“You’re not sober.” Tilting my head, I give him a smile. “So, you’re not allowed to touch me.” He copies me, cocking his head to the side as he looks down at where I’m holding his wrist. “But you’re touching me.” “Yes, well, I’m sober.” A smile plays at his lips. “So, you’re saying I’m allowed to touch you when I’m sober?” His tone sounds more like a challenge than a question. I consider it. Then I laugh. “I’m only saying yes because I doubt you’ll remember much of this conversation in the morning.” His gaze flicks between my mouth and eyes, a drunken smirk twisting his lips. “Oh, darling, I
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