Blootered - Scottish slang for extremely drunk
Chapter Fourteen
In which we learn about Drunk Logic and just how ill-advised that can be.
Arabella…
Ach. Everything hurts so much.
Turning my head, I groan at the lightning flash of pain that shoots through what’s left of my brain. I’m almost ready to embrace the sweet release of death versus enduring another moment of the thousand tiny heavy metal drummers trying to hammer their way out of my skull.
Oh, god. My breath. It smells like a hamster crawled in there and chose my tongue as its final resting place.
Wait.
Where the hell am I?
The sheets are a luxuriously soft ivory, and there’s so many pillows and a silky feather comforter. It’s a hotel room. A high-end one with enormous, floor to ceiling windows which are - thank the good Lord - covered in blackout curtains.
I stretch my foot experimentally and let out a scream when I touch something warm.
A leg. A blazingly hot, thick, hairy leg.
“Ah feck lass,” a deep, masculine voice groans. “No screaming, aye? I already got someone screaming in my head right now and they dinnae need company.”
“What is happening?” I wheeze, trying to sit up and failing utterly. I’m horrified to find that I’m naked under this nice, soft sheet and the voice belongs to…
Logan fecking MacTavish.
He’s naked, too. No sheet covering what is an alarmingly large dick that’s growing harder by the second and… Is that apiercing?A silver curved barbell at the head of his cock and the flesh around it is thick and an angry red.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he groans, rubbing his eyes. “Ye might need to give me a minute. He’s ready but I’m needing some ibuprofen.”
“Oh, my god!” I drag the sheet with me as I scramble away. “Why are we in this bed? Why are we naked?” A glint of light from the low bedside table lamp reflects off the gigantic fecking diamond weighing down my left hand.
“Why am I wearing a wedding ring?”
“There now, ye will feel better in a moment, let it out.”
“Oh, please go away,” I moan, “this is so humiliating.” Logan’s holding my hair back as I clutch the toilet in the pristine, searingly white bathroom.
He gently wipes my face with a warm washcloth and then puts a cold one on the back of my neck, it feels so good against my horribly sweaty skin. “Try to relax, aye? I got ye.”
“Why…” I rest my head on my arm, “why aren’t ye sick? This is… oh,god!”
It’s another ten minutes or so before I can wash my face and brush my teeth and Logan has to hold me up while I do it. I can still smell the fecking whisky oozing out of my pores. Getting me back into bed, he settles some pillows behind me and hands me a glass of water and three ibuprofens.
“Please leave me here to die of shame,” I groan.
Even hungover to the point that my blood is 50% alcohol, I can still see that other than his bloodshot eyes, he looks fine. He’s pulled on a pair of sleep pants emblazoned with the hotel’s logo and he stretches his enormously muscled arms until his joints creak.
“I canna do that.” He pulls over a chair and sits next to the bed, examining me with a slight smile. “I believe that’s called spousal abandonment.”
“How did thishappen?We were playing a drinking game with that bottle ofGlengoyneand…” I frown, trying to put the broken pieces of my memory back together like a particularly irksome jigsaw puzzle. I pull the hotel robe around me more closely. “I remember the bit about the enthusiastic consent-”
“Most enthusiastic consent,” he interrupts.
“But how did we get from there to here?” I hold my left hand up like an accusing visual aid.
