24 - A Little Drunk

Near the bottom of their second bottle and almost two hours after Delaney had arrived, Jon was as relaxed as he ever got.  If he went in the next room and crawled into bed right now, sleep would undoubtedly find him within minutes, but he wasn’t going anywhere yet.  As long as she didn’t show an interest in leaving, his ass was going to sit right here and enjoy being a little drunk with a little drunk. 

Tipsy Delaney wasn’t any different than the sassy-mouthed girl he’d first met.  As he’d suspected, there was nothing superficial about her.  She seemed to say whatever came to mind and he enjoyed the outrageousness of it, right down to the playful argument launched by her mockery of Jon's repetitive stage wardrobe.  Apparently, because he wore the same shirts and jackets, she couldn’t tell one goddamn YouTube video from another  – and thought he cared.

“Listen up, Buttercup,” he commanded, directing his wine glass and one squinted eye at her.  “I explain this shit to nobody, so what I’m about to give you is rarer than a live performance of ‘Hallelujah’.  You better fuckin’ appreciate it.”

“Let me get out my phone to take these historical notes.”  The giggled response came as she pushed both feet into the cushion and lifted her butt to reach for a pocket.  She no more got in the air than her ass fell back to the cushion with a sighed, “Sheep dip.”

“You don’t have your fucking phone; you forget everything.  Remember?” Jon snorted.  

“Remember that I forget?  Sound like a great song lyric, but it’s some seriously freeped up logic.”

“Hush your lips.”  A scowl was supposed to accompany the chastisement, but he couldn't quite force it into being.  She was too cute giggling at him until her eyes were nothing but sparkling slits above prominent dimples. “Notes or not, I’m gonna tell you anyway.  But this is still a one-time deal, so pay attention.”

The sassy little spitfire actually snapped a fucking salute at him and popped off, “Yes, sir!”

“There are three…” Jon held up the appropriate number of fingers to emphasize his point.  “…reasons my stage wardrobe maintained a certain consistency this year.  Number one, those jackets are comfortable.  I can move in them without feeling like I’m gonna bust out a sleeve.

“Number two…”  Two fingers flashed briefly in the air as she tittered and tilted up her glass for the hundredth time.  Jesus, he couldn’t believe he was telling her this.  “… I like fucking with the YouTubers and photo freaks.  It gives me perverse pleasure to know they look at pictures of the two or twelve shows they went to and can't tell the damn difference.”

“Jesus Murphy!  You’re a sadistic son of a Bach – and Beethoven.  Is this what you meant when you said you weren’t nice?”

The sarcasm wasn’t nearly effective when she giggled through half of it, but he pulled an exaggerated frown and flipped her the bird anyway. 

“No, it’s not.  Now, number three is a big secret.  So, not only are you getting a once-in-a-lifetime confession, you’re getting a confidential one.  You can’t tell any-fucking-body.  A’ight?”

“Yeah, yeah.  Get on with it, you sicko.”

He was a sicko, because rather than being annoyed by her frigging feistiness, Jon was beguiled by it.  She could tell him to go fuck a monkey, and with her nose – and his – shining as red as any wino’s, he’d probably invite her along to take video. 

Drunk sicko.

“Number three…” As much shit as he was giving her, this really was something that no one else knew, so he sat up and leaned toward the middle of the couch to stage whisper, “The jackets hide my wine gut.”

“Oh stop!  You don’t have a wine or any other kind of gut.”

“The hell I don’t!”  Setting the wineglass aside, he reclined into the cushion and pulled the t-shirt tight over his midsection.  “I look four months pregnant.”

“Great Caesar’s ghost,” she grumbled with a dramatic rolling of eyes that almost pissed him off.  He was used to having flatter abs than this, and the roundness wasn’t coming off as easily as it used to.  “I have a bigger gut than that with PMS, so you’re getting no sympathy from me.  I will point out a flaw with phase two of your plan, though, Dr. Evil.  Baring your arms tonight means somebody’s going to recognize Montreal photos at a glance.”

“Yeah.”  Reclaiming his glass, he drained the last of its contents in a shallow gulp and pretended not to notice her smugness.  “But it’s the last couple shows of the tour.  I got tired of listening to my people complain about the whining on social media, and I'll wear the same thing tomorrow night.”

A soft chuckle was her only reply.  Looking at the little woman who had gotten comfortable by putting her head on the arm of the couch, bending her knees and planting her feet inches from his knee, Jon’s thoughts went from pissed off to horny.  Delaney’s eyelids were struggling under the weight of wine and fatigue.  She peered sleepily at him through parted thighs, and he had to keep himself from crawling in to part them further.  

“I keep meaning to congratulate you on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, by the way,” she murmured, completely unaware that he was imagining what she tasted like.  “Your speech was incredibly sweet.  Especially the part about your kids and wife.  Freepin’ romance novel fodder right there.  I’m not even kidding.”

