"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.
"'Kay." Instead of getting up, Maylee twisted in his arms, mashing her br**sts against his chest as she reached behind her. There was no question-she was stacked in the front despite her baggy suit, and she was pushing them against him with enthusiasm.
Griffin closed his eyes and counted backward from a hundred to distract himself as she shifted and twisted in his arms, rubbing all over him.
When he was at seventy-two, she twisted back to the front. "Here you go, Mr. Gryffindor."
He opened his eyes and flinched. This crazy woman had a purse that looked like a saddle. "This is your handbag?"
"Isn't it something?" She seemed proud.
"Oh, it's something," he muttered. He took it from her and began to dig through the contents, and his hand wrapped around a small pill bottle a moment later. He read the side of it and then looked over at her.
Her face was inches away from his, and she was staring at him, doing that weird, slow blink.
"It says that you're not supposed to mix this with alcohol," he pointed out unnecessarily.
"Did you know that you have a really straight nose?" She touched the bridge of his nose with the tip of her finger and then ran it all the way down to the tip. "Like one of them guys on the coins."
"Lovely. Can you get off my lap while I look up side effects of this on the Internet? No? Figures." He picked up his smartphone and typed with his thumb, while she played with his hair and ran her hands all over him. He had the biggest cockstand at the moment, thanks to her careless touches and wiggling, but he suspected she wouldn't notice a thing . . . which was good, because he was rather chagrined about it himself.
It seemed that alcohol combined with her anxiety drugs made the effect that much stronger. Lovely. That explained her bizarre actions, at least.
"Your hair's funny," she breathed into his ear, and gave a soft giggle that made his c**k twitch all over again.
He flicked his phone off and frowned at her. "Funny?"
"It's like it's spackled down. That's funny." Her fingers played at the crisp lines of it. "I bet it'd be pretty if you didn't put so much hair goop in it."
"The last thing I want is to be 'pretty'," he told her in a tight voice. "Now. Come on. Stand up."
Though she protested (and if he was honest, so did his cock), he managed to get her to stand upright. He got up and when she put her arms up around his neck again, he figured that was a good thing, and lifted her into his arms. Carrying her to the back room, he laid her down on the narrow bed he kept there for overnight flights . . . like tonight's.