“And why would that be a waste?” I ask.
“You know damn well why,” he replies, staring me in the eye.
“So you’re saying I was pretty good then?” I ask.
“Aye, you know fucking damn well you were good,” he says with a smirk. “You might have ruined all future blow jobs for me,” he adds. “I got one a few months ago that paled in comparison.”
I’m caught somewhere between a flutter of excitement and a souring of jealousy hearing that someone else has put their mouth where mine has been. It stings to hear that, but mine was better, and that comment goes straight to my dick.
Feeling bold, I let out a sigh and shrug. “Fine, Declan, I’ll suck your dick again.”
He nearly chokes on his drink when he hears me. “Colin Shelby,” he says with a gasp. “What a dirty little slut you’ve turned into.”
A cackle escapes my lips as I throw my head back with a laugh.
“Hardly,” I reply. “But for you, I will be.”
Declan laughs over the top of his pint glass but quickly averts his eyes. I’m engulfed in embarrassment as I realize what I just said. We’re not there. I just took things too far because I’m drunk.
“I didn’t mean that,” I stutter.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re drunk, Shakespeare,” he replies casually. “And I brought it up.”
It’s like I’ve been doused with cold water, turning my excitement into dread. Quickly, I grab the shot waiting for me on the table and toss back the burning whisky.
Within minutes, my vision doubles, and my head starts to spin as I stare straight ahead at the crowd of people filling the pub.
“You all right, Shakespeare?” Declan asks, but it sounds like he’s far away.
“No, I’m still a bloody virgin,” I stammer drunkenly. “And the only person I’ve ever had the guts to even touch is my best friend. How pathetic.”
He rests a hand on my shoulder, but I can barely feel it. “You are not pathetic, Colin.” His tone is serious and scolding, as if I’ve suddenly pissed him off by talking bad about myself.
“What is wrong with me?” I mumble.
“Nothing is wrong with you.”
Declan stands from the table and slides his hands under my arms. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s time to go home, Shakespeare.”
“I don’t want to go home,” I argue.
“Too bad, lover boy.”
Once he gets me to my feet, he wraps an arm around my shoulders to maneuver me through the crowd toward the door. I plant my feet and pull myself out from under his arm.
“Stop calling me names,” I say, but the words are difficult to manage—each one feels like a wad of chewing gum in my mouth that I have to speak around.
“Okay, I’ll stop,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender.
I’m growing irritable with the way he’s talking to me and trying to force me out of the bar.
“I’m not a child,” I argue when I feel the brisk night air hit my lungs. I shove him angrily and try to storm away, but my foot catches the cobblestones, and I tumble into the brick wall of the pub.
Declan is there in an instant, hauling me back to my feet. I expect him to wrap a hand around my shoulders and guide me. What I don’t expect is his warm hand circled around my throat and his body forcing me against the wall. Suddenly, his face is inches from mine, and the tone of his voice drops an octave as something between us changes.
“You listen to me,” he mutters assertively. “I know you’re not a child, but you’re acting like one right now. I am trying to help you, so you are going to do what I say. Understand?”
