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My chest squeezes again. Fuck, if he isn’t utterly adorable right now.
Shawn and Waylon are already halfway across the room, Will’s arms slung over their shoulders, his boots dragging across the hardwood floor as they round the bar, and head for the stairs. Jesus, Ivy, what did you put in that cooler?
Tugging a floppy Jeremy up, I crouch down, and grip his wrists, guiding them around my neck. “Hold tight, ’kay?”
“I can do it,” he says stubbornly, and with more energy than I thought possible, jumps onto my back.
I stumble forward, catching him under the thighs, my hip knocking roughly into the table. He’s far from heavy, but I’m not expecting it. Fortunately, I manage to get my feet under me before I send us crashing to the floor.
He giggles—fucking giggles, holding onto me like a goddamn monkey. Fighting a smile, I hike him up my back, and make my way toward the stairs.
Who knew quiet, shy, awkward Jeremy Montgomery was such a happy, cuddly drunk? I sure didn’t.
He was definitely not happy and giggly on the phone that night…
The second the thought enters my mind, I cast it off.
Forget it. It didn’t happen.
The red beaded curtain that separates the bar from the stairs still sways from where the others just passed through. Above I hear heavy, dragging steps thudding across the floors, growing faster and fainter as they make their way across the apartment.
Grunting, I grip the railing with one hand, and Jeremy’s right thigh with the other. His other leg starts to fall, making his hold on my neck grow borderline asphyxiating.
“Jer. Can’t breathe.”
He hikes up his leg, scooting himself up my back and adjusting his grip on me. And in doing so, his face falls into the space between my shoulder and neck. My breath hitches, but, hey, at least I can breathe again.
He sniffs, and my steps falter.
Did he just…
“Did you just smell me?” I ask, a choked, nervous laugh scraping out of me.
“Mm,” he says, nodding, rubbing his nose over my neck.
Oh shit.
Blinking hard, I clear my throat, and quicken our ascent up the stairs. He wiggles around on my back, and all my senses seem to hone in on where I imagine his dick is. I can’t feel it—not yet—but I brace myself like it could happen at any second.
Abort, abort, abort.
Logically, I knew he’s probably way too fucked up to get hard right now.
But, still. I don’t want to risk it. I don’t even know what the fuck I’d do—how I’d handle it. He’s probably too far gone, that he wouldn’t even notice. But then that would be two things about him I just shouldn’t fucking know.
The feel of his hard-on pressing into me.
The sounds of his moans.
Hell, third, if we count that glimpse of his ass and bulge through his boxers I got years ago.
At the memory, my grip on him releases. Not expecting it, he falls off, and I whirl around, catching him just before he can crash against the floor.
He collapses into my chest, his head mashing against my mouth.
It is as soft and silky and fluffy as I imagined.
Stop!
