by Rhian Cahill
She followed as he led her out of the bar and to his truck, where he had to lift her up and put her in the seat. The fresh air hadn’t helped to steady her at all. He had to strap her in because she kept fumbling the belt, making it snap back into the side of the truck. Once she was locked in to his satisfaction, he closed the door.
“Wait. Don’t leave me. Where are you going?” she asked the empty cab.
By the time he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the truck, Mazey had forgotten her question and rested her head on the side window, eyes half-closed.
Rylan must have some sort of Star Trek beam-me-up-Scotty machine because before she blinked, he was back at her door, his hand sneaking in to hold her head to keep it from falling off when he opened the door. He had to use his whole body to stop her tumbling out of the truck when he unlatched her seatbelt. “C’mon, inside with you.”
“Don’t think I can walk,” she mumbled, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her forehead to his shoulder. Her head was starting to throb, and it was so damn heavy.
When he put her feet on the ground, her knees didn’t hold, and he had to pull her tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you.”
Yes, he did. And it felt amazing in his arms. Well, it would if she could feel her arms and legs and the rock band in her head would quit playing. Maybe if she laid down for a bit.
“Take me to bed.”
One of them groaned. It might have been him, but it was probably her because the throb in her head picked up tempo and decibel level as Rylan swung her up and cradled her like a child.
“You’re going to test every limit I have, aren’t you, Maz?”
She didn’t know how to answer that.
What limits was he talking about? Drinking limits? Because she was pretty sure she’d tested and broken hers hours ago.
Fuck. She was going to feel this in the morning.
12
Rylan managed to get inside Mazey’s house in spite of having the deadweight of the woman herself in his arms.
She’d passed out. Which could be good or bad. He really wanted her to have more water and a couple of pain pills before she went to bed.
Speaking of, he headed down the hallway in search of hers. He’d lay her down, then get a glass of water and some pain meds.
Her room was like he’d expected—like the rest of her house—neat and organized, with basic furniture and simple decorations. The quilt, a dark blue, matched the sheets beneath when he pulled it back. He gently laid her down and slipped off her shoes. She’d probably be more comfortable out of that tight dress, but he wasn’t going there.
Bad enough he could see a glimpse of what she had on under it.
Something black and see-through.
Needing to put some space between him and temptation, Rylan left her bedroom and ducked across the hall into the bathroom.
None of the drawers held what he was looking for, and the cupboard under the basin only had cleaning supplies and spare rolls of toilet paper.
He needed to think like Mazey.
Where would she keep her medication if not in the bathroom?
The kitchen seemed the next logical place, and he’d checked every cupboard and drawer before he finally found a first-aid box—clearly labeled—in the cupboard above her fridge.
When he popped the lid, he found everything in precise sections, and he had to smile. He wasn’t surprised. He’d gotten acquainted with her medical equipment filing system during their spring clean of the base. He grabbed a bottle of pain reliever and closed the lid.
For a second, he wondered if he should leave the box down so she could put the medication away easily in the morning before the thought of her somewhat OCD tendencies prompted him to put it away properly.
Pulling a glass out of the cupboard, he debated filtered over tap long enough that he wanted to slap himself in the head. She wouldn’t care right now. As long as she swallowed the tablets, it didn’t matter if he got water from the tap or the fridge. Shoving the glass under the tap, he filled it to the brim then snatched the pills off the counter where he’d left them and headed back to Mazey.
He grinned. In all the ways he’d imagined himself in her bedroom, not one of the scenarios his vivid libido dreamed up involved him putting her drunk ass to bed.
She’d moved. The covers were kicked back, and one toned leg hung off the edge of the mattress, her dress hiked up her thighs, revealing her underwear.
“Fuck.”
Her panties were lace.
And definitely see-through.
The creamy skin of her pussy played peek-a-boo, and while he hadn’t turned the light on, he could easily make out bare flesh thanks to the moonlight streaming in between the open curtains.
He should close those. For her and him.
He didn’t need to see any more of her tonight, or he’d never get out of here.
Kneeling beside the bed, he placed the glass on her side table and opened the bottle. Two tablets in one hand, he shook her gently with the other.
“Maz. Mazey. You need to take these for me. Can you sit up?”
She mumbled something unintelligible and rolled over. Away from him. Her lace covered ass on full display.
“Shit.” He didn’t need her flashing him. He was already hard from spending the night watching her dance in that barely-there, second-skin dress. Scrunching his eyes closed, he tried to subdue the lust scorching his veins.
He could leave the pills beside the glass and hope she found them in the morning, or he could cover her up and try again to wake her.
Damn it. He couldn’t leave without getting her to take the pills. He’d watched her down enough alcohol tonight to put an elephant out and that was only what she’d had at Davenport’s. She and Alyssa had been tipsy when he’d picked them up from Mazey’s and taken them to the bar.
“C’mon, Maz. I just need you to take these for me.” He put the meds down, grabbed the cover, and tugged it over her butt, then reached for her shoulders. “Sit up for a minute, then you can lie back down again.”
