"Decided to join me?"
I nearly shrieked in surprise as Jameson's voice flooded the dining room. Just enough moonlight from a nearby window illuminated him sprawled over a chair, and it didn't take long to realize he was drunk.
His words were slurred, curling with a hint of desire at the sight of me. Unlike the first time I met him, he was still wearing a shirt, although at this point in our relationship I wasn't sure I cared anymore. It was no lie that I enjoyed seeing his abs, although if he was wearing a shirt tight enough, I could glimpse them anyway — such as now.
"I didn't know I was joining you," I said pointedly, studying his slouched posture. "Why are you in the kitchen at 3 A.M.?"
He straightened at my skepticism and smirked. "The real question is: why are you?"
"I asked first."
"Nice try." Jameson folded his hands on the dining table, trying to regain any sense of formality he could muster. "Since I live here, I assume the responsibility to know why my girlfriend is not sleeping."
"I slept some," I promised, which was true. But I lingered longer on the word he'd used to describe me. Sure, we traded kisses and spent most of our time together — but even with the romantic banter we exchanged regularly, Jameson had never labeled me his girlfriend.
It had to be the alcohol.
"Not enough." Jameson gestured for me to come closer, and I foolishly accepted his arms. When I found myself nestled in his lap, his lips wasted no time to meet mine.
Out of habit, I smiled, and Jameson kissed me with nothing short of passion. My hands climbed into his hair, his own settling on my waistline, guiding me closer, closer, closer.
For a couple of minutes we sat there, kissing each other in fulfillment of each other's desires.
But the alcohol I tasted on his breath had me pulling away.
He frowned, his words beginning to slur again. "What is it?"
I pressed my forehead against his, wishing his skin wasn't so hot, wishing he was doing this because he really wanted to an not just because he'd been drinking. "It's nothing," I said, stopping to wonder if he'd remember any of this tomorrow.
"Nothing," he laughed, less out of emotion and more from hysterics.
I lowered my eyes to his lips. My heart begged me to kiss him again, but my mind warned against it. "I just wish you were sober," I whispered in his ear.
"Would that make it more enjoyable for you?"
I nodded against his shoulder. Then I forced a sigh out. I'd come down here because I was hungry, but I'd apparently cured a different kind of starvation.
"Then kiss me when I'm sober," he murmured in my ear. "I don't care when you kiss me as long as you don't stop."
"Jamie." I stroked a hand down his jaw. "Drinking doesn't solve anything, you know that right?"
"It helps me cope." His eyes were getting sleepy, and his head nearly fell forward without my support.
I shook my head in frustration. "You know what would help you cope more?"
He lifted his eyes and almost seemed to be listening, so I stole the moment wholeheartedly.
"Me," I breathed.
