And the room might be a wee bit spinny.
But that could also be because I’m spinning.
“I think it’s time for bed.” Fitz’s low voice rumbles in my ear. He comes up behind me as I dance to a Whitesnake song from Hollis’ metal playlist.
I was in the middle of a ponytail-swishing move, so my hair whips him in the face when I twirl around. He doesn’t even flinch. Just plants one big hand on my arm to steady to me before I topple over.
“I’m not tired,” I inform him, shrugging his hand off.
Once again, I teeter on my feet. And once again, he grabs hold of me.
Only this time, he takes it a step further.
Before I can blink, my whole body is in the air. Fitz heaves me over his shoulder, and suddenly I’m staring at the back of his black T-shirt while my legs dangle over his broad chest.
I kick him. “Put me down! Oh my God, Fitz!”
“No.”
I kick him again. Harder. “Put me down! Brenna, save me!”
“Babe, you’ve been solo-moshing to hair metal for the last hour,” I hear her say. I can’t see her, because Fitz is still caveman-handling me. “I think he might be right. I’ll be up after this game.”
I catch a glimpse of her amused face before Fitz marches us toward the stairs.
“Seriously,” I growl. “Put me down.”
“No.” His arm is like an iron vise around the backs of my thighs.
“I mean it! I’m not some toy you can fling around! I’m a human being, and I have rights!”
All I get in response is a low chuckle.
I can’t believe he’s carrying me upstairs. Like I’m a six-year-old who’s past her bedtime and needs to be banished to her Hello Kitty bunk beds. Gritting my teeth, I slam one fist against his shoulder blade. He doesn’t even budge. We’re halfway up the stairs. I try a different route and pinch his deltoid muscles. When that fails, I go for the lats.
He rears back as if he’d been shot, then curses in annoyance. “Stop that.”
“I will if you put me down.” I pinch him again, and again.
He shrugs his back and shoulders to try to shake my fingers off him. “For fuck’s sake, Summer. No more pinching!” he yells.
“Oh, but you’re allowed to grab me against my will?” I yell back.
We’re both breathing hard. I feel beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck and between my breasts. It’s hard work trying to pry myself out of his grip. He reaches the top of the stairs and charges toward my bedroom, swearing the entire way because I won’t stop pinching his stupidly muscular back.
“When did you become the fun police?” I demand when he finally sets me down—a little rougher than necessary. My feet connect with the floor in a hard thud. “And what gives you the right to drag me upstairs?”
His brown eyes blaze at me. “You were three seconds from falling over and smashing your head on a piece of furniture. Probably knocking yourself unconscious too.”
“Oh my God, why is everyone in my life so dramatic! I was just dancing!”
“I’m dramatic?” he roars, and I’m momentarily amazed because I don’t think I’ve ever heard Fitz raise his voice. “You freaked out on me yesterday for no reason. You accused me of implying you can’t fucking read.”
“Because you were acting like a condescending asshole!”
“And you were acting like a brat!”
“And now you’re acting like my father!”
“And you’re still acting like a brat!”
We stop and glare at each other. He’s visibly clenching his teeth. The cords of his neck are like overly tightened guitar strings. He looks like he might snap at any second. But after several beats, he releases a heavy breath and rubs his dark beard.
“I’m sorry about last night, okay?” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in tersely.
“Summer.”
“What.”
“I’m serious. I don’t think you’re stupid.”
That makes one of us.
I banish the self-effacing thought to the bowels of my intoxicated mind. Somehow, even drunk off my face, I know better than to give him the satisfaction of seeing my insecurities.
I ball my fists and press them to my sides. Fitz is still watching me, no longer angry or frustrated, but contemplative. Even now, when I’m mad and aggravated by him, his presence affects me. My heart is pounding. My knees feel wobbly. Tingles dance along my spine and settle between my legs. When Fitz rakes his long fingers through his tousled hair, the tingles transform into a tight knot of need.
He turns me on so badly. I want those fingers on my body.
“I liked you,” I blurt out.
His hand freezes in his hair. “What?”
“Nothing. Forget it. I’m drunk.” I backpedal like my life depends on it, because Fitz isn’t allowed to know that I was interested in him, or that he hurt me. Telling him means admitting I’d heard every derisive word he’d spoken about me.