“Right there.” I nodded toward the black Aston Martin parked half on the curb, its hazard lights still blinking. “Think you can stand for a second while I get the door?”
She nodded against my shoulder, then immediately contradicted herself. “Nope. Too spinny. The world isveryspinny right now.”
Despite everything—the fear, the anger, the lingering desire to go back and finish what I'd started with the man who'd touched her—I felt my lips twitch. “Spinny, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She pressed her face into my neck, and the sensation of her lips against my skin sent heat cascading through my body. “You're so pretty, Rafe. Has anyone ever told you that? So pretty it hurts to look at you sometimes.”
I managed to get the passenger door open while still holding her. “I think you mean fatally attractive.”
“No,” she insisted as I carefully lowered her into the seat. “Pretty. Like art. Like something that should be in a museum.” She reached up to touch my face, fingers tracing the line of my jaw with clumsy tenderness. “I used to watch you at those Sunday dinners, you know.”
I captured her hand, guiding it away from my face before I did something stupid like turn and press my lips to her palm. “Let's get you home. You need water and sleep.”
Her body limp in the seat, she allowed me to buckle her in. As I rounded the car and slid behind the wheel, she turned to watch me.
“You never looked at me,” she continued as if there had been no interruption. “Not like that. Not like I wanted you to.” She sighed, letting her head fall back. “I get it. I'm just Everlee's little sister. Not sophisticated or smart. Just the dancer who couldn't make it.” That last part came out whisper-soft.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I pulled into traffic. Her words sent an unwelcome pang through my chest. Is that what she thought? That I didn't look at her because I didn't want her?
“That's not true.” The words escaped before I could stop them.
She smiled, sad and knowing in a way that felt too perceptive for someone as drunk as she clearly was. “It's okay.” Her hand landed on my thigh, hot even through the fabric of my pants. “But sometimes I think about you. When I'm alone. When I touch myself.”
Holy fucking shit.
My cock hardened instantly, her words conjuring images I'd been trying desperately not to dwell on since I'd watched her in the bath. Her fingers trailed higher on my thigh, dangerously close to where I was rapidly becoming uncomfortable.
“You're drunk,” I managed, my voice strained as I gently removed her hand from my leg. “You don't know what you're saying.”
“I know exactly what I'm saying.” She turned in her seat to face me more fully, her movements liquid and graceless all at the same time. “I think about your hands. They're so big. I bet they'd feel so good on me, inside me.”
Fuck. I was going to hell for this, for the way my body responded to her words, for the images they painted in my mind. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the road, on the traffic, on anything but the woman beside me describing in explicit detail what she imagined me doing to her.
“I think about your mouth too,” she continued, clearly oblivious to my struggle. “Your lips are so full for a man. I bet you're good with your tongue. Are you good with your tongue, Rafe?”
“Cecelia,” I warned, my voice a growl that did nothing to deter her.
“What? I'm just being honest.” She leaned her head against the window. “That's what alcohol does, right? Makes you honest. Makes you say all the things you're too scared to say sober.” She sighed, the sound fragile in the quiet car. “Like how I wish you actually wanted me instead of just needing a convenient wife.”
Her words slammed into me so hard; I nearly missed our turn. Did she really think I didn't want her? When every moment in her presence was an exercise in restraint, in not touching, not taking, not claiming?
She continued talking as I drove, jumping from topic to topic with the disjointed logic of the very drunk. One moment she was telling me about a dance recital from when she was twelve, the next she was asking if I believed in ghosts, then circling back to how much she liked my hands. I let her talk, relieved when we finally pulled into the garage beneath my building.
As I helped her out of the car, her face suddenly paled and her hand flew to her mouth. “Rafe,” she whispered urgently, “I'm going to be sick.”
I acted on instinct, scooping her back into my arms and rushing toward the elevator. We made it to the penthouse in record time, and I barely had the bathroom door open before she lunged for the toilet.
Kneeling beside her, I gathered her hair in one hand to keep it out of her face while my other rubbed slow circles on her back. “It's okay,” I murmured as she retched again. “Get it all out. You'll feel better.”
When the worst had passed, I dampened a washcloth with cool water and pressed it to the back of her neck, then her forehead, her cheeks, and mouth. She closed her eyes, leaning into my touch with a small, broken sound that tugged at something in my chest.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” I helped her to her feet, steadying her as she swayed. “Think you can brush your teeth while I get you something to wear?”
She nodded weakly, and I retrieved her toothbrush, adding a dot of toothpaste before pressing it into her hand. While she went through the motions of brushing, I grabbed one of my t-shirts from the closet.
By the time I returned, she'd finished brushing and was leaning heavily against the counter with her eyes half-closed. “Arms up,” I instructed gently.