Motherfucker.  My wife?  Right now?  Really?

The mention of Dorothea harshly dragged his thoughts out of Delaney’s crotch, but only just.  Lingering dirty thoughts and that “freepin’” inspired Jon to ask something that would be permissible only because they'd found the bottom of their second wine bottle.  He was just drunk enough to put it out there, and she was probably just drunk enough to not smack the shit out of him for it.

“So, Delaney Gardener…” Jon settled back into his corner with what a photographer had once dubbed his “smoldering” look.  “Inquiring minds want to know.  Since you don’t drop the real f-bomb, what do you scream during sex?  ‘Freep me’?”

Sleepy gray eyes crackled to life, charged by the electricity that had made cameo appearances throughout the evening.  A provocative pink tongue mopped her lower lip as her thoughts visibly churned.

“The answer I want to give you is incredibly inappropriate.”

It reminded him of their first meeting and her difficulty distinguishing between appropriate and inappropriate choices.  He had really wanted to know what was on that inappropriate list, but it was nothing compared to his fierce desire to hear her current thoughts. 

“Give it to me anyway.  I won’t tell anybody.”

Delaney simply sat there for what felt like the longest time, barely blinking as rosè sloshed in the bowl of her glass.  Jon was on the verge of repeating himself when her head listed to the side, sending hair slithering down her bare arm as she softly acquiesced, “Okay.  If you weren’t married, I’d invite you to find out for yourself.”

Christ, the hard-on hit him so fast that it was painful.  She was as effective as a petite porn star lying there nibbling on her bottom lip, and he wanted nothing more than to accept that invitation.  To feel those thighs close around him and...

You can’t do this.  You fucking well CAN’T.  Dorothea.  Remember her?  Remember your promise?  It’s only four goddamn days.  You can keep your dick in your pants that long.  YOU CAN.

“And since I am married?” He let her assume his latest sip of wine was responsible for his choked response, but it was really the tongue he’d bitten in two and was trying not to swallow. 

Lightning dulled, leaving her irises to merely flicker with temptation, and one side of her mouth pulled tight as she shrugged.  “I’m half-Greek and proficient in the dirtiest words of the language.”

Fuck... me.  Please.

“I don’t believe you.”  Jon had to sit up and pull his t-shirt down over his fly before she noticed the bulge, yet he still hadn't tortured himself enough.  “What’s ‘fuck me’?”

“Gamíseis.”

Whether it was or wasn't, he had absolutely no idea, but it sounded sinful dropping from her lips.  He could almost hear her crying it on the brink of orgasm, and that was confirmation enough.

“What else would you say?”

"I don't know."  Was it his imagination or that batting of eyelashes intentional?  He didn't know whether to pray for or against it, and ended up not praying at all when the foreign phrases effortlessly rolled off her tongue.  “Kratesa me sfikta, mou aresi polli.  Thelo na se efharistiso.  Koukla mou, kardia mou, matia mou.”

Jon had spent enough time in foreign countries to have an appreciation for the beauty of diverse languages and accents.  However, nothing he’d heard in all those places sounded like it belonged on a phone sex line.  

There was no doubt he'd regret asking the next question, but a heart attack couldn’t have stopped him from doing it.

“And those mean…?”

“Mm.  Hold me tight.  I like it a lot.”  The eyes that could go from smoke to pewter with a single flash were now the darkest gunmetal he’d ever seen them.  “I want to please you.  The others are just endearments.”

Damned if this wasn’t the most excruciatingly innocent pleasure he’d had in years.  When was the last time he’d done something besides take what he wanted?  How long had it been since he’d been seduced to the edge of his sanity?  Better yet, how long had it been since he allowed someone to do it?

“What endearments?  I heard a lot of ‘moo’.”

Her throaty chuckle didn't do a damn thing to ease the ache in his jeans.  “Mou is ‘my’.  My babydoll, my heart, my dearest.”

In Jon's mind, “my” translated easily and instantly to “mine”.  That's what he wanted Delaney to be, for at least a little while.  Mou.

“That all your Greek sex chatter?”

“Not even close.  Those are only a few of the non-raunchy ones.  Despite Petra's belief that I'm an uncultured savage, I do have a few boundaries.”

Petra’s opinion didn’t make a damn bit of difference to him.  If given a chance, he’d blow those boundaries up with a round of mortar fire and have talking dirty Greek to him for the rest of the night.  

“Tell me another one.”

She was a Greek Mona Lisa with that smile. “You're not getting the raunchy ones.”

“Didn't ask for 'em.”

He wanted them but didn’t ask, and by the way Mona Lisa gradually slid into a smirk, she wasn't fooled.

“Fine.  One more.  Fìlesa me.” Her lips wrapped around the breathy phrase in a way that would haunt his dreams tonight. 

“Translation?”

Delaney's mouth melted to earnestness and gunmetal eyes held Jon hostage for her hushed, “Kiss me.”