Unleashing Hound Read online

  The dwindling bottle of tequila on the coffee table told a different story. She kicked up her feet beside it and stared at me.

  “You comin’ in or not?”

  Entering seemed like a very bad idea. Mila was an enigma. I wanted her—and not just her body—but it was best if I kept her at an arm’s length. I needed complete honesty, and Mila seemed to value her secrets above all else. Still, I had her plate in my hand. She was making no move to come to me, and her dinner was getting cold. I eyed the bottle by her feet and decided she’d need the food to absorb the alcohol in her system. Resigned, I ventured inside, closing the door behind me.

  Mila silently toasted me with a red solo cup before tossing a drink back. Immediately, her eyes squinted closed, and her lips puckered. Fanning her face like it was on fire, she dropped the cup on the table. “God, that shit’s toxic. Every single swallow burns. You’d think it’d get better the more I drink, but it doesn’t.”

  Recognizing the bottle, I replied, “Cazadores isn’t so bad.” I’d spent many nights sampling various types of booze, trying to forget myself.

  “All tequila is vile. Sit.” She animatedly patted the spot beside her.

  Knowing I shouldn’t, I took the seat she offered. The truth was, I missed our conversations. Besides, if she was drunk, maybe her walls would be lowered far enough that she’d finally let me see over them.

  “If tequila’s so bad, why are you drinking it?” I asked.

  “Because the club doesn’t carry champagne.”

  Not surprising. Nothing about the Dead Presidents made me think they were the champagne drinking type. “Are they supposed to?”

  She looked at me like I’d just asked why the sky was blue or why water was wet. “Everyone should have champagne on hand. It should be a law. Like wearing a seatbelt or using a crosswalk.”

  I chuckled. “Those things are for safety.”

  “So is the bubbly. In the absence of champagne, people have to turn to toxic fire water, a.k.a. tequila.”

  “You know, there are other types of liquor out there. You didn’t have to jump straight to tequila.”

  She winced. “Yeah. In hindsight, I probably should have at least grabbed a mixer to cut it. But hey, YOLO, am-I-right?” Her slurring was getting worse.

  Concerned she’d make herself sick, I gestured at the plate. “You should eat something.” Unless she’d ventured into the kitchen during church, Mila was pounding eighty proof booze on an empty stomach. She must have one hell of an alcohol tolerance to still be vertical after all she’d drunk, but I wasn’t interested in seeing how much more she could handle.

  Lifting the fork, she speared a bite and waved it in the air. “That’s what I like about you, Hound. You’re always trying to take care of me. That’s sweet, you know? Not many people really care about others these days. Everyone’s so worried about their own damn problems. Also, you have really nice eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?” She popped the bite into her mouth.

  The sudden topic change threw me for a loop, and I had to think about it for a second. “Can’t say they have.”

  “That’s a shame. But now that I think about it, your ass is pretty great, too. Especially in those jeans you’re wearing right now. Jeans look way better on you than the khakis you wear to work. You should burn those khakis. They’re hideous.” She took another bite.

  Drunk Mila was incredibly insightful, and I had so many questions. Trying not to get offended by the admission she found my work pants hideous, I focused on the more important reveal of her spiel. “You were checking out my ass?”

  She shrugged without the slightest hint of repentance. “I appreciate a good ass. Most women do. That lady at the coffee shop was checking it out, too. The one you almost sat with. Of course, you were wearing those god-awful khakis that day, so she was robbed of your full glory.”

  Okay, now she was being ridiculous. “You’re drunk.”

  She swallowed again and smiled. “In vino veritas.”

  “Huh?”

  “In wine lies the truth. It’s Latin.” She glanced at the bottle. “But I guess in this case, in tequila lies the truth. It doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”

  “You speak Latin?” I asked, impressed.

  “Hell no. That’s just a saying I read somewhere. It’s true, though. Drunk people tell no lies.” She poured herself another splash of tequila. “I should get that printed on a T-shirt.”

