“Bye, Morgath. Bye, Rax,” Freddie shouted after them once he popped back up into his seat. With an elated grin, he said, “I think they’re starting to like me.”
“Well, of course they are, darling. Who wouldn’t like you?” The change in the air was sudden, like a drop in barometric pressure, a realization that it was only me, only him, only a table separating us. We stared at each other, the space between us charged and sparking. “Should we go?”
He nodded, and we climbed out of our booth. I made it down the hall, past the atrium, all the way to the elevator banks before I slid my hand into his, squeezing, brushing my thumb over his skin, the same way he’d done to mine once upon a time. But as soon as the elevator doors slid open, I yanked him inside, pushed him to the back of the car, and said, “Hello, Joshua.”
With a needy growl, he slid his hand up my back to cup my neck, wrapping his other arm around my waist, pulling me close, kissing me deeply. The way his lips fit so perfectly over mine, the soft glide of his tongue, the liquid press ofour bodies, it was hard to tell where I ended and he began. Until the elevator dinged, pulling us apart, and I asked, “Walk me home?”
With a quick nod, he followed me out into the hallway, and after checking that the coast was clear, we practically sprinted to my pod. Which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t the best idea. Because by the time we arrived, my head was spinning, and not in a good way. But it would be fine. I’d rally. I’d make it work.
Slamming my hand over the security lock before yanking him inside, I kissed his neck, his mouth, loosening his tie. And he let me, his hands closing over my hips, but something was off. He was hesitant, holding back.
“What’s the matter?” I asked between his lips while I slid his tie free and tossed it to the side. “Don’t you want me?”
Grabbing my ass in both hands, he urged me close, the hardness of him answering my question. “More than anything, but I’m not sure it’s the right time.”
“No time like the present,” I said.
“That’s…true,” he stammered when I took his earlobe between my teeth. “But I think you might be a bit drunk.”
“What?” I pulled back. “Do you have any idea how much alcohol this liver can process? I am a professional.”
“I have no doubt.” Assessing me with a furrowed brow, he said, “But it’s not your liver I’m worried about.”
Closing an eye to keep him from separating into two, I said, “What do you mean?”
“Well,”—he brushed my hair from my forehead—“you’re not normally this green.”
Those were evidently magic words, because once he’d uttered them, nausea roiled through me. Grasping my belly, I stumbled to my bathroom, dropped to my knees, and leaned over the toilet in the nick of time.
Somewhere behind me, he turned on the water.
“Maybe I am drunk,” I admitted while he took a knee beside me on the tile.
“Happens to the best of us,” he said softy, running his hand up and down my back in long, soothing strokes.
I heaved again, amazed there was anything left inside me. When I was done, he flushed the toilet and handed me a damp washcloth.
“This is so embarrassing,” I said, hiding my face behind the washcloth.
“You should be proud.” He tucked my hair behind my ear. “I’ve seen volcanic eruptions that were less productive.”
I laughed, then groaned as he helped me to my feet.
“Drink this,” he said, pressing a glass of cold water into my hand.
I did as ordered, and when he handed me two anti-nox tabs, I took those too.
He led me to my bed, unzipping my dress, kneeling so I could lean on his shoulder while I stepped out of it while he slipped my shoes from my feet one at a time. Then he stood, draped my dress on my dresser, and reached around me to unclasp my bra.
“Hmm,” I murmured, taking one of his hands and placing it over my breast. “That’s more like it.”
He huffed a laugh, but while he used his free hand to reach inside my dresser drawer for something for me to wear, he humored me, his thumb rolling over my nipple, pressing down, almost making me forget how dizzy I was. Until I closed my eyes and the room spun.
“Arms up,” he instructed.
I complied, wobbling on my feet while he slipped my constellation nightshirt over my head. He’d picked that one specifically, like he’d known it was my favorite.
“Now,” he said, turning me around and giving my ass a surprisingly firm swat, “into bed with you.”
