"So when are you making me queen, SamSam?" I drawled, drunk.
He lounged with me as we watched Bridgerton: "Am I as sexy as the Duke?"
"You remind me of the rakish brother."
"WHAT? I AM NOT YOUR BROTHER!"
"Guardian angel, close enough." I wobbled to the fridge. "Drunk cooking. Drunk cooking. Drunk cooking."
Suddenly, he was wheezing down my neck like an asthmatic. "I get drunk off between your legs, on your wet, moist, crisp apple juice."
"That's it, OUT!" I hollered, stumbling onto him, but with my blurry vision, we tumbled in a pile of Pilsner and molting wings.
"Ehehehe." He smacked my ass. "Let's get reacquainted, oh Shana!"
"Reacquainted? Fat chance!" I cried, blushing furiously. "I've known enough of you – HIC – tonight. You won't make me Queen! I have a 4.5 GPA, you bastard!"
"Shannon, wait, you're wasted! Take that back!" he growled, blue eyes draining to Antarctic ice.