“Hmm . . . Okay.”
Gripping her shoulders, he pulled, she pushed, and suddenly he was on the floor, flat on his back, a drunk Mazey stretched out on top of him.
He blinked a couple of times to let his brain work out what had happened, and Mazey took the opportunity to feel him up.
Yep. That was her hand palming his dick.
“So hard,” she murmured in his ear, right before her teeth sank into the lobe, and her fingers squeezed his shaft.
“Fuck. Maz. Jesus. Stop.” In his mind, he stopped her, pushed her off him. In reality, his body remained stretched out beneath hers. And he was honest enough to say at this point he kind of hoped his body won this battle.
“No, don’t wanna.” She licked his neck after whispering in his ear this time, and every inch of him went rigid except for the pulse pumping pre-come from his dick.
She would be the death of him.
It would be so easy to take her up on what she offered. Christ, he wanted it more than his next breath, but her breath reeked of booze, and he drew the line there, no matter how tempting she was.
“Maz!”
He grabbed both her wrists and, reversing their positions, pinned her arms to the floor. She attempted to wiggle beneath him—and maybe that move hadn’t been the best for his sanity—groaning, cock throbbing, he couldn’t stop his hips from bucking into her.
“Crap. No! Up!” Following words with actions, he levered up and dragged her with him. On their feet, he moved his hands to her biceps and held her at arm’s length, speaking loud and clear. “You need to take some pain meds and drink some water before you go to bed.”
“Yes, let’s go to bed.” She smiled up at him. One of those sloppy smiles only a drunk could manage.
“We’ll go to bed as soon as you take those pills.” He’d use her alcohol muddled brain to his advantage if it meant he got her to do his bidding and got himself out of t
here without succumbing to her drunken advances.
“Okay,” she murmured, leaning into him.
Lowering her to the edge of the mattress, with one hand on her to keep her upright, he reached for the medication with the other.
“Here.” He pushed the tablets against her lips. To his surprise, she opened wide, and he dropped them on her tongue. Next, he passed her the glass and watched as she drank the whole thing in one go. She handed it back, her eyelids at half-mast as she peered up at him with glazed eyes.
“Can we go to bed now?”
“Sure.” He let her lay back then stood up straight.
“Hey! Where are you going? Come to bed with me.”
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. No way could he climb in there and not fuck her despite his code of ethics on drunk partners. “I just . . .” He glanced around the room. “I’m just closing the curtains.”
He’d taken two steps when she made a strange groaning, gurgling, painful sound. “Gonna be—” Before he could turn, she vaulted off the bed and raced passed him.
“Shit.” He knew how this ended. And in that second, he knew his fate was sealed. He wasn’t going anywhere now.
When he got to the bathroom, Mazey was sprawled on the floor beside the toilet, her head and hair in the bowl. Her whole body convulsed with each retch, and from the smell, he hoped there wasn’t a naked flame nearby.
It was too late to save her hair from disaster, but he pulled it out of her face and held it against the back of her neck anyway. While Mazey continued to throw up, Rylan calculated the best way to deal with the mess.
One glance at her dress and the floor under her knees, and he knew they hadn’t faired any better than her hair. There was nothing to do but strip her down and put her in the shower.
He just had to think of her as a mission, pretend he wasn’t going to get the woman he had the hots for naked and wet.
Fuck!
He was definitely a dead man.
He already had a mild case of blue balls after weeks of wanting. Now it would be terminal.
Mazey finally stopped retching, her head lulling to the side, eyes closed, a harsh moan slipping through her lips.
Yeah, he bet she felt like crap right now. At least she’d emptied her stomach of any remaining alcohol, which meant it wouldn’t be hitting her veins during the night. Of course, she’d also thrown up the pain meds so he’d have to try and get some more into her and hope she could keep them down.
For now, he had to strip her out of the ruined dress and get her clean.
He couldn’t find a zipper anywhere, and if he trailed his hands over her body looking for one much longer, there was a chance he’d come in his pants. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the hem with one hand, and the two of them wiggled around until he got the dress up and over her head.
Although that meant they both took an impromptu shower in vomit.
“Shit!”
Resigned to his fate, Rylan walked her forward into the shower and turned on the water, taking the cold spray on his clothed back until the hot came through.
He didn’t have a clue how he’d get her clean until he noticed the handheld showerhead on the wall. Inspired, he eased her down to the floor and propped her against the wall. Good thing Mazey’s shower had a decent amount of space. Switching the water from the ceiling head to the handheld, he lifted it out of the bracket.
It was like washing his truck. Something he wasn’t voicing out loud. She’d kill him if she heard him compare her to his jacked-up truck. Grinning, he set out to rinse as much of the vomit from Mazey’s hair and body as he could. The whole time trying desperately not to notice her curves and dips.
If he was going to enjoy Mazey naked, he wanted her awake, not drunk and semi-conscious.
13
Mazey rolled over with a pained groan. Everything hurt in a way she hadn’t felt in . . .
Well, ever.
What the hell happened? The last thing she remembered was . . .