  I had no idea which pearl of wisdom she was considering having commemorated, but was more concerned about the contents of the cup she was lifting to her lips. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I’m sorry, do you want some? It was very rude of me not to offer. I don’t have any other cups, but we can share.” She offered her drink to me.

  “No thanks. I don’t drink anymore.”

  “Yeah?” She giggled again. “Well, I don’t drink any less.”

  Shaking my head, I couldn’t help but crack a smile.

  “You serious?” She watched me. “Like you don’t drink ever?”

  “No. It dulls the pain, and that’s a slippery slope for me.”

  Waving her fork at me again, she said, “Explic… explica… explain.”

  I eyed her, wondering if she’d be able to stand again when the time came. “Once I start to feel some relief, I want more. And more. I don’t know when to stop. I keep drinking, or using, trying to bring my body back to normal. But I don’t even remember what normal feels like anymore, so even if I somehow reached that point, I doubt I’d even recognize it. Pain’s weird like that.”

  She downed her drink, making the same exact face she’d made before. Slapping the cup down on the coffee table, she said, “You’re a real buzz kill, you know that?”

  I was, and I didn’t want to ruin… whatever she had going on with her tequila party for one. Besides, I was enjoying her company a little too much. Reminding myself of why I put distance between us in the first place, I stood. “Yeah. I should leave.”

  “No!” She sounded almost desperate as her hand landed on my thigh. As if realizing what she’d done, she withdrew it slowly. “Stay. Please?” Her eyes pleaded even louder than her words, making it impossible for me to refuse. “I miss hanging out with you.”

  That was the nail in my coffin. I slumped back into my seat and nodded to her cup. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I’m trying desperately to forget that my cousin’s an asshole. I mean, he’s a knowledgeable asshole, and so fucking right it’s annoying, but his delivery could use a little work. He needs some of that… that thing doctors need when they have to break bad news to patients.”

  “Bedside manner?” I provided.

  “Yeah. He could use a little bedside manner. I get it, Levi, I have issues. You don’t have to beat me over the head with them. Why don’t you space out my lashings and give me a little time to heal between each?”

  Glancing around the room, I verified that we were alone. “You know Morse isn’t here, right?”

  “Morse.” She snorted. “Such a lame name. It goes with his geeky cologne. What is that anyway? Eau de toilette de nerd.”

  “You have a problem with Morse’s cologne?” She was all over the place, and I was having trouble following.

  “It’s not that he smells bad. It’s just so… nerdy.”

  “And how does nerdy smell?”

  “I don’t know. Like plastic and metal. Like processors with a little dust in them.”

  I’d never made an effort to smell my boss, but I was pretty sure nonsense was coming out of her mouth. “I doubt you can smell all of that on him.”

  “I can. You, on the other hand,” she leaned closer. The soft, round weight of her breast pressed against my chest as she sniffed, “You smell fantastic. The leather of your vest thingie mixes with your natural masculine scent and makes you smell...” she sniffed again, “delicious.”

  “My cut?” I tried to smell myself, wondering what she was talking about, but all I coul
d smell was leather.

  “Yes! When you’re wearing that… God, your body was made for the skin of dead animals. It enhances everything you’ve got going on.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  She giggled again, reaching for the bottle of tequila.

  Worried about her liver, I intercepted the liquor, capping the bottle and sliding it out of her reach. “I think you’ve probably had enough. Alcohol poisoning’s not fun. Trust me.”

  She pouted. “Oh, come on. I’m at least three drinks away from a good old-fashioned stomach pumping.”

  She was a goofy drunk. Hiding my laugh, I replied, “Yeah, well, it’s probably the perfect time to stop then.”

  “Fine.” She popped the last bite of food into her mouth and leaned back. “I’m sleepy now, anyway. I think you put sleeping pills in my food.”

  “There was turkey in the potpie,” I admitted.

