She pushes at my arms, wrestling out of my embrace, and says, “Here. Let me make you one.”
She wobbles over to the table, where there’s half a dozen different kinds of liquor and at least that many mixers. I follow and ask, “Any idea how much she’s had to drink?” Dylan shakes her head, and the ginger guy is still lying on the ground, silent. I think he might actually have passed out.
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t drink any more. Maybe you could get started on the food, Dylan? That will help if we can get her to eat any of it.”
“Sure. Of course. You sure you’ve got her?”
The look in Dylan’s eyes as she asks tells me this is anything but a simple question. I don’t know what this is with Nell. I don’t know how long it will last. But I know I’m not handing her over to anyone else to take care of. No fucking way.
“Yeah. I’ve got her.”
Chapter 13
Nell’s To-Do List
• Normal College Thing #18: Invent an alcoholic beverage.
• Remember the alcoholic beverage you invented.
• Don’t throw up.
Torres is somehow even more handsome than I remember. And at the moment there are three of him, which adds up to a whole lot of handsome. He’s talking to Dylan, and I keep getting distracted by his mouth. By the way it so perfectly forms words. It’s a really great mouth.
Which is why I just can’t help touching it.
I rest my fingers there, wanting to feel it move as he talks, but he’s just looking at me, and when I twist my head around, I realize that Dylan and Silas have disappeared into the kitchen.
I turn back and order, “Talk.”
“What do you want me to say, sweetheart?”
His breath is hot against my fingertips, and a sudden image of him sucking my fingers into his mouth pops into my head, and holy hell . . . where did that come from? Certainly not from any personal experience I’ve had.
“I like the way your mouth moves.”
He laughs, more warm breath, and pulls my hand away to kiss the center of my palm.
“Like I said before, you are a puzzle.”
Then I remember my reason for coming over to the table. My drink! I tear my eyes away from Torres and focus on the bottles in front of me, trying to remember how I made it. I started with something clear. Gin, maybe? Or vodka? I pick the one that’s in the prettiest bottle and dump some of it into a plastic cup.
“Whoa there.” Torres lifts the bottle from my hands, and I let him have it. I was done with it anyway. “I think you’re all good on drinks right now.”
“This one is for you,” I tell him.
Then I add some orange juice, a shot of the other clear liquor just to be safe, some grapefruit juice, and a squeeze of lemon concentrate. I swish it around with my finger, and then hand the cup to Torres, sucking the liquid off my finger while I watch him. For a moment all he does is stare at my finger in my mouth, and I wonder if he’s picturing the same thing I thought of earlier.
I pop my finger out of my mouth and say, “Drink.”
He raises the cup to his mouth, taking a gulp, and then pauses for a few moments before swallowing. His eyes narrow, his nose scrunches, and his Adam’s apple bobs forcefully.
“Oh God,” he says.
“Oh God good?”
“More like oh God please don’t let my esophagus melt.”
I frown. “It’s not that bad.” I stand on my tiptoes and dunk my finger in his cup again, pulling it back to my mouth to prove it. But he catches hold of my wrist before I get there.
“Uh-uh. Not that again. I can’t take it.”
“What?”
“You know,” he begins. “Maybe it’s not the drink that tastes good, but your skin. I think I need to test that hypothesis.”
“I do like hypotheses. Did you know that’s the plural of hypothesis? Hypotheses.” I hadn’t really registered much beyond the last word of his sentence, so he catches me completely off guard when he draws my hand up close to his face and slips my forefinger into his mouth.
“Oh,” I breathe, feeling as if the world’s previous gentle swaying motion has been pushed into fast-forward, and everything in my peripheral vision is moving fast enough to blur.
Not his mouth, though. That is crystal clear. And lusciously hot around my finger, and when he sucks, it draws my mind back to things he did to my nipples the night before. God, was that only the night before? My breasts feel heavy now, full and hardened at the tip, and there’s an ache between my legs. Not a heat or a buzzing or a tingle, an actual hollow ache.
I lean forward, wanting to kiss him, knowing instinctively that he can make the pain go away, but I lose my balance and topple into him, my face smacking into his chest.
“Easy, girl. I’ve got you.”
Heat curls over the back of my neck, but not the pleasant kind. My face feels clammy, and sweat gathers at my brow.
“I need some air,” I choke.
“Okay. I’ve got you,” he says again. He tries to draw one of my arms over his shoulder, but he’s too tall. Or I’m too short. Or we’re both too something. Instead he settles for wrapping his arm around my waist, and I do the same, leaning into his solid side. He’s hot, too, and I feel like I’m suffocating in a sauna, but I’m not sure I can walk without leaning on him. Or maybe I just don’t want to.
He shouts something in the direction of the kitchen, but my ears have gone a little fuzzy. All I can do is stare at the door, willing it to move closer so that I can feel the cool night air against my damp skin.