(Clara’s POV)

The next morning, I woke up with a plan.

I wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

Or for me.

I dug through my bag for the shortest skirt I owned—a little black pleated thing that barely skimmed my thighs—and paired it with a loose white crop top. No bra. No panties. Just the skirt and the top, and the thrill of knowing one wrong move would show everything.

I padded downstairs, innocent as I could be, my hair in a messy ponytail, like I’d just rolled out of bed.

I met Ryan in the kitchen, pouring coffee, back to me. He wore a fitted t-shirt and...