I shake my head no.
“Do you still want to be my roommate?” he asks next.
And I nod.
“What else do you want?” he asks.
“I want you to kiss me again,” I say, watching his worry turn to contentment and maybe even happiness, which is a lot coming from Brighton. A softer, lazy smile forms on his lips, and before I can say anything else to convince him, he obliges my request.
“I’d also like you to take me upstairs now,” I say to him as he pulls away.
“You’ve got about three too many vodka shots in you for that tonight, Hellcat.” He grinds his jaw together and curls around me until his lips are back on mine, and he’s stealing all my air.
“Killjoy,” I whine.
"You think that'll work?" He challenges.
“How about… you carry me upstairs, bring the beignets, and we find out if dry-humping is as fun as I remember in high school.” I change my tactic.
“Who the hell were you dry-humping in high school?” Brighton chuckles, obliging my first request without thought. He scoops me up against him with both arms and adjusts my legs around his waist so he can hold me securely with one of them.
“Are you jealous?” I wrap my arms around his neck, and he turns his face away from me, but his jaw tightens again, like it always does when he’s pissed about something and trying to hide it. “You are!” I kiss the spot where the muscle flexes beneath the skin, and he doesn’t hesitate to turn his face into the gesture, capturing my lips as he starts to move. “We can dry hump if you want. I bet you’rereallygood at it.”
He doesn’t stop as he swipes the bag off the counter and carries me upstairs.
“You aren’t eating these in my bed,” he warns, breathless as he climbs each step.
“Yeah, I am,” I argue, and it’s clear he knows it’s a losing fight because he doesn’t say a single thing before popping the lock and letting us inside. He takes us down the hall and into his room, setting me down on the bed before disappearing from the space altogether. “You could have left them,” I call out to him.
When he returns, he’s free of his Hollow uniform, back into his loose pajama pants, and holding out a bottle of water for me.
“That’s so unfair,” I groan.
Brighton raises an eyebrow at me.
“Disposing of my treats, taking your shirt off, not letting me…” I trail off and stop talking because the things on my mind aren’t appropriate.
“Are you done complaining?” he asks me, and I shrug.
“Probably not,” I answer.
“I didn’t dispose of yourtreats, and I wasn’t sleeping in that shirt. It smells like booze and smoke,” he explains. “I can find something else towear if it’s making you uncomfortable.” He’s so serious all the time, and all I can do is start laughing.
“You left out the most disappointing part.” I pout.
“You aren’t touching anything,” he groans, “until you’re sober. I need know it’s what you want and that it's not the sugar high and vodka talking.” He looks so sure of himself, I can’t even argue.
“Please just get into bed, and give me my beignets back,” I demand, and he listens to the first part, shooing me away from the edge so he can get comfortable on his side. He rests against the headboard with one of his knees bent, and I slide into the space between his thighs, wrapping my calves around his hips and resting my hands on his stomach.
I’ve been waiting to touch you for weeks.
“Sorry, what was that?” Brighton’s brows furrow. “Weeks?”
Oh God.
“Did I say that out loud?” I slap my hand over my mouth.
“How many shots did you actually have?” he asks again.
