Page 123 of Third and Ten

“I’m here. How did you end up drunk?”

He makes a “pfft” sound with his lips. “I’ve been doing this every night.” I cringe as he points to the empty glass and bottle of whiskey on the side table. JD doesn’t normally drink when he’s upset, but I guess I’ve pushed him over the edge. “It’s the only way I could fall asleep.”

I kneel beside the couch. “Did you drink that whole bottle tonight?”

“No, no, no. It was only like…half full. Or half empty?” He attempts to explain by using his index finger and thumb to illustrate his measurements, but he can’t seem to make up his mind about what a half should look like. I lean in and smell the alcohol on his warm breath. Then I tug his eyelids up and check his pupils, and finally his pulse. He’s obviously inebriated, but with his size, it would take a lot more whiskey than that to put him in danger, so long as he doesn’t go out on the road.

“Come on, you need to sit up,” I say, pulling his arm and immediately regretting my decision to touch my favorite part of his body.

“I don’t want to,” he mumbles. “I just want to sleep.”

“Okay, then, let’s get you to bed.”

“Will you come with me?” he asks, his hazel eyes wide and glossy. They’re a brighter gold than usual tonight.

Yes, please.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. But I’ll help you, okay?”

I maneuver him to a seated position, but then he closes his eyes tightly and leans back against the couch, and I fight the urge to climb into his lap and latch onto him forever. “Ten, I’m so sorry I messed up,” he whispers. “Can you forgive me?”

I nod. “I already have. And I’ve been missing you so much.”

“And you really love me?”

I sink down in front of him. I can’t blame him for asking, since I haven’t exactly been as generous with my feelings since the first time we made that proclamation. “I definitely do,” I say softly. “And I’m so sorry for not telling you I love you as often as I should, but I promise it’s true.”

He opens his eyes and shakes his head. “I hate space.”

“I hate it, too.”

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads. “Can we just go to bed? I’m so tired.”

“Okay.” I stand again and tug his hands, pulling him to his feet. He lurches forward, stumbling a little, but rights himself soon enough and begins dragging me along instead.

Once we make it to his bedroom, he starts stripping.

“Oh, no.” I panic. “JD, babe, why don’t you just leave all that on?” I suggest, stopping his hands as he fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. He’s dressed more formally than usual tonight, having upgraded his trademark khakis and black or yellow polo shirt for a button-down and slacks. It’s probably because he started his new job today.

“No, I gotta take it off,” he whines. “I’m too hot.”

I sigh because he’s right. “Okay, okay, just…let me help you.” He drops his hands, and I swallow hard as I unbutton his shirt, my stomach clenching when I slowly push the fabric over his shoulders and down his arms.

My eyelids feel heavy as I drink in the sight of him until he distracts me by fumbling with his belt. He shakes his head and lets his arms fall by his sides after a second.

“Help.”

I cringe and warily move my hands down to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his dress slacks. I bite my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as I force myself to drag that zipper down. Then I step back, hoping that his pants will just fall on their own, but my man has cake. (I’d finally let Ethan explain that expression to me.) It all stays in place, with the exception of the front folding over at the zipper to uncover the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Of course, he refuses to pull his own pants down, raising his hands in the air helplessly and looking at me expectantly. I groan and tug down near the side pockets, uncovering his hips and the length of his muscular thighs before the slacks finally hit the floor with a thud.

Oh, man, is he gorgeous…

It’s not even peak fertility time, yet my hormones are eating this up.

“Damn you, Joseph Drake Bourgeois,” I grumble as I take him in, clad only in a pair of black athletic boxers that fit him like a second skin. My eyes finally meet his again, and this time I realize he’s smirking. “You little…” I trail off. “You’re not that drunk, are you?”

“Shhure I am,” comes his exaggerated reply. “I doubt I’ll remember any of this in the morning. So, if you want to take advantage of me, now’s your chance, Tenley Jean,” he offers in a singsong voice, using his hands for flair, like he’s presenting himself as a game-show prize.

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