NOCTE (Nocte Trilogy #1)(54)

I open my eyes and see three blurry outlines of the funeral home above me, the jagged edges of the roof poking into the night. They blur together, then apart, then back together again. I close my eyes against the sight.

“I don’t want to go in there,” I manage to say clearly.

Dare stares down at me, and I swear I see sympathy in his eyes.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” I snap.

He doesn’t answer. He just carries me down the path to his Carriage House.

He deposits me carefully on his sofa and leaves me for a second, then returns with a big glass of water and some aspirin.

“Take those,” he instructs firmly. “And then drink all the water. Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning.”

I do as he says and then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, before pulling him down next to me.

“Where do you think Finn went?” I ask worriedly, even though the gin has mostly paralyzed my worry muscle. Dare stares down at me.

“He’ll be fine. You on the other hand, are going to have a big hangover tomorrow. Have you ever drank anything before?”

I shake my head and he sighs.

“Well, you certainly chose to start with a bang. Gin will put hair on your chest.”

“I like my chest the way it is,” I try to say. I must succeed because Dare’s eyes gleam.

“I do too,” he admits softly. I grab his hand and pull it to me, sliding it along my side, where he clamps down his fingers.

“Will you kiss me?” I ask. “I liked it when you kissed me.”

He sighs again. “I did too. But you’re drunk.”

“I’m drunk,” I snap. “Not dead.”

It’s a sentiment that makes very little sense, but I don’t hesitate. I just grab Dare’s face and pull him to my own, my lips crushing his. He tastes like spearmint and I taste like gin. It’s somehow an intoxicating combination, and with numbed fingers, I stroke the side of his stubbly jaw.

He doesn’t pull away for a minute, but then he finally does.

“You’re drunk,” he says again.

“Correct,” I slide into him, my face against his shoulder.

I pick up his hand, and wrap it around my back. “I like being here, with you,” I tell him. “I like how you smell. I like how you kiss. And I like how you’re beautiful.”

Dare stares down at me, amusement shimmering in his eyes. “I’m beautiful, then?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” I mutter. “You don’t need them.”

He grins. “Don’t I?”

“I’d like for you to kiss me again,” I announce, sitting up straight. I think.

“I can’t,” he says firmly. “You’re drunk.”

“I am,” I agree. “Didn’t we already establish that?”

The room spins a bit, but then rights itself, and I decide to take matters into my own hands. I collide against him, my chest smashed to his, as I kiss him.

I consume him, basically.

I kiss him hard, my need for him overwhelming everything else. His mouth is hot and at first he hesitates, then he kisses me back, his tongue plunging into my mouth. Clumsily, I run my hands down his chest, across his hips, and coming to a stop where his hardness bulges against me. My fingers brush against him and he sucks in his breath, absorbing my gasp. And then he yanks away.

“Jesus, Calla,” he bites out, his voice harsh, his breathing ragged. He holds me away as I try to wiggle closer. “Seriously. I’m going to pour ice water on you.”

I freeze, suddenly terrified of something.

“You don’t want me, do you?”

Dare looks at the ceiling, apparently trying very hard to be patient.

Lifting my hand, he places it squarely onto his lap, where he strains against the crotch of his jeans, throbbing and hard.

“Does that seem like I don’t want you?” he asks mildly, removing my hand, even though I desperately want to keep it there. “I’m looking out for you, even if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” I agree. “I just want you.”

Dare looks at the ceiling again, but I see the tiniest hint of a flush along the curve of his cheekbone. He’s struggling for self-control, I realize. The thought makes me smile, but then the room spins again, faster this time.

I slump into Dare, he pulls me up, and I immediately slump again.

“I like being drunk,” I tell him, mumbling into his shirt. “I can’t feel anything.”

“You’re gonna feel it in the morning,” he assures me.

I somehow know he’s right, because the room spins and spins, and my mouth suddenly fills up with spit.

“I’m gonna throw up,” I realize. Dare grabs me up and rushes me to the bathroom. I kneel in front of the toilet and retch and retch and retch.

The gin, if possible, tastes worse coming up than going down.

That’s saying something.

Cool hands pull my hair away from my face as I vomit, holding it back and I wave my hand.

“Go away,” I mumble in between heaves.

“You’re fine,” Dare says comfortingly, patting my back with one hand as he holds my hair with the other. “You’re fine.”