"I'm rather drunk, actually," he admitted, tilting his head back a little to let her kiss her way along his jaw. "I've never been that skilled at lying when I'm pissed." She lifted her gaze to his face, lips still at his jaw, and saw his gaze slant down to hers, his mouth curve gently. "It's a failing," he said dryly and then brought his hand up to fit against the side of her neck and captured her lips, kissing her with a contained intensity that made her fresh knickers get damped and her knees go weak, and he tasted like firewhiskey. The scent of the alcohol seared through her senses, and his tongue tasted of the fiery burn of it, and she felt the hallway swirl around her, swaying into him bonelessly.