“It’s not,” I tell him earnestly, my hand pressing against his chest to keep him in place. “Don’t downplay it, okay? If I hurt your feelings, you should tell me. Or anyone else for that matter. You don’t need to let people off the hook for that kinda thing.”
There’s a beat of silence before he whispers, “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo.
Our eyes remain locked for a few seconds, his chest rising and falling beneath my palm with shallow breaths. The heat from his body radiates into my skin, even through the thick fabric of his hoodie, and I have the strangest desire to push against him harder. See if I can feel it more with some added pressure.
“Can I get up now?” he asks, dragging me from my thoughts.
Shit. Right.
Pulling away, I rise to my full height before offering my hand to him. His palm is warm when it slides into mine, and I help haul him to his feet. He sways a little once he’s upright, almost like he’s got sea legs, and I grab his shoulder instinctively to prevent him from falling all over again.
He grins down at me, all drunken and lopsided, before he murmurs, “If you wanna touch me more, just ask, Lil Reed.”
Even inebriated, there’s still a certain amount of seduction laced in his statement, and it’s enough to have me pulling away from him on instinct. Unfortunately for me, that just makes his grin grow even wider.
“I think it’s time for bed. Are you coming?” he asks with a little waggle of his eyebrows at the double entendre.
“I’m going up to my own separate room, sure,” I reply, trying to focus on the task of getting him to bed instead of the suggestive nature of his question. But at least my little slip-up is a thing of the past. “Do you want help up the stairs?”
He shakes his head, only to immediately wince from the movement, though if the impending headache is from the drinking or his fall, it’s anyone’s guess.
I watch cautiously as he takes the steps one at a time, so slowly I’d almost think he’s going backward if I wasn’t directly behind him. But then he stumbles again, tripping on one of the risers, and I catch him by the bicep so he doesn’t faceplant into the wood. He tries shaking me off, stubbornness getting the better of him in his desire to do this himself.
“I might be drunk, but I can still walk,” he grumbles when I don’t let go of him.
“Yeah, you’re doing a great job of it right now,” I reply dryly. Dropping down, I sling his arm over my shoulders before standing again. “But since we’re on the subject, exactly how much did you have?”
“Probably too many.”
I’d say. I mean, is he holding upanyof his weight right now? I know muscle weighs a lot, but,Jesus,I was not prepared to practically carry a six-foot-three hockey player up the stairs this evening.
Thankfully, we make it to his bedroom at the end of the hall with little issue, and the second we’re inside, he stumbles out of my hold and starts shedding layers of his clothing. First is his denim jacket, then the gray hoodie beneath it, both hitting the floor at my feet before I can so much as blink. That’s as far as he makes it before he stumbles again and then drops down on the bed with his jeans still on.
Fuck.
For a good ten seconds, I debate on just leaving him like that. After all, he’s home safe, and there are way worse things than sleeping it off while wearing jeans and sneakers. Yet that logic seems to fly out the window as I walk over to where he’s lying prone on the bed.
“Roll over,” I command while pushing his shoulder.
He slowly does as I ask, flipping onto his back, and I drop to my knees to remove his shoes. My jaw tenses when I move up to his belt, undoing the buckle and pulling it swiftly from the loops before flicking open the button on his jeans. I don’t think I’m breathing by the time I’m peeling the denim from his body, exposing lines of chiseled muscle and smooth skin with every inch I drag them down his thighs.
Everything about undressing him feels wrong. It’s too real. Too intimate. Maybe because, if it were any other circumstance outside of intoxication, it would be.
In the midst of tossing his pants aside, I find his phone on the floor; it must’ve fallen out as he stripped his hoodie off. After plugging it in, I head downstairs for some water, making sure to snag some ibuprofen on my way back to his room.
I find him in a different position when I return, him having shifted up the bed some more and now splayed out on his back like a starfish.
“Here. Take these,” I instruct while holding out the water and medicine.
He squints at me before sitting up and doing as I ask. It’s only after he downs the entire glass of water that he looks down at himself, frowns, and flops onto his back again.
“I’m not wearing pants,” he mumbles, his eyes closed again.
“I took them off.”
A sleepy, drunken smile pulls at his lips. “Knew you couldn’t resist forever.”
