‘I was sleeping,’ she says, opening the door and stepping farther back into the hall.
‘Good,’ I reply, stumbling into the hallway. ‘It’s very late.’
‘It is. And you’re very drunk.’ In my mind, she sounds amused. But what do I know. I’m drunk.
‘I’ve been out with the lads. Singing the song of my people,’ I say, swinging my arms wide.
‘Yeah, and what’s that?’ she asks, threading herself under my arm. I sigh; she feels good there. She’d feel better if we were both naked, but that’s not the way things are.
‘The song of the drunk. You know what else I am?’ For some reason, I add this in a hoarse whisper.
‘I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.’ Ella’s tone is wry but still amused.
‘Starving.’
‘Ah, the beer munchies.’
‘Yup,’ I say, weaving my way into the kitchen. ‘Beer gives me the munchies and whisky makes me make injudicious decisions.’ I play that back in my head; sounds okay. Passable.
‘Because your body is a temple?’ she asks wryly.
‘Pssht. Do I look like a pansy-assed gym junkie to you?’ I protest as we reach the kitchen and she deposits me against the island bench. ‘I eat what I like, hen! I’m no’ a fitness model.’
‘You could be,’ she murmurs from behind. Do I read too much into her words?
‘Sit your arse on the stool,’ I demand. ‘Sitsitsit.’ As she turns, I notice for the first time the tiny sleep shorts she’s wearing. Holy fuck.
‘Why, are you making food for me, too?’ Ella asks, hopping onto a stool on the opposite side of the granite. She looks sleep warmed and delicious, even if her hair looks like a bird’s fucking nest. I’d like to wrap my hands in it and hold her immobile as I trail my tongue down the column of her neck. Grasp the strands so tight she’s forced to tilt her head back as I bite the swell of her breast.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asks softly.
‘I’m just stoppin’ myself from making injudicious decisions.’ I play that back in my head. Yep. Nailed it.
‘Maybe that’s something we both need to master.’ Her wee brow creases into the cutest frown, and I find myself smiling and exhaling heavily. Despite what she said this afternoon, the feeling is mutual.
‘I’d like to master you.’ The truth makes my words harsh—so harsh, her gaze snaps to mine. ‘Fuck, ignore me. As well as hungry, drink makes me so fucking horny.’ Along with my reply, I give her the full weight of my gaze—the weight of my desire. ‘I’ve got a hard-on for you like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Wow. You really believe in oversharing.’ She tries not to giggle.
‘It’s your fault.’ I prop my elbows on the countertop, my head in my hands. ‘And I meant what I said earlier. I want you.’
‘We can’t,’ she whispers, her gaze dipping.
‘I want you, and you’re not even blonde.’ Drunk fucking arse—I could almost bite off my tongue.
‘Blonde?’
‘Aye. I had one offer to sit on my face earlier,’ I offer, matter-of-factly. ‘I declined. Nicely, of course.’ She doesn’t answer, just blinks back at me with those big brown eyes. And because I can’t believe I’m not done making a complete arse out of myself, I turn and yank open the fridge suddenly and begin piling the contents onto the countertop. ‘See, all I could think about was this girl with the red-brown hair. How I’d happily have her sit on my face until I fucking drown. How I can still taste her on my tongue.’ I reach for a loaf of bread, slapping two slices on the countertop.
‘We can’t,’ she repeats quietly. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to—’
‘But you’d let him,’ I grate out suddenly, disgust filling every syllable. ‘Fucking Will.’
‘What?’
‘Did you give him your number? He just wants to fuck you. He’ll fuck you and cast you aside!’ I throw my hands wide . . . throwing the contents of a pack of chicken over the floor.
‘And you, Mac?’ she returns, whip fast. ‘Wouldn’t you do the same?’
‘I’d fucking worship you,’ I answer vehemently.
Her neck moves as she swallows, but she’s no longer able to hold my gaze, and her words, when she speaks, are little more than a huff.
‘Even though I’m not blonde?’
‘Especially because you’re not.’ And I suddenly don’t feel so drunk anymore, blood flowing in my veins like pure heat. ‘You’re not fucking him.’ The very thought twists my insides. Makes me grit my teeth so hard, my molars might well turn to dust.
‘You’re right,’ she replies evenly. Then she has to go spoiling it, making me lose my fucking mind. ‘I’m not fucking him. Currently.’
She’s trying to provoke a reaction, and far be it for me not to deliver on that score.
‘You misunderstand me, little girl.’ I try to keep my words light as, abandoning my sandwich, other appetites begin to surge and consume as I stalk to the other side of the island. ‘You’re not fucking him now,’ I repeat, swinging the stool around so she’s facing me. ‘You’re not fucking him ever.’