Chapter 17: Mata Nui

I’m pretty drunk.

The room sways pleasantly around me, the opulent furnishings of the presidential suite blurring at the edges like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. The crystal shot glass feels heavy in my hand, catching the light in fractured rainbows that dance across my fingers.

We pound our 4th shot together, the tequila burning a fiery path down my throat. I follow it with a sip of the cocktail Caterina made me earlier, something fruity and deceptively strong that masks the alcohol beneath layers of sweetness.

‘A boy drink, she called it.’

“Whoa,” I mutter, setting the empty shot glass down with more force than intended. It makes a sharp clink against the marble bar top that echoes through the suite.

My legs feel like they’re made of rubber, and I sway slightly on my feet, reaching out to steady myself against the bar. The polished surface is cool beneath my palm, anchoring me momentarily to reality.

Caterina watches me with those sexy, unsettling eyes, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. Unlike me, she seems barely affected by the alcohol. Her movements remain precise and controlled, her gaze sharp and focused.

“Adam, you’re wobbling,” she says, her voice carrying a note of concern beneath the obvious entertainment she’s deriving from my inebriated state.

I try to stand up straighter, but it only makes the room tilt more dramatically. I gesture vaguely with my drink, some of it sloshing over the rim and onto my hand.

“No, you’re wobbling,” I slur, pointing an accusatory finger at Caterina that somehow ends up aimed at a lamp instead. “This whole room is out of order!”

Caterina shakes her head, golden hair swaying hypnotically with the movement. She sets her own glass down on the bar with deliberate precision and moves toward me, her steps smooth and measured.