Kathleen was drunk. Not the I’m-so-wasted-I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing kind of drunk, but the kind where you laugh at everything, bump into anything, and—apparently—can’t keep your hands off the person you're with.
Not that I was complaining. I mean, have you ever had the woman of your dreams pressed up against you, looking at you like you’re the most important thing on the entire planet, while outright demanding you touch her ass?
Well, I could officially check that off my bucket list.
Because here I was, standing in the middle of a crowded club, Kathleen wrapped tightly around me, a strawberry mojito in one hand—her ninth mojito in the span of two hours—and my hands firmly planted in the back pockets of her leather pants. I had tried moving them, just to see if she’d notice, but the
