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“Damn,” she says. “Drinking makes you thirsty. How ironic.”
Setting her bottle down on the counter, she walks over to stand in front of me. “Now, I believe you were saying something about some orgasms.”
I can’t help but smile. “I did say that.”
“Unless you aren’t a man of your word.” She gives a wicked little grin.
“Oh, I have no doubt that I could. I wouldn’t stop until the job got done. But I don't want to do anything that you don’t really want.”
She looks up at me. “Dane, I am going to do something that I literally never do.”
Before I can ask what that is, she stands on her tiptoes and pushes her lips to mine.
It’s obvious that she doesn’t often do this. It’s not bad. In fact, I love it. But even with her being tipsy, I can feel her apprehension.
When she pulls away, I waste no time in bringing her back. I hold her face in one hand and the small of her back with the other. I can feel her instantly relax against me.
I should stop this.
She’s drunk.
I should just go home. But when she moans into my mouth, it’s like my feet are suddenly stuck in cement. I don't want to go anywhere.
I run my tongue along her lips, and she instantly opens for me. I take total control, commanding the kiss. It’s amazing.
We are both lost in the moment until she suddenly pulls back.
Before I can ask if she’s okay, she says, “I’m going to be sick.”
I figure she’s going to run to the bathroom, but there’s not enough time. Instead, she rushes to the sink and starts to hurl. Wanting to help, I stand behind her and gather her hair in my hands. To make things flow down smoother, I turn on the water.
“I am so sorry,” she says between heaves.
“You don't need to be sorry,” I assure her.
When she’s been quiet for about a minute, I grab a rag off the counter and dampen it so that she can wipe her mouth.
“I am so embarrassed,” she says.
“Don’t be.”
“That kiss was…perfect. I don’t want you to think me throwing up in any way was caused by you.”
“I know,” I tell her. “It was the rum.”
“And the Jello shots.”
Jello shots?
“Come on. Let’s get you to bed,” I say. “Where’s the bedroom?”
“Just take me to the couch,” she replies.
I begin to lead her to the living room, but she stops on the way to say, “I can’t take it anymore.”
Before I can ask what she means, I look over to see her taking off her pants. I try not to stare because I’ll seem like a pervert.
“I fucking hate jeans,” she says.
