Page 11 of Shadows in Bloom

Lord, give me the fucking strength.

Because I’m about to make a mess of everything.

3

FIONA

When Jamie stumbles in the living room, I dart forward to steady her, yelping when I’m knocked down onto the couch. Jamie lands on top of me with an oomph, followed by a stream of breathless giggles—giggles that light my chest on fire.

Her long, blonde hair is cast across us both, covering most of her face from view as she splays out across me, legs dangling over the armrest, head rolling near my shoulder. I brush some strands away from her face, my own aching from the stretch of my smile as I tuck the strands behind her ear, fingertips skimming across the sensitive skin behind it.

Her hazel eyes find mine, and we gaze at each other in the light coming from one of the lamps I never turn off. Her giggles slow until they stop altogether, and all that permeates the air is her breath and mine. Merging as one in the few inches that separate us.

Her hand clamps onto my bare thigh, and my eyes roll back as I fight for control. For reason. Jamie takes that as a welcome move, slowly leaning in until our noses brush. She drops her forehead to mine, clutching my thigh tighter to keep her balance.

My fingers delve into her hair as I cradle the back of her neck, keeping her up, even as her body sways. And it physically hurts to pull away from her as the scent of alcohol makes itself known. “Jamie,” I breathe softly. Her body tenses.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please, Fiona.”

She whines.

My eyes flutter closed as I swallow. Honestly, I’m not fucking meant to have this much restraint. Especially not when Jamie is finally in my fucking lap, wanting and whining and saying fucking please.

My other hand finds her waist, and I squeeze, even as I pull her away from my mouth. She lets out a soft whimper, and I grit my teeth on a wince.

“Jamie.” I try to soothe my refusal with facts. With common sense. Because even I need a shot of that right about now. “You’re drunk.”

“Know what I’m doing,” she argues.

“That may be, but it’s not right.” I force my eyes open, meeting her bloodshot, hazel ones to find her pupils have opened in the shadows, and fuck me if I don’t wanna sink into them.

“Why?” Her hands move up to my bare arms, squeezing my biceps. My head rolls between my shoulders. She’s not making this fucking easy. But I can’t make her stop—call me selfish. Fucked up. Lonely and in desperate need of something normal.

“Why?” I want to laugh. I really do. “You’re drunk, Jamie.” I enunciate each word carefully. “That is why.” With a sad smile, I trace her bottom lip with my thumb, over the split in the middle. My breath catches when she darts her tongue out to taste my finger. I hiss, but I don’t pull away.

“You wouldn’t even be here if you weren’t,” I remind her—and myself.

With her tongue wrapped around my thumb, she mumbles, “But I can now.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Can touch you drunk,” she clarifies and, well, that fucking hurts. I pull away with a frown. She senses the mood switch because her eyes widen and she shakes her head, a pathetic attempt to clear the haze of drunkenness.

Good luck with that, little one, I snark inside my mind.

She swallows thickly. “When I’m drunk, M’not scared,” she says like that explains everything, eyes heavy on me—focused, as much as she can be.

“Not scared of what?”

“Of you.”

I frown. “You’re scared of me?” I don’t like that… I don’t like that at all. My chest constricts. But Jamie’s shaking her head again, looking frustrated.

“I’m shy,” she admits quietly. I arch a brow, tugging on a lock of her hair as I wait for her to continue. “Never been able to be who I am, n’do what I want.” She sucks in a breath. “Wanna touch you, n’kiss you. But—I can’t when I can think. It’s too much. This way… I don’t think. M’not thinking. Just wanting—you.”

Warmth blooms in my chest, probably for all the wrong reasons. But I sigh, smiling softly anyway when she raises her head to meet my gaze. “Can I have you?”

“Shit, Jamie.” I groan, sucking my bottom lip into my mouth. “It’s not right. I want you to want me sober.” I try to plead with her—with myself. But fuck, hearing her finally admit her feelings after long-lost months of beating around the bush—no pun intended—is a bit disorienting.

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