I don’t run, either.
The urge to cry grew stronger, pricking at the back of my eyes.
“How drunk are you?” he asked, watching me closely.
“On a scale of one to wasted?”
“Not sure that scale is scientifically correct, but yeah. On a scale of one to wasted, where are you falling right now?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I want to fuck you, baby, but I’m not going to do it if you’re totally blitzed.”
Hellfire.
My eyes widened, my breath caught, and a volt of pure, undiluted lust shot straight between my legs. “I’m thinking…” I whispered, heart thudding against my ribs. “I’m not that drunk. Suddenly… feeling remarkably sober.”
“Thank fuck,” Graham grunted.
Then, so fast I didn’t even see him move, I was jerked off my feet into his arms. His mouth crashed down onto mine, kissing me hard, his lips a bruising assault that I welcomed with every fiber of my being. His hands found my ass, lifting me firmly against him, and I threw all my limbs around his frame, legs wrapping around his waist, arms winding around his neck. He never stopped kissing me as he carried me up the stairs, down the hall, and into my dark bedroom.
* * *
I slept like the dead.(I suppose half a bottle of tequila and oodles of mind-boggling sex will do that to a girl.) When I woke, I stared in disbelief at the clock on my bedside table, which proclaimed 10:34AM, certain I was reading it wrong. I hadn’t slept past ten since…
Come to think of it, I’dneverslept past ten.
Looking around my empty room, I saw Graham’s jeans were gone from the floor where he’d left them last night. He’d taken them with him when he went to sleep in the room down the hall, leaving me in a state of post-orgasmic bliss so complete, I could barely lift my head to kiss him goodbye. His t-shirt, however, was still crumpled in a ball beside my dresser. I slipped it over my head before I wandered into the bathroom, enjoying the faint smell of him that lingered on the fabric as I used the facilities, brushed my teeth, and dragged on a pair of fresh panties.
Barefoot, I made my way downstairs in search of coffee and Graham — not necessarily in that order. I found him almost immediately, following a strange grating sound through the empty echo-chamber that was my house all the way to the unfurnished dining room that adjoined the kitchen. I froze on the threshold, eyes widening at the sight that greeted me. Graham, barefoot and shirtless, the top button of his jeans left undone, his hair messier than usual, his big hands working a flat chisel as he peeled away a large chunk of Aunt Colette’s horrendous, orange floral wallpaper.
I’d begun to strip down the walls in here ages ago but, when the project proved far more labor intensive than I’d anticipated, I’d given up almost before I’d begun, removing only a narrow section beside the fireplace. For months, I’d been walking past this room, grimacing at my unfinished work — as well as the genuinely putrid floral pattern — and feeling guilty for abandoning it. Hell, just last night as I sat drinking tequila with Flo, I’d told myself I would get back to it as soon as the high season ended and life calmed down a bit.
But now, like magic, ninety-nine percent of the walls were bare down to the plaster. Graham was hard at work on that final one percent, peeling slowly but steadily so it came down in one clean piece. How he managed that, I have no idea — when I’d tried, it all came apart in tattered fistfuls. Then again, Graham seemed incapable of doing anything incompetently.
He dropped the final section of the orange monstrosity to the floor and turned in a slow circle to inspect his handiwork. When his gaze moved past the threshold, they jerked to a stop as they caught on me.
“Babe.”
I came unglued from the doorjamb where I’d been leaning. “You took down my wallpaper.”
He stayed still as he watched me walk toward him, his eyes lit with an uncharacteristic wariness. “Yeah. You mind?”
“Mind?” I snorted and shook my head. “Why would I mind? Do you have any idea how many months I’ve been staring at that ugly wallpaper, wishing it would magically strip itself? I always loved how Aunt Colette was a groovy hippie chick, but her decor style was stuck in the ‘70s in a very big way.”
I watched him relax, lips twitching. “Wasn’t sure if I was messing up whatever grand home-reno plans you’ve got up your sleeve.”
“Nope, just never got around to finishing. Now, I guess I don’t have to.” I stopped in front of him, sliding my hands along his bare waist and tilting my head back to look up at him. “Thank you.”
He didn’t touch me, seeing as his hands were caked in wallpaper paste, but his lips descended to claim mine in a light, brief kiss that I wished lasted about ten times as long.
“You’re welcome,” he murmured, pulling back to examine me. “You sleep okay?”
“It’s almosteleven. If I slept any better, I think it would be considered a coma.”
He chuckled.
“How about you? I feel guilty, it must’ve been uncomfortable on the floor in your sleeping bag…” My nose scrunched as my conscience nagged at me. “And the house gets so cold at night—”