were going to save her from the jackhammer currently residing inside her skull. She tried to roll over, but found herself trapped under some kind of heavy weight. Opening her burning eyes, she risked a quick glimpse of the room she was in. The dim light seared into her retinas and she moaned and slammed her eyes back shut. This was the worst hangover she’s had in ever. Apparently free flow raksi, cheap vodka, and a whole night of club-hopping were bad companions.

Several things occured to her at once. Number one was that moving was rather a nausea-inducing activity. Number two was the realization she was in bed (she was fairly sure it wasn’t her own) and very . Number three was that she wasn’t alone. Something – or someone, equally , was wrapped around her from behind, long limbs and firm figure making it fairly obvious her mystery guest was a man.

The weight on her back shifted and whimpered, and for a moment Sandara tried her hardest to identify the owner of that y baritone voice, but she failed ungraciously. She thought she remembered being carried into a taxi before she passed out.