“And how does nerdy smell?”
“I don’t know. Like plastic and metal. Like processors with a little dust in them.”
I’d never made an effort to smell my boss, but I was pretty sure nonsense was coming out of her mouth. “I doubt you can smell all of that on him.”
“I can. You, on the other hand,” she leaned closer. The soft, round weight of her breast pressed against my chest as she sniffed, “You smell fantastic. The leather of your vest thingie mixes with your natural masculine scent and makes you smell...” she sniffed again, “delicious.”
“My cut?” I tried to smell myself, wondering what she was talking about, but all I could smell was leather.
“Yes! When you’re wearing that… God, your body was made for the skin of dead animals. It enhances everything you’ve got going on.”
“Thanks. I think.”
She giggled again, reaching for the bottle of tequila.
Worried about her liver, I intercepted the liquor, capping the bottle and sliding it out of her reach. “I think you’ve probably had enough. Alcohol poisoning’s not fun. Trust me.”
She pouted. “Oh, come on. I’m at least three drinks away from a good old-fashioned stomach pumping.”
She was a goofy drunk. Hiding my laugh, I replied, “Yeah, well, it’s probably the perfect time to stop then.”
“Fine.” She popped the last bite of food into her mouth and leaned back. “I’m sleepy now, anyway. I think you put sleeping pills in my food.”
“There was turkey in the potpie,” I admitted.
“Turkey doesn’t make you sleepy; that’s just a myth. Turkey actually has less tryptophan than a pork chop. I had my students research it for Thanksgiving last year, and they reported back that the excess of carbs is what really makes people sleepy. And alcohol.” She eyed the bottle of tequila. “Oh!” Her eyes lit up like she’d discovered the secret to the universe. Pointing to the bottle, she said, “You! You did this to me.”
I chuckled. “You always blame inanimate objects for your behavior?”
“Maybe.” Her body wiggled a couple of times, making her luscious breasts bounce, before she huffed out another breath. “I don’t think I can get up. Will you bring the bathroom to me so I can brush my teeth? My mouth tastes like fiery piss.”
“While I’m super interested in how you know what fiery piss tastes like, I’ll have to decline. Bathroom relocation isn’t in my wheelhouse, but I can help you go to it.”
She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I suppose that will have to do.”
I stood, offering her a hand. She slid her soft hand in mine, and I pulled her to her feet. The addition of her weight tugged at my spine, promising my chivalry would have lasting consequences, but the pain wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. She stood on wobbly legs, and I grabbed her shoulders to steady her.
She grinned up at me. “Thank you.” Taking one clumsy, off-centered step, she tangled her fingers up in my T-shirt, as if afraid I’d leave her to fend for herself. “I think I might need some help.”
Chuckling, I wrapped my arm around her waist and encouraged her to lean against me. On our way out the door, she grabbed a bag of toiletries.
Loud music played from the party downstairs, drowning out the sounds of chatter and laughter. Everyone must have been either downstairs or in their rooms because the hallway was blessedly empty. Mila bumped herself into me and cackled. There was nothing funny about the way my body reacted to her nearness, though. Her hair smelled like a tropical paradise, and every time I got a whiff of it, I wanted to take a bite. Trying to keep her tucked against my side, and not rubbing against the front of me, I helped her down the hall to the bathroom.
She sniffed me again, sliding her hand under my cut, over my T-shirt. “Leather. God, it smells so hot.”
I wondered if Morse would let me start wearing my cut to work. Then again, that was a horrible idea. I didn’t want Mila hanging around, sniffing me. Walking around the office with a hard-on would be awkward as fuck. I was still considering the implications as her warm fingers brushed over the thin cotton of my shirt, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. I extracted her hand, one digit at a time, and pushed open the bathroom door.
“Anybody in here?” I called out.
When nobody answered, I led Mila to the sink counter and did my best to prop her up. I tried to slip back out the door, but she leaned against me and squeezed toothpaste out onto her brush. She’d turned me into her backrest, and she’d fall if I moved, so I stayed put.
When she finished, I walked her to the toilet.
“I can take it from here,” she said, already fumbling with her zipper.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. But don’t go too farm.” She giggled. “Far. Stay close.”
