My gaze drifts from her fingers to her face. I watch intently as she unbuttons my shirt. She’s focusing too hard, like she’s the one seeing two of every button. Like it’s a complex task I’ve assigned her, and it requires every bit of her mental acumen to accomplish. The scent of her shampoo wafts up to me and I lean in to keep it coming. Virginia swallows audibly, quickly popping the last button through the hole. I know she’s about to step back, so I grab her before she can.
“Rafe…”
There’s a warning in her tone, but I don’t believe it. I know she finds me attractive. If she’s not looking for a relationship, why can’t we fuck around? I wonder what she’d do if I just took the decision out of her hands, tossed her little ass on the bed, and stripped off her clothes. Could she keep saying no when she feels that much tension unbuttoning my shirt?
“I don’t believe you,” I tell her, dragging her against my chest.
“You don’t believe you’re a drunken asshole?” she asks, still trying to maintain levity, but struggling hard. Physical contact shorts out her circuits. Is it like that with all men, or just me? Is it real discomfort, or attraction she’s trying hard to ignore? I think it’s the latter.
“I think you shouldn’t follow drunken assholes to their bedroom,” I tell her, keeping her close, my fingers slipping the first button on her black dress shirt through the hole.
“Huh. Seems like you’ve recovered from your inability to work buttons,” she tells me, catching my hand and pushing it away.
“It’s a miracle,” I tell her, blinking and reaching for the next button on her shirt.
“Someone add a chapter to the bible so we can share this inspirational story with the masses.” Barely missing a beat, she looks up at me and says firmly, “Let me go.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked you to. Because even drunk, you know this is not okay. Because you’re fumbling, and you have an image to protect. Pick a reason.”
“I am not fumbling,” I mutter, even as I fumble with the third button.
“Rafe,” she says again, shoving my hand away and re-buttoning the shirt. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
“No?” I ask, grabbing her again and tugging her close. Closer this time. I grab her hips and pull them against me, making her feel the outline of my cock in my pants. It’s hard, and it wants to come out to play.
“Do you know how I usually respond to aggressive drunks? By hurting their dicks. Do you want me to hurt your dick?”
“Go ahead,” I challenge, knowing she won’t do it. Just to egg her on, I lock my arms around her, truly trapping her against my chest. She swallows and refuses to look at me, but she won’t speak, and she certainly doesn’t try to fight back. “Go on,” I tell her. “Get out of my hold. Punch me in the dick. Knee me in the face. I’ll deserve it, I won’t be mad.”
“I’m not going to do that,” she mutters.
“Who got aggressive with you?” I ask.
“What? You, right now.”
I roll my eyes. “You said aggressive drunks. Do you mean my guys, when you’ve given them a ride home? I need names, I’ll have a talk with them.”
“Sin took care of it.”
“Good ol’ Sin,” I mutter dryly. “You should’ve told me. I would have handled it myself.”
“You would have told me to stop giving people rides home, and I wouldn’t have listened. Telling Sin worked out nicely. They’re mostly dead now anyway—or, missing,” she says, her tone obviously unconvinced. “Most of them don’t come around since Gio disappeared, so I drew the logical conclusion.”
“Mm.” I don’t confirm or deny that, but she doesn’t expect me to. Sin may share more than he should with Laurel, but that’s not how I was raised.
Seeing an opening, she brings her hands up against my chest and pushes me back. “Now, get in bed.”
“Belt,” I tell her, nodding down toward my hips.
She sighs, but nonetheless unbuckles my belt and draws it off. “Pants?” she questions, glancing up at me.
I nod my head.
She swallows again. I swear, I hear it every fucking time. I wonder if I would hear her swallowing my cum. I wonder how she looks kneeling, those big brown eyes gazing up at me.
“What do you like in the bedroom?” I ask her.