Drunk
Flicka von Hannover
I had sort of forgotten
what Dieter liked.
Sort of.
Flicka staggered out of her chair after drinking an excess of mineral water and stumbled toward the bedroom. “I amsomessed up.”
Dieter caught her elbow as she was just about to tumble sideways. He whispered, “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”
“I’m not pretending,” she slurred. “I’m sloshed.”
“Are you?” His voice sounded more amused than he should.
“That was strong vodka.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“Well, you’re wrong. You didn’t drink as much of it as I did.”
He laughed. “I was worried about you when you opened up that second fifth of mineral water.”
“Fizzy vodka is the worst. Messes you up way more than the other kind.”
She fell against Dieter, and he caught her in his arms. He touched her face. “You fell.”
“Did I? I’m too drunk to know.” She forgot to slur that.
He moved toward her, pushing her upright. “Do you want this?”
She wrapped her arms around his chest and looked up at his strong jaw and kind, gray eyes. “Ineedthis. I need to stop thinking about it.”
But Flicka wasn’t the only person in this equation.
She stepped back, breaking out of his hold, and held her hands in front of her to ward him off. “But you don’t. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I presumed when I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry.”
Dieter grabbed her and swept her up into his arms, carrying her. He growled against her ear, “You’re too drunk to walk to the bedroom. You might hurt yourself. I won’t let you fall.”
Flicka tightened her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder, breathing in the warmth trickling out of his collar.
Her chest clenched, and she stroked the side of his neck with her thumb.
He bent and lowered her to the bed in the darkening room.
She thought he was going to climb on top of her, and just the brief image of a heavy, male body weighing her down slapped her with panic.
But he didn’t.
Dieter walked around the bed and stripped off his tee shirt, tossing it onto a chair by the wall. Even though Flicka had seen him nearly naked just the night before when she had fled from Pierre and Dieter had only been wearing a towel, the amount of muscle packed on his chest, arms, and shoulders surprised her. Two years ago, his body had been leaner, though he’d been muscular then, too. Now, his shoulders were broader, and thick muscles braided his arms and stacked down his abdomen. He kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the other side of the bed, but he sat up with his back resting against the headboard.
Flicka pushed herself up on her arms. “You changed your mind.”
“Not at all. You know how this always starts.” He patted his thighs, his palms slapping the denim on his long legs.
Flicka crawled until she was sitting. “Maybe I’m too drunk to do that.”
