“I can’t,” he says firmly. “You’re drunk.”
“I am,” I agree. “Didn’t we already establish that?”
The room spins a bit, but then rights itself, and I decide to take matters into my own hands. I collide against him, my chest smashed to his, as I kiss him.
I consume him, basically.
I kiss him hard, my need for him overwhelming everything else. His mouth is hot and at first he hesitates, then he kisses me back, his tongue plunging into my mouth. Clumsily, I run my hands down his chest, across his hips, and coming to a stop where his hardness bulges against me. My fingers brush against him and he sucks in his breath, absorbing my gasp. And then he yanks away.
“Jesus, Calla,” he bites out, his voice harsh, his breathing ragged. He holds me away as I try to wiggle closer. “Seriously. I’m going to pour ice water on you.”
I freeze, suddenly terrified of something.
“You don’t want me, do you?”
Dare looks at the ceiling, apparently trying very hard to be patient.
Lifting my hand, he places it squarely onto his lap, where he strains against the crotch of his jeans, throbbing and hard.
“Does that seem like I don’t want you?” he asks mildly, removing my hand, even though I desperately want to keep it there. “I’m looking out for you, even if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t want you to,” I agree. “I just want you.”
Dare looks at the ceiling again, but I see the tiniest hint of a flush along the curve of his cheekbone. He’s struggling for self-control, I realize. The thought makes me smile, but then the room spins again, faster this time.
I slump into Dare, he pulls me up, and I immediately slump again.
“I like being drunk,” I tell him, mumbling into his shirt. “I can’t feel anything.”
“You’re gonna feel it in the morning,” he assures me.
I somehow know he’s right, because the room spins and spins, and my mou
th suddenly fills up with spit.
“I’m gonna throw up,” I realize. Dare grabs me up and rushes me to the bathroom. I kneel in front of the toilet and retch and retch and retch.
The gin, if possible, tastes worse coming up than going down.
That’s saying something.
Cool hands pull my hair away from my face as I vomit, holding it back and I wave my hand.
“Go away,” I mumble in between heaves.
“You’re fine,” Dare says comfortingly, patting my back with one hand as he holds my hair with the other. “You’re fine.”
I’m not fine. I’m dying. I’m vomiting up every last vestige of food that I’ve consumed in the past four years. Of that, I am sure. And still I heave. Until there’s nothing left and then I heave some more.
Finally, I curl up on the floor, my face pressed against the cool tiles.
Nothing has ever felt better than this, I decide, loving each and every one of the cool porcelain tiles with a blinding and personal passion.
I close my eyes and keep them closed, even though I feel myself being moved. My pants are tugged off, though my shirt is left on and I’m floundering around like a rag doll. And better yet, I don’t care.
Cool sheets are pulled up around me, and I don’t bother opening my eyes. The only thing I know is that the sheets smell like Dare…woodsy and male. In this moment, that’s all that matters.
When I open my eyes again, it takes a minute to focus, but then I see the moonlight shining against the wall. It’s the middle of the night.