“No, but I know enough. I know that you’re stubborn. Love Christmas movies. Wine. And unhealthy amounts of cheese. That you’re determined. Independent. Your laugh lights up a room. That you smell like … fucking vanilla and …”
“You have really pretty eyes,” I hear myself say. “Like, really pretty. Has anyone ever told you that?”
He smiles, amused. “You are drunk.”
“Maybe, but the wine just makes me brave enough to say it.”
“I should get you to bed.” He stands and offers me his hand.
I take it, letting him pull me up. But the room tilts and I stumble forward, crashing into his chest. His arms come around automatically, steadying me. And suddenly we are close. Too close. I can feel the heat of him. Can smell his soap and that masculine scent underneath. Can see the way his eyes have darkened.
“Sloane,” he says, his voice rough. “You should ...”
But I don’t let him finish. Don’t let myself think. Listening to Riley’s words of encouragement, I kiss him.
Or try to. My aim is off, and I mostly get the corner of his mouth. That was a fail.
But then his hand comes up to cup my face. “Fuck it,” he growls as he guides me toward my intended target, his lips finding mine.
And oh.
Oh.
He tastes like mint and something darker. His lips are firm and soft at the same time. The kiss is gentle, questioning, like he is giving me every chance to pull away. But I don’t pull away. I press closer, my hands fisting in his shirt, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat pooling through me. Then he pulls back, his breathing ragged.
“You’re drunk.” He pants.
“I’m aware.” I bite back, embarrassment kicking in.
“This is not ... we cannot ...” He looks pained. “I cannot take advantage of you like this.”
Shit.
My drunk stupidity could cause him trouble at work. He’s at work, Sloane. “You didn’t take advantage. I did,” I tell him, hating that I make him feel like he’s in the wrong here.
“You’re going to hate me tomorrow,” he says softly.
“I’m going to hate myself tomorrow regardless.”
He looks at me for a moment and shakes his head. “Come on. Bed. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, giving him a salute which makes him laugh.
Next thing I know he scoops me up. Scoops me up like I weigh nothing, and cradles me against his chest. “Don’t want you stumbling again,” he says.
True. With the amount of wine I’ve consumed tonight, I probably would. “I could get used to this,” I mumble against his shoulder, feeling safe and secure in his strong arms. He carries me to the bedroom and sets me gently on the bed. I immediately miss his warmth.
“Do not move,” he says firmly as he grabs me a glass of water from the kitchen and brings it back. “Drink this.”
I obediently drink, and he watches to make sure I finish it.
“Sleep it off. You will feel better in the morning,” he tells me.
He turns to leave, and panic flares in my chest. “Wait,” I call. Jax stops his steps and looks at me. “Stay.” The word comes out small. Vulnerable. “Please?”
“Sloane ...”
“Not like that. I just ... I don’t want to be alone. And the couch is terrible. You will kill your back. The bed is big enough for two. We can build a pillow wall or something. Please?” I beg again.
