“Mhm,” she nods, eyes closed.
“That last shot?” I ask.
She smiles lazily, opening her eyes. “Might be.”
“Want a ride home?”
“Nah.” She shakes her head. “I live close. I can just walk.”
“I can walk you,” I offer.
“I'm good. You should go back in there.” She gestures to the door with a bit too much force, testing her fragile balance. I close the distance between us, steadying her with my hands on her shoulders.
I chuckle. “I'm king of the Irish exit. No one in there expects me to be back.” I run my thumb along the sliver of skin between the strap of her dress and harness. “Come on, let me get you home.”
Toni grabs my hips, pulling me even closer. My hands travel from her shoulders to her back, holding her to me.
“Or maybe...” She traces my St. Cecilia pendant with one finger. “Your place?”
The mere suggestion practically makes my mouth water. “Not tonight, doll.” I can't resist the urge to trace the edge of that adorable dimple that pops up with her exaggerated pout. “Don't think I don't want to.”
“Then, what's the issue?”
I lower my face to hers, our noses brushing. “You are drunk.” She steals a fleeting kiss, and we both laugh.
“Not that drunk.”
“Drunk enough that even if I desperately want to know if this,” I wrap my fingers around the leather strap running up her spine, giving the slightest tug backward-, “is just an accessory or an invitation, I'm not going to be finding out tonight.”
She sighs. “I'm annoyed that I'm mad at you for being a decent man.”
“I'm sure I'll do something indecent soon enough.”
“Don't threaten me with a good time.”
I laugh, releasing her. “So...am I driving you home or walking you?”
“Again, you don't?—”
“Those are your two choices. The third option is me getting you a ride share. Pick.”
She cocks one perfectly arched brow at me. “So bossy.”
I am a decent man. At least I try to be. Sometimes. And sometimes, I fail.
My hand shoots out, grabbing the front of her harness. I pull her to me, swallowing her sound of surprise with a kiss that leaves us both panting.
“Pick one,” I say. My voice sounds rough, the effort of holding back all the ways I'd love to boss her around weighing on my vocal cords.
“Walk,” she says on a breath.
I nod, releasing her.
“So that sketchbook?” I ask as we turn off the square and onto a quieter residential street. She gives me a sideways glance. “What do you draw?”
“Just doodles,” she keeps her attention on the sidewalk. “Something to keep my hands busy. Nothing special.”
I pull her to a stop. “If you can look me in the face and say that, I'll believe you.”
