She looked at me, eyes wide. “Okay.” Then she turned to head for the staircase at the back of the foyer. She wobbled so hard her shoulder bumped the wall before I could catch her. I grabbed her shoulders to gently direct her toward the staircase. She headed there, wobbling every few steps as I held her shoulders to keep her aimed in the right direction. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, she shook my hands off. “I’m okay. I’ve got it.”
She put one foot on the first stair, started to lift herself up, and keeled to the side.
I grabbed her, stopping her fall.
“Whooooa.” She giggled, struggling up a few steps and then leaning a shoulder on the wall. She pushed herself up along the wall as I spotted her. Then she crumpled onto the stairs, giggling.
We’d made it up five steps. At this rate, we’d be here all night.
I smeared a hand over my face. I was too drunk for this. Seriously. I was half-tempted to call Lamar back in here to deal with this.
But then her hand suddenly grabbed my inner thigh in her blind attempt to steady herself, even though she was already sitting down, and that idea went out the window. I trusted Lamar with my life, not to mention my sister’s. No way was I letting any dude carry Angeline up to bed in this state, though.
“Let’s try that again.” I offered my hand, and she took it. I pulled her to her feet—and caught her around the waist again when she fell right into me. Her breasts in that thin, no-padding bra flattened against me.
My dick stirred, because I wasn’t dead, even though I tried to tell myself this was in no way enjoyable… even as I felt her soft tits drag against me through very thin fabric.
Nope. Definitely not asking Lamar for help with this.
She giggled in my arms.
Every time I tried to let her stand on her own she fell into me again, her body rubbing against mine, and my cock, based on previous conditioning, assumed this was foreplay, inconveniently growing hard. Her hands grabbed at my bare back, my waist, even my abs—as if that would steady her—almost like they had a mind of their own.
She blinked up at me as I gripped her waist and she finally managed to stand upright without pitching forward. She was one stair above me, which brought her close enough to kiss. I could taste the alcohol on her breath. She gave me a dopey smile.
“You’re helpful.” She hiccuped.
“Alright. Let’s try this again.” I turned her carefully. “Hold the handrail. And… up.” She took two more stairs before she pitched to the side again. “What the fuck did you drink? Muscle relaxant?”
For some reason that made her laugh, which didn’t help the muscular control situation. She sat right down on the stair, busting a gut.
“Stop laughing.”
She kept laughing.
I waited for her to fucking finish, then told her, “Here’s what’s happening. I’m picking you up. I’m carrying you upstairs. You’re going to let it happen. Otherwise, you’re sleeping right here tonight.”
She looked up at me with wide eyes again. “Okay.” She blinked. “I like a decisive man.”
I stared at her. “You are fucking drunk.”
“I’m okay.”
She was definitely not okay if she was saying shit like that to me.
I leaned down, slid my arms under her back and her knees, and told her, “Arm around my shoulders. Hold on tight.” She followed orders and clung to me while I lifted her up and carried her up the stairs.
I was heading for one of the guest rooms when she suddenly said, “I feel sick.”
I pivoted, fast, and went straight into the closest room—Shayla’s bedroom—and through to the adjoining bathroom. I didn’t even have time to get the light on. When I lowered Angeline to her feet in front of the toilet, she crumpled to her knees and hurled into the bowl. The sound was anguished.
What the fuck happened to this girl tonight?
I turned on the light and gathered her hair back carefully, holding it out of her face and out of the toilet while she threw up again, then again. Then she slumped against the toilet and groaned. “I hate this,” she mumbled.
“What, being sick?”
“Being me.”
