She burrowed her face against his neck. “Told you I needed a hug,” she mumbled. And she snuggled closer, oblivious to his rigid posture.
“Get off me.”
She ignored him.
He looked for the attendant to help him out, but she’d disappeared from her seat, no doubt hiding up in the cockpit with the pilots. Blast.
Griffin was trapped.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, trying to think. Strands of curly blonde hair tickled his nose as she nuzzled closer, and he began to feel inappropriately aroused. Her arms around his neck were soft, her hair fragrant, and her slight hip was pressing against his cock. Any red-blooded male would have that reaction, he told himself.
All the more reason to get her off his lap.
So he thought for a moment. What was her name? Nana? Millie? “Get up, girl.”
She gave a small sigh of pleasure and tucked her head even closer to his neck. “Don’t wanna.” Her lips moved against his throat, and Griffin shifted in his seat, willing his cock to quit responding to the touch of a drunk woman.
“What is your name again?”
“Maylee,” she breathed, and her soft breath tickled his skin. “Maylee Meriweather.”
“I need you to get off me, Maylee,” Griffin said, mentally applauding himself at his calm, even tone despite the odd situation. “It isn’t proper.”#p#分页标题#e#
Her head jerked up, narrowly missing his jaw, and she peered up at him. As she did, he noticed that her red-rimmed eyes were a brilliant green-brown that seemed to glow in her pale face. Damn it, those were rather nice eyes for a little country bumpkin who wore polyester.
That was another thought he shouldn’t have as her employer, he reminded himself.
“You still gonna get rid of me?” she asked, and her hand began to play with his hair, fingers toying with the base of his neck in a way that sent inappropriate shivers through his body.
Griffin gazed into those big green-brown eyes. He decided to level with her. “This is a very delicate job—”
“I’m good with handling delicate things.”
Great, now his mind was thinking of those small hands playing with his hair and touching all kinds of delicate things. Inappropriate. Inappropriate.
“But this is a job that will require a lot of skill—” Oh, hell, now that was a particularly bad choice of words.
“I have skills,” Maylee said in a husky voice, staring up at him. The side of her breast was pressing against his chest, and it felt a great deal rounder than what that godawful suit led on. “I can file, and take messages and type and I’m a burn talker.”
He was about to scoff at that paltry list of skills when he caught the last part of what she was saying. “A what? What in the devil is a burn talker?”
“It’s me. I’m a healer. If you burn yourself, I just rub it and talk to the burn and make it go away.” And now her fingers were rubbing the exposed line of skin at his neck. God have mercy.
“That sounds ridiculous,” he said, and cleared his throat because his voice wasn’t as convincing as it should have been. “And you should really get off my lap. This is very . . . inappropriate.” He sounded like a stuffy prig.
“Burn talkers are real,” Maylee said in a dreamy voice. “We have great hands. Great at rubbing. I can take the heat out of anything with a touch.”
Good God, his body reacted to that. Did she even realize what she was saying? “You really should get off my lap.”
“You need me.”
He groaned. Parts of his anatomy were agreeing with her, and that was making him furious not only with her, but himself.
She stared up at him again. “Are you still going to get rid of me?”
“I certainly am now that you are flinging yourself all over me,” Griffin began, and glanced down at her upturned face again. There was something else about her deep eyes that was bothering him. After a moment, he realized what it was. Her pupils were dilated to an enormous size. He frowned and grabbed her face, peering into her eyes. That was more than just two drinks. Concern flared through him as he recalled Cade’s horrific recent stories of Audrey’s sister overdosing in front of him. His friend was still scarred from the fact. “Did you take something else?”
“Just a happy pill,” she told him, petting his hair and looking up at him with soft, drugged eyes. “I don’t like flying. It scares me.”
“Damn it. Give me your pill bottle.” He needed to see if she was going to start foaming or convulsing in the next few minutes. This horrible trip was just getting worse by the minute.