Love at First Night: The Billionaire's First Love-Chapter 41: Aftercare?

>Mallory

In the end, we’ve done it till morning.

When I shifted even slightly, a dull, unmistakable throb spread through my thighs. The room felt warm, dim despite the bright strips of morning light leaking through the curtains. The smell of soap clung to my skin, faint but noticeable, and for a moment I couldn’t understand why my legs felt like they had been replaced with wobbly overcooked noodles.

Then it actually hit me.

Right. Last night.

I looked at the oversize shirt I was wearing. I still remember the part where he said he would "just help me wash up." and it didn’t just ended in me washing up.

"This monster..." I muttered, glaring at the man sleeping comfortably beside me. He looked so peaceful, as if he hadn’t spent the entire night proving he had the stamina of some cursed creature.

Meanwhile I—God—I climbed into his lap like someone who had no concept of dignity. This was exactly why I shouldn’t drink alcohol.

I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned into the pillow.

I practically jumped him. Why did I behave like some kind of animal when I was drunk? As far as I remembered, it was the same back then too. Some habits aged like curses.

The sheets rustled beside me. Venzrich shifted, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. I froze on instinct, like a guilty animal caught in a bright beam of light.

"You awake?" His voice came out quiet and raspy from sleep.

I considered pretending to be unconscious until he left for work, but I was pretty sure the pathetic noise I just made counted as a confession.

"Unfortunately," I muttered.

He let out a small huff—more breath than sound. The kind of laugh that said he was amused but trying not to make it obvious.

"Careful. You’ll be in a lot of pain." he muttered, I badly wanna curse him.

And whose fault do you think it is?

But I decided to just keep my mouth shut.

I opened one eye. He was sitting beside me, his godly upper body bare, hair mussed from sleep. He looked so normal like that that it only made last night feel even more unreal. I didn’t know whether I should apologize to him or to myself.

"I can’t feel my legs," I murmured.

"You said the same thing last night," he replied. "Maybe you should learn some restraint next time?" he added, teasing.

Heat flooded my face instantly.

Oh God. You just have to remind me. Why did my body decide to sober up in the middle of that? Least I could do is keep being drunk.

"I thought it was a dream!" I blurted before I could stop myself.

His brow arched, amusement flickering in his eyes, his lips curving in a smirk. "I see. Must’ve been a very fun dream."

It felt like my heart was going to explode from sheer embarrassment. I pulled the pillow closer and buried my face in it, screaming silently into the fabric. If I can walk, I’ll be out of the door right now.

Thankfully, he didn’t push the teasing further. Instead, he reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and held it out to me.

"Here. Hydrate yourself."

I pushed myself up with my elbows, and my lower back very loudly protested. A sharp pain shot up my spine, like someone briefly hooked me to an electric current.

"Ow."

"Move slowly," he said, guiding a pillow behind me with one hand. The motion was natural as if he had done this countless times before. With a face like that, it was harder to imagine he had only ever done this with me.

"Here," he added once I was propped up.

I took the water, sipped, and tried not to die of embarrassment in front of him.

Putting that mutual physical intimacy clause in the contract had been the right decision. If I hadn’t, I would’ve shattered a very specific boundary last night. And the worst part?

I didn’t hate it. Not even close.

I actually enjoyed it—the way his eyes never left mine, the quiet praises he whispered to me all night, the way he held my chin every time I broke eye contact. My cheeks warmed again at the memory. I didn’t regret a second. If my pride wasn’t in critical condition, I would’ve wanted more. Just remembering his flushed face, the sounds that escaped him, the breathy little whimpers—God, it was too much even for me.

I stared down into the water, avoiding his gaze. "So... about last night—"

"You don’t have to explain anything," he said quickly. "Unless you wanted to reminisce it."

I blushed. "I’m sorry! I was drunk!"

"You were," he agreed. "But I wasn’t. You didn’t really think you could overpower me if I didn’t want it, did you?"

I hid behind the rim of the glass.

"I still shouldn’t have thrown myself at you," I whispered.

"Well, that’s one way to put it." he said softly. "You did... came to me."