  “Turkey doesn’t make you sleepy; that’s just a myth. Turkey actually has less tryptophan than a pork chop. I had my students research it for Thanksgiving last year, and they reported back that the excess of carbs is what really makes people sleepy. And alcohol.” She eyed the bottle of tequila. “Oh!” Her eyes lit up like she’d discovered the secret to the universe. Pointing to the bottle, she said, “You! You did this to me.”

  I chuckled. “You always blame inanimate objects for your behavior?”

  “Maybe.” Her body wiggled a couple of times, making her luscious breasts bounce, before she huffed out another breath. “I don’t think I can get up. Will you bring the bathroom to me so I can brush my teeth? My mouth tastes like fiery piss.”

  “While I’m super interested in how you know what fiery piss tastes like, I’ll have to decline. Bathroom relocation isn’t in my wheelhouse, but I can help you go to it.”

  She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I suppose that will have to do.”

  I stood, offering her a hand. She slid her soft hand in mine, and I pulled her to her feet. The addition of her weight tugged at my spine, promising my chivalry would have lasting consequences, but the pain wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. She stood on wobbly legs, and I grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

  She grinned up at me. “Thank you.” Taking one clumsy, off-centered step, she tangled her fingers up in my T-shirt, as if afraid I’d leave her to fend for herself. “I think I might need some help.”

  Chuckling, I wrapped my arm around her waist and encouraged her to lean against me. On our way out the door, she grabbed a bag of toiletries.

  Loud music played from the party downstairs, drowning out the sounds of chatter and laughter. Everyone must have been either downstairs or in their rooms because the hallway was blessedly empty. Mila bumped herself into me and cackled. There was nothing funny about the way my body reacted to her nearness, though. Her hair smelled like a tropical paradise, and every time I got a whiff of it, I wanted to take a bite. Trying to keep her tucked against my side, and not rubbing against the front of me, I helped her down the hall to the bathroom.

  She sniffed me again, sliding her hand under my cut, over my T-shirt. “Leather. God, it smells so hot.”

  I wondered if Morse would let me start wearing my cut to work. Then again, that was a horrible idea. I didn’t want Mila hanging around, sniffing me. Walking around the office with a hard-on would be awkward as fuck. I was still considering the implications as her warm fingers brushed over the thin cotton of my shirt, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. I extracted her hand, one digit at a time, and pushed open the bathroom door.

  “Anybody in here?” I called out.

  When nobody answered, I led Mila to the sink counter and did my best to prop her up. I tried to slip back out the door, but she leaned against me and squeezed toothpaste out onto her brush. She’d turned me into her backrest, and she’d fall if I moved, so I stayed put.

  When she finished, I walked her to the toilet.

  “I can take it from here,” she said, already fumbling with her zipper.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. But don’t go too farm.” She giggled. “Far. Stay close.”

  Stepping out of the bathroom, I closed the door and gave her privacy. Someone was coming up the stairs. I watched as Frog rounded the corner with a sexy brunette on his arm. Swaying, Kim bumped into Frog and laughed, grabbing him around the middle. She didn’t look like she was much better off than Mila. Then again, neither did Frog. The two made their way toward me, looking like they could tumble over at any minute. I was hoping they’d pass by without saying anything, but Frog halted, pulling Kim to a stop beside him.

  “Hey, Hound, how ya doin’?” The road captain had earned his road name from his service as a Navy frogman. He was older, probably in his mid-forties, and it was rumored he’d experienced some sort of incident in the service that affected his long-term memory. I hadn’t spoken to him much, but he seemed like a cool guy.

  “I’m doin’ good. How are you?”

  “Great.” He grinned at Kim and she returned the gesture, pressing herself against him. She whispered something in his ear that caused his eyes to light up. “Have a good night, Hound. I know I will.”

  With that, the two continued on down the hall, talking and laughing.

  Just when I was beginning to wonder if I should check on her, Mila called for me. I pushed open the bathroom door to find her halfway between the toilet and sink. She was bent over, bare ass in the air, hands on the floor, pants and black lace panties around her ankles. If temptation had a greeting card, this would be the cover photo.

  “Jesus,” I swore before I could stop myself.

