Now, Owen was sprawled on the hotel bed, his face flushed, clinging to my waist with an almost desperate grip. He kept rubbing against me, mumbling about feeling unwell. His short hair tickled my skin, and I felt a mix of irritation and amusement.
I held his chin, forcing him to look at me. His dazed eyes met mine, and I decided to tease him a bit.
"Be a good boy and call me ‘sister.' If you do, I'll make you feel better."
He stared at me, silent for a moment. My heart sank—what if he isn't actually drunk? How am I going to explain this?
"Sister…" he mumbled in a sticky voice. Before I could react, I was suddenly toppled onto the bed, Owen's body pressing down on mine.
He was now on top of me, rubbing and kissing my neck while calling out, "Sister, I feel so bad… Sister, sister…"
His voice grew more emotional, losing its usual coldness and taking on a more pleading tone. I was overwhelmed, unsure of how aware he really was. His teeth occasionally scraped my neck, causing a sting mixed with a tingly sensation. His touches were relentless, making it hard for me to think clearly.
I grabbed his short hair, forcing him to look up at me. He groaned softly, still clingy, "It hurts…"