21
Garrett
Hannah is wasted.
Not only that, but she refuses to go home. It’s one in the morning and the party has moved from the bar to my house, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t convince Hannah to call it a night.
It’s becoming crucial that I get her back to her dorm. My living room is full of hockey players and puck bunnies, all of whom score at least an eight on my drunk scale: rapidly on their way to throwing inhibition to the wind and making some huge-ass mistakes.
Dean has just dragged a laughing Hannah to the center of the living room and the two of them start dancing to ODB’s “Baby, I like it Raw,” which blasts out of the speakers at top-volume.
Hannah hadn’t been moving suggestively when she’d belted out Lady Gaga earlier, but she sure as shit is moving suggestively now. She’s gone from Disney Channel Miley Cyrus to Full-on Twerk Mode Miley, and it’s officially time for me to put a stop to it before she moves straight to Let’s Make a Sex Tape Miley. Wait—has Miley ever made a sex tape? Fuck, who am I kidding? Of course she has.
I march up to Hannah and Dean and forcibly break them apart, laying a firm hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “I need to talk to you,” I shout over the music.
She pouts. “I’m dancing!”
“We’re dancing,” Dean slurs.
I level a hard glare at my teammate. “Dance with someone else,” I snap.
As if on cue, a willing female partner appears like an apparition and yanks Dean into her arms. Dean all but forgets about Hannah, which allows me to drag her out of the living room without any further objections.
I curl my hand around her arm and lead her upstairs, and I don’t release her until we’re in the quiet safety of my bedroom. “Party’s over,” I announce.
“But I’m having fun,” she whines.
“I know you are.” I cross my arms. “You’re having too much fun.”
“You’re mean.” With an exaggerated sigh, Hannah flops down on the bed and falls onto her back. “I’m sleepy.”
I grin. “Come on, I’ll drive you back to the dorm.”
“I don’t wanna go.” She sticks out her arms and legs and proceeds to do snow angels on my bed. “Your bed is so big and comfy.”
Then her eyelids flutter closed and she goes still, another deep sigh escaping her lips.
I smother a groan as I realize she’s seconds away from falling asleep, but then I decide it might be better if I let her crash here and drive her home in the morning. Because if I take her home now and she gets a second wind, I won’t be there to keep her out of trouble.
“Fine,” I say with a nod. “Stay here and sleep it off, Cinderella.”
She snorts. “Does that make you my prince?”
“Damn straight.” I duck into the bathroom and rummage around in the medicine cabinet until I find some ibuprofen. Then I pour a glass of water and head back to the bed, sitting at the edge as I force Hannah to sit up. “Take two of these and chug the water,” I order, slapping the two pills into her palm. “Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning.”
Shoving pills and water down someone’s throat is nothing new to me. I do it often with my teammates. Dean, in particular, who takes drinking to a whole new level, and not just on his birthday.
Hannah obediently follows my instructions before collapsing on the mattress again.
“Good girl.”
“I’m hot,” she mumbles. “Why is it so hot in here?”
My heart literally stops beating when she starts wiggling out of her leggings.
The material snags on her knees, eliciting a loud groan from her. “Garrett!”
I have to chuckle. Taking pity on her, I lean in to help her out, peeling the pants off her legs and doing my best to ignore the smooth, silky skin beneath my fingertips.
“There you go,” I say thickly. “Better?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” She reaches for the hem of her shirt.
Sweet Jesus.
I tear my gaze off her and stumble toward my dresser to find her something to sleep in. I grab an old T-shirt, take a deep breath, and turn around to face her.
Her shirt is off.
Fortunately, she’s wearing a bra.
Unfortunately, the bra is black and lacy and see-through, and I have a perfect view of her nipples behind that transparent fabric.
Don’t look. She’s drunk.
I heed the stern internal voice and forbid my gaze from lingering. And since there’s no way in hell I can take off her bra without coming in my pants, I shove the T-shirt over her head and hope she’s not one of those girls who hates sleeping in her bra.
“I had so much fun tonight,” Hannah babbles happily. “See? I might be broken but I can still have fun.”
I freeze. “What?”
But she doesn’t answer. Her bare legs kick at the blanket and then she slides beneath it, rolling over on her side with a tiny sigh.
She passes out within seconds.
I battle a rush of unease as I turn off the light. She’s broken? What the hell does that mean?
Frowning, I slip out of the bedroom and quietly close the door behind me. Hannah’s cryptic words continue to echo in my head, but I don’t have the opportunity to dwell on them because when I go downstairs, Logan and Dean waste no time dragging me into the kitchen for a round of shots.
“It’s his birthday, dude.” Logan says when I object. “You’ve gotta take a shot.”
I cave in and accept the shot glass. The three of us clink our glasses together, slugging back the whiskey. The alcohol burns my throat and heats my stomach, and I welcome the hot buzz that floats through my body. This whole night, I’ve been…off. That stupid song. Hannah’s tears at the bar. The confusing way she makes me feel.
I’m raw and on edge, and when Logan pours me another drink, this time I don’t object.
After the third shot, I’m no longer thinking about how confused I am.
After the fourth one, I’m not thinking at all.
It’s two-thirty in the morning when I finally drag my drunken ass upstairs. The party has all but fizzled. Only Dean’s puck bunnies remain, lying on the couch with him in a tangle of bare arms and legs. I pass the kitchen and spot Tucker asleep at the counter, his hand still curled around an empty beer bottle. Logan had disappeared into his bedroom a while ago with a cute brunette, and as I walk past his room, I hear the kind of groans and moans that tell me he’s VBF.
My bedroom is bathed in shadows when I walk inside. I blink a few times, and my eyes adjust to the darkness to find a Hannah-shaped lump on the bed. I’m too tired to brush my teeth or follow my own hangover-prevention regimen—I just strip to my boxers and climb in next to Hannah.
I try to be as quiet as possible as I get comfortable, but the rustling of the sheets causes Hannah to stir. A soft moan ripples through the darkness, and then she rolls over and a warm hand presses against my bare chest.
I stiffen. Or rather, my chest does. Down below, I’m softer than pudding. That’s whiskey dick for you, which is damn sad considering I only had five shots. Man. Me and alcohol really don’t mix.
Even if I wanted to take advantage of Hannah right now, I’d be totally useless. And shit, that’s a totally repulsive thing to think, because I’d never take advantage of her. I’d rip my own dick off before forcing myself on someone.
But apparently there’s only one person with honorable intentions in this bed tonight.
My pulse speeds up when soft lips latch onto my shoulder.
“Hannah…” I say warily.
There’s a beat of silence. A part of me prays that she’s asleep, but Hannah shoots down that hope by murmuring, “Uh-huh?” Her voice is throaty, and sexy as fuck.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
Her lips meander from my shoulder to my neck, and then she sucks on my suddenly feverish flesh, finding a sweet spot that sends a zing of heat straight to my balls. Jesus. My cock might not be working properly right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of feeling arousal. And holy hell, there’s no word to describe how aroused I am as Hannah’s greedy mouth explores my neck like she’s sampling a damn buffet.
I smother a groan, touching her shoulder to still her. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Nuh-uh. You’re wrong. I totally do.”
The groan I’ve been holding rumbles out as she climbs on top of me. Her firm thighs straddle mine. Her hair tickles my collarbone as she leans forward.