Rylan bringing her a bottle of water?
When was that?
Where was that?
Where was she now?
It felt like a bed. Hopefully, it was her bed.
“Morning.”
She’d like to say her eyes snapped open, and her head swung toward the voice—and yes, that was Rylan’s voice—but that’s not what happened. She could barely crack her eyelids without fire engulfing her eyeballs and shards of steel piercing her brain, never mind turn her head.
The chuckle behind her did not help her mood. Although the words that followed it piqued her interest. “I made coffee.”
Mazey wasn’t sure what it was she said next. In her head, it sounded like “thanks” but what came out was possibly an ancient language not spoken in thousands of years.
Rylan outright laughed this time, and she wanted to punch him. Shame her body wasn’t up to that level of physical activity. Or any activity. “Let me help you sit up and put the mug in your hands.”
The bed dipped beside her, and she finally, finally, cracked her eyes a sliver more than a smidge. Focusing became her next big trick. Good thing she wasn’t a magician. All she could see was a wall of black. Frowning, she managed to move her head, and that’s when everything snapped.
Her eyes widened, her body jolted, and her mouth dropped open.
The wall of black was topped with a row of ridges the color of coffee. Sweet, sweet cream and vanilla laced coffee. Except there, right down the center was a trail of swirly dark hair. She wasn’t sure what the sound was that left her throat. Pain? A word? Arousal?
“You all right?” Rylan asked.
All right? What woman wouldn’t be all right with a hot guy sitting in her bed in his boxer briefs first thing in the morning.
Oh god!
He was naked. From the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, the only thing covering Rylan Conners was taut skin she wanted to lick, smatterings of dark hair her fingers itched to comb through, and a pair of tight black briefs that left nothing to the imagination.
Nothing.
“I, ah, um,” she stammered, unsure what it was she was trying to say. There was a question forming, she was sure of it.
But her brain wouldn’t work. All she could think about was Rylan.
Naked.
In her bed.
She’d had sex with Rylan Conners, and she didn’t remember any of it!
They’d had sex, right? Why else would he be here? In his underwear! In her bed!
“Here. Take this, and I’ll get breakfast started.”
He picked up her hand and wrapped it around the warm mug, repeating the action with her other hand before standing up. A strangled choking sound gurgled in her throat.
“Are you going to be sick?” He frowned down at her.
Shaking her head, because her tongue still couldn’t form words, she swallowed hard and hoped something from last night came back to her.
A kiss. A touch. Anything.
“Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
The man she had slept with was going to be in her kitchen.
She’d had sex with Rylan.
Sex!
With Ry!
She could feel the mortification flushing her face red.
After another searching frown, he nodded and left her alone.
She could have sworn she heard him laugh. Which was fine. She had to look a wreck after a night of . . .
Drinking?
She’d been drinking with Alyssa, she remembered that much. And Davenport’s, she remembered going to Davenport’s. And dancing. There was dancing. More drinking. People from work. Others she’d met in the last few weeks.
Sex in a glass . . . a bottle of water . . . then what?
Nothing. Her last memory was of Rylan leaning over the top of her with a bottle of water. She’d been standing in front of him, and then he’d pulled her against him when she swayed on her feet. Then they’d . . .
Sigh
ing, she took a sip of warm coffee, the creamy sweetness coating her tongue. He’d made it exactly the way she liked, and the temperature was perfect for gulping. No sipping right now. She needed a shot of caffeine to jumpstart her brain.
After a few more mouthfuls, Mazey allowed herself to contemplate the situation.
She’d had sex with Rylan.
It wasn’t the end of the world. He was hot, she liked him, and she was a healthy woman in her thirties with needs. No shame in taking care of them. She had a vibrator to prove that.
Except she couldn’t even remember kissing him. And while she ached all over, there were no definite indicators of a night of rigorous sex. Yes, rigorous. Rylan wouldn’t have any other kind. She was sure of that.
What she wasn’t sure of was whether they’d actually had sex.
Could she have passed out on him?
Possible. She’d been trashed for sure. Alyssa had seen to that before and during their night at the bar.
So how did she determine if they’d slept together without asking him outright?
She couldn’t see how, and sitting here rolling it around her head over and over wasn’t going to get her any answers.
Tossing the quilt back, she discovered another dilemma. She had on a pair of panties and a tank top. There were no memories of putting them on either.
Just what was in those drinks Alyssa kept shoving in her hands?
She couldn’t put it off, no matter how much she wanted to burrow beneath the covers and hide. She had to get up—put on some clothes—and ask Rylan what had happened.
Easier said than done, but she was not going to allow the panic that was barely a kernel in her belly to grow. She’d own whatever it was she’d—they’d—done.
“Before you blow every brain cell not vaporized by the alcohol you consumed last night, nothing happened.”
Mazey turned to find Rylan casually leaning against the doorjamb in his underwear. His body on full display. “Huh?”
He tapped his temple with a finger. “I could see your brain whirling. We didn’t have sex, Mazey. I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of inebriated women.”