That didn’t help my embarrassment one bit, but the way he said it gently peeled away some of the shame. I had been on the verge of breaking yesterday, all the stressed finally caught up on me and somehow last night melted all those unpleasant feeling away.

I pressed a hand to my chest. A small, sharp ache tugged there. This was bad. If I started craving that kind of comfort every time things got heavy, I’d drown. I hated relying on anyone.

We sat quietly. The sheets were a mess around us. The faint scent of soap mixed with his subtle perfume. His room looked twice as large as mine, dark blue walls and minimalist decor arranged so precisely it felt like it belonged in some magazine. It suited him perfectly.

My muscles throbbed in places I didn’t know could ache. But he stayed close. He didn’t run, didn’t pretend last night never happened, didn’t make it awkward or weaponize it.

"Can you sit up more?" he asked.

I tried but my body immediately disagreed. "Maybe. No promises."

He moved beside me, sliding one arm behind my back with careful precision, lifting me little by little until I was upright. He didn’t touch anywhere he shouldn’t. His hand was steady, slow, patient—the kind of care you offered not because someone was fragile but because you didn’t want to startle them.

By the time he finished arranging the pillows behind me, I was breathing harder than before.

"That’s good," he murmured. "Better?"

"Less terrible," I said honestly.

He smiled faintly. The morning light softened his features, making him look warmer and glowy than he usually allowed.

"What do you need?" he asked.

The question caught me off guard. No one asked me that—not what I wanted, not what I felt, not just quietly receiving things he thrown at me. I had gotten so used to handling everything alone that the question felt foreign.

"I don’t know," I admitted.

"Food? Heat pack? Coffee?"

I hesitated. "You," I joked weakly.

It slipped out before I could shove it back into my mouth. His brows lifted, he’s not surprised, just... checking if I meant it.

"Alright," he softly chuckled. "Then I’m here."

He sat at the edge of the bed again, close enough to reach but not touching unless I asked. That simple respect made my chest tighten.

"Are you angry at me?" I asked quietly, fiddling with my fingers.

"No."

"You’re sure?"

"If I were angry," he said with a small tease in his voice, "you’d know."

He wasn’t wrong. A man like him wouldn’t bother hiding anger.

"Last night wasn’t a mistake."

My breath caught.

He looked at his hands, then back at me. "I’ve known for a long time that you only get bold when you’re drunk. I just didn’t expect you to be that bold about me."

"You make it sound like I climbed you like a tree."

"Hmm...You kind of did."

I groaned and pulled the blanket over my face.

"But," he added, nudging my knee lightly through the fabric, "I’m not complaining."

I peeked out. "Really?"

"Really."

A warm feeling unfurled in my stomach. Something I shouldn’t feel with someone I had slept with only once.

He stood then, and my heart jumped, but he simply headed toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To get the heating pad," he said. "If you can’t walk today, you’ll need it. And I still have to prepare the brat’s breakfast."

"Oh." Good thing he remembered my son. If he woke up without seeing me, he’d panic.

"I’ll be right back."

When he left, I sank into the pillows, letting a shaky breath escape me.

The shame still buzzed under my skin, but less painfully now.

When he returned, he carried the heating pad, painkillers, and a tray with a mug of something warm that smelled like ginger and honey, along with a plate of food. He set up a small bed table in front of me with quiet efficiency.

"You need your hydration," he said simply.

My throat tightened. "Thank you."

He sat again, plugged in the heating pad, and laid it gently across my hips, adjusting it so the warmth spread evenly. His fingers brushed against my skin briefly, but it was enough to send a tiny jolt through me.

I didn’t pull back.

I’ve had a suspicion but I realized there really is a gentle side of him he barely show.

"Is there something on my face?" he asked when he caught me staring.

"Never mind that. Don’t you have to go to work?" I said quickly, taking a sip of the tea to change the topic. I remembered his secretary complaining about his workload.

"I’ll take care of it," he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

My face warmed again. Something unfamiliar grew in my chest. It felt soft, warm but at the same time uncomfortable, like wearing clothes that weren’t made for me.

Yeah right... as soon as my legs starts working, I’m out of here.