Page 30 of Dravin

I get to her before she can take the last shot. I pluck the glass out of her fingers and toss it down my own throat, nearly gagging at the taste. Alcohol has never been my poison and even if it was, it wouldn’t be whiskey.

I whisk the tray out of her hands, return it to the bar, and try to grasp Kael’s arm to steer her outside so we can have another blow out conversation about whatever this is. She wants to tell me that she hates me? Fine. She can do that, but she doesn’t have to destroy her liver and risk blowing our cover in the process.

She sees me coming and dodges past my open hand easily. She shoots me a triumphant look and steps past me, moving quickly back over to the pinball machines, but I have a feeling she’s going for the exit and if she gets outside before me, she’s going to try and vanish.

Patterson’s is on the edge of Hart. This is the last stop before the road to Seattle starts and there’s not much of anything except open nature. The thought of losing Kael in the trees, where she could get herself hopelessly turned around and confused, terrifies me. I know that logically it couldn’t happen. There’s a whole lot more noting than there is wooded areas down this stretch and she’d stumble out in some direction eventually, but anyone else could find her too.

She doesn’t even make it to the pinball machines before she sways, tripping over her own high heeled boots. I didn’t expect the whiskey to hit that fast, but I was obviously right about her tolerance and she just did seven fucking shots. She’s lucky she’s not on the floor right now, drooling her way into a coma. That could still happen.

She rights herself, but the second time she sways, I’m there. I scoop her up, but I can’t resist the asshole urge to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out in the most undignified fashion.

Act like a brat, get treated like a brat.

Kael doesn’t cause a scene. She doesn’t beat my back or shoulders or scream at me to put her down.

“I fail to see what you’re trying to accomplish here.” It’s an epic fail when it comes to keeping the mystified anger out of my voice.

“Maybe I needed some liquid courage to be here. It’s a lot, you know.” Despite her shaky stumbling, her words aren’t slurred. Overly. They’re just slower than normal, like she’s putting work into forming them properly.

“Was seven shots of whiskey enough?”

“I have a name for you. What about Insufferable Dick? As long as it has the word dick in there, everyone should be satisfied. Those two women should be.”

Holy. Shit. Is shejealous?

My head is spinning by the time I push through large wooden doors and steer us out into the dusky night. The sky is a thin veil of blue, transparent fabric over the darker ink that’s creeping up. The faint outline of the moon is lonely up there in the distance, just a sliver before the stars make their appearance.

Kael waits until we have some semblance of privacy, then swivels herself further over my shoulder, slinking down like a slippery snake, and grabs two handfuls of my ass, digging her nails in, pinching and pulling so hard that I nearly drop her as fiery pain shoots up my spine. She laughs wickedly, and when I whip her back upright and set her on her feet, she laughs harder, until she hiccups.

For the love of fucking fuck.

She studies me, eyes swimming in their sockets, but also blazing. Her face is so far from a mask, her walls down, but she’s such a mix of fury, sorrow, and passion that I can’t fathom what the hell is even going on in her head. I have no idea what she wants from me.

Until she surges forward, grasps my shoulder in a punishing grip, locks her other arm around my neck so that my head slumps forward with the shock and her rough burst of strength, slams her body against mine, and mashes our lips together.

Chapter 7

Kael

Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck a thousand times.

That alcohol is hitting hard, but not hard enough that I couldn’t stop myself from doing this. Truth time? I wanted to.

This is what I wanted to do when Dravin pinned me up against the wall at my house. In the backyard. When I saw his anguish and realized that he’s no monster at all. He’s just a person, fighting hard and still drowning, just like me. I blamed him for wrecking me, abandoning me, for ruining my life repeatedly, but none of that was the truth. It was just convenient and if I hadn’t been so absorbed in my own self and in my grief, maybe I could have seen that before.

For just one blissful minute, I wanted him in ways I couldn’t even understand because it was so surprising and out of the blue. It’s that passion that’s all mixed up and messed up.

I don’t know what’s happening except that my body wants what it wants. My spirit wants what it wants, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, my heart is confused, but it wants what my body and soul crave, and that’s not to bealone.

It’s selfish. It’s wrong. I know that and I do care, but I can’t stop.

Not before Dravin groans and opens his stubborn mouth to me, and certainly not after. Not when his tongue traces my lips and his hand curls around the back of my neck, fistinga rough handful of my hair, but tilting my face back gently. It’s a warning before he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth. The wicked caresses create a firestorm in my blood. I don’t care if he’s heaven or hell, he’s delicious. The finest, headiest, richest, decadent temptation I have ever tasted.

He devours me, eating my mouth almost frantically, like he can’t get enough, fast enough. My body erupts in flames. I can’t hold myself up and sag against him. I don’t know if it’s the way he’s stroking my tongue or the alcohol. I don’t have to worry about falling. His hand fists my hair, and his arm slips around my back, bracing me. He snugs me in against him, so tight that I can feel the long, thick, hard length of him straining against his jeans.

I free one hand and shove it between us, cupping his cock and squeezing. He makes a sound that’s barely human, something guttural and pained, and punishes me for my hard grasp by kissing me until I can’t breathe. He’s not gentle, scoring my lip with his teeth, but not hard enough to damage anything.

My hips drive forward, trapping my hand against my jeans and his cock. I can actually feel my wetness on my fingers, that’s how drenched I am, and I wonder if he’s soaked his boxers too. I want to sink down on my knees and smell him, unzip his jeans, and pull him out, have him hot thick, and weeping, fisted in my palm. I want to part my lips and take him into my mouth, memorize his taste along with his scent and all the sounds he makes. I want to store it all away in my brain, so that when I paint him, I can capture the true, visceral glory of him there on the canvas.

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