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chapter 4 - stew.. peed..

One night, I find myself enjoying myself a bit too much at the saloon

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One night, I find myself enjoying myself a bit too much at the saloon. The alcohol is flowing, and I end up getting pretty sloshed. Shane, noticing my state of inebriation, realizes that he'll have to escort me back home. With a resigned sigh, he slings one of my arms around his shoulder and begins guiding me out of the saloon.

As Shane tries to steady me with his touch, a mumbled protest escapes my lips. "Don't touch me," I mutter, my words slightly slurred from the alcohol. Shane stops for a moment, surprised by my response, but he quickly realizes that I am just being argumentative due to my drunken state.

"Let go!"

Despite my protests, Shane continues to hold me firmly. "Stop being difficult," he mutters, struggling to keep me upright as I drunkenly try to pull away from his grasp.

"Why would you touch me if you don't like me?" Am I too drunk, or was I too drunk in love with him? Maybe both. I don't know.

Shane pauses for a moment, taken aback by my words. It's evident that my intoxicated state has lowered my self-consciousness, and my thoughts are coming out unfiltered. But Shane's reaction shows a flicker of uncertainty, as if he's caught off guard by the unexpected question.

"You hate the kiss the other day don't you!?"

Shane doesn't respond immediately. For a few moments, he's silent, his grip on my arm tightening slightly. Then, he lets out a heavy sigh, his voice gravelly. "I don't hate it," he mutters. "It was just... unexpected."

"You hate me,"

A hint of irritation flashes across Shane's face as he processes my words. He stops walking for a moment and faces me, his expression stern. "I don't hate you," he states firmly. "Don't you ever think that."

"Then kiss me!"

Shane looks taken aback by my demand, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. He hesitates, his breath catching in his throat as he looks down at me. For a few moments, he seems to struggle with his own thoughts, a mix of desire and uncertainty visible in his eyes.

"See! You hate me!"

Shane's expression morphs from surprise to frustration as my drunk and aggressive state takes hold. "Damn it, that's not it," he mutters, his grip on my arm tightening as he continues walking. "Why do you think I'm taking you back home if I hate you?"

I smile, carefully gazing at my man.

Even in my drunken state, my smile doesn't go unnoticed by Shane. He can see the hint of mischief and arousal in my eyes, and it causes a pang of desire within him, despite his best efforts to suppress it.

Grunted, Shane continues walking, his grip on my arm unyielding. His mind races with thoughts and feelings he's struggling to understand. He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with me, as he guides me towards my house, both physically and emotionally navigating the complicated terrain of my drunken state and his own suppressed emotions.

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