  She gave me a lopsided grin. “I seem to be having complications with my mobility.”

  “You don’t say.” I did my best not to stare at her perfect heart-shaped ass and toned thighs, but I was only human. “Need some help?”

  “Please.”

  I righted her. It went against the laws of nature, helping her get her clothes back on instead of taking them off, but I’d kick my own ass before even thinking of trying anything. Once her panties and pants were pulled back up, I scooted her over to the sink. She washed her hands, and then thanked me for my service by placing her still wet hands in the center of my chest and staring at me like I’d just rescued her from a burning building instead of a drunken double over.

  “You do have really nice eyes,” she whispered. Her gaze dropped to my lips. “And lips. I like your lips.”

  I had no idea why she was whispering but went along with it. “Thank you.” I wanted to tell her how gorgeous she was, but didn’t want to escalate an already sticky situation. Mila licked her lips and I knew I was in trouble. I wouldn’t take advantage of her while she was drunk, but I had a feeling she was going to make abstaining very hard on me.

  Literally. My cock was painfully erect. I turned away and adjusted myself.

  “Will you bring me my cup?” Mila asked.

  I hurried down the hall and retrieved the red solo cup she’d been shooting tequila from. Knocking on the bathroom door, I verified she was still alone before entering. As Mila filled the cup with water and drank, little streams flowed down her chin to soak the front of her shirt.

  Great.

  She was already testing the shit out of my self-control. The sight of her in a wet shirt was cruel and usual punishment.

  Pulling the cup away, she looked down at herself and laughed at the mess. “There appears to be a hole in my lip.”

  “Two holes, I think.” I was trying like hell not to look at her tits, but they were right there. She was wearing a bra—I could make out the outline of it—but it didn’t stop her pert nipples from pebbling against the wet fabric, making it impossible to look anywhere else.

  Seemingly oblivious to my struggle, she refilled the cup and drained it two more times before asking me to help her to bed. The second I pulled her against me, she became an octopus, reaching, touching, groping. Doing my best to intercept her hands, I cursed my existence as I led her
from the bathroom and back down the hall.

  “It’s weird that I’m letting you help me like this,” she observed as we reached her door. Her fingers slid up under my T-shirt to flatten against my bare stomach. “I normally don’t get drunk. It makes me feel too vul-ner-a… vul-nera…”

  God, the soft skin of her hand felt good on my skin. Too good. I sucked in a breath and reluctantly removed it. “Vulnerable?” I provided.

  “Yes! But I trust you. Well… mostly. You take care of me and bring me food. Dinner was good, by the way. Thank you.” She pulled away from me and took a few tentative steps on her own.

  “You’re welcome.” I stayed close in case she needed me again.

  “Did you cook?”

  “No. I was working with you, remember?”

  She laughed, sounding a little like a cracked-out hyena. Her obnoxious laugh probably shouldn’t have been a turn on, but it was. I liked seeing this side of her: no walls, no barriers, completely honest. If only she could be this real with me all the time. Well, without the tipped over wardrobe malfunctions and random topic changes.

  “Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re a real gentleman, Hound.” She spun around to face me, and almost lost her balance. I reached out to help her, but she found her footing and waved me off.

  Holding my gaze, she undid the back latch of her bra and pulled it through the sleeve of her shirt. Her breasts settled into their natural position, and it took every ounce of my willpower not to stare at them. Not to touch them. Not to taste them. Not to drool all over them. I didn’t feel much like a gentleman. The things I wanted to do to her would have given Hugh Heffner new writing material.

  She tugged her pants down over shapely legs, leaving only her shirt and black lace panties on. Still holding her gaze, I refused to check her body out, even though it killed me to resist the urge. It felt like we were playing a game of chicken, one I was bound to eventually lose.

  But not while she’s drunk.

  No, not at all. Sex with Mila is a very bad idea.

  She clearly didn’t get the memo, because her hand landed on my cock, stroking it through my jeans. I closed my eyes and thought about baseball, boot camp, and tried not to cream my goddamn pants.