“Smith,” I ask, voice raw, hating myself for not noticing sooner, “are you drunk?”
Like that, he caves in on himself. “Not drunk. Happy.”
Definitely drunk. I pinch the bridge of my nose, silently cursing fermentation and all its ill effects. My heart aches with something suspiciously like soul-crushing disappointment. Despite that, I’ll be damned before I take what I want from a less-than-fully-cognizant Smith. Until I can watch that flush bloom over his chest when I make him tell me exactly what he wants me to do to him in very descriptive, very foul language. Until I do all t
hose things and more, over and over until we’re too exhausted to move from my bed. Not until then.
“We’re going home,” I announce. I release him, turn on my heel, and stalk away.
“What?”
At least he sounds as confused and miserable as I feel. Small mercies.
I don’t turn back to him. If I see him standing there against that wall, heated and willing, all my best intentions will go to hell and I’ll follow shortly behind. “We are going back to the apartment.”
“But what about—?”
I pull out my phone and type a quick message to Sebastian. “I’ve told them,” I interrupt. I know I gave him the answer to a question he wasn’t asking, but survival is a powerful driving force. “Stay here or come with me. Your choice.”
Toward the end of the alley, where it reconnects to the street, I begin to worry that Smith hasn’t chosen me. That I’m just some kind of drunken distraction or, worse, a sexual experiment based on curious loathing. The very thought helps to relieve the uncomfortable tightness in my jeans. Then footsteps echo down the narrow space toward me, getting closer and closer.
Smith jogs to my side, leaning in to bump his shoulder against mine. “I’ll come with you.”
He’s drunk, I remind myself. But he followed me. Maybe I do stand a chance after all.
Phineas
I’m not drunk. Well, not drunk from the whiskey and beers I’ve been knocking back all night. I’m from Iowa and I was on the high school football team. I know how to hold my liquor.
Nope, not drunk from the alcohol. Drunk off Roark’s taste and touch and scent and arctic chill? Yeah, maybe I’m a little drunk from that.
Too bad the Prince of Air and Disappointments doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he’s still walking in front of me, pretending like we weren’t just pressed against a wall devouring each other and shaking every time our cocks ground together.
“Why’d you stop?” I blurt out after we walk yet another block without exchanging a single look.
“Why’d I stop what?”
“Kissing me.”
“Did you want me to keep kissing you?”
I roll my eyes. “Well, it wasn’t the smell of the alley that made me hard.”
He glances at me sideways. About fucking time. “Stop talking, Smith. You’ll only regret it in the morning.”
I glare at him. “I won’t regret it in the morning.”
He gives a delicate, dismissive shrug, as if this isn’t an argument worth having. “Yes, you will.” His pace quickens.
“No, I won’t.”
No response.
“I won’t, Roark, I promise.” I walk faster, until I’m side to side with him again. There’s only a minor misjudgment when I try to slow down, so I accidentally bump into him. We both stop.
The low growl must have come from his throat, since I know it didn’t come from mine. He turns toward me, scowling and opening his mouth to argue more. I reach out and brush my fingers over his lower lip, wondering if I could keep him from talking by kissing him again.
He jerks at the touch, but doesn’t step away from me. Emboldened, I move closer and skim my fingertips over the sharp line of his cheekbone, down to brush along the curve of his jaw. The flutter of the pulse in his throat fascinates me, so I touch there, too.