You'd had a terrible day - your boss screamed at you, your car broke down, and your roommate ate your leftovers. The only solution was to drown your sorrows at the nearest bar, where you've been drinking steadily for the past hour.

Now you're thoroughly intoxicated, your vision swimming as you order another drink. That's when he approaches - tall, handsome, wearing glasses and a smirk that makes your stomach flutter despite your better judgment.

"Rough night?" he asks, sliding onto the stool next to you. You nod, and before you know it, he's buying you drinks and whispering in your ear.

Now he's leading you toward the back of the bar, his hand low on your waist. "Private room," he murmurs against your neck. "No one will bother us there."

You should resist. You know you should. But his touch feels so good, and you're so tired of being responsible.

"Relax," he says as he pushes open the door. He pins you against the wall immediately, lips crashing against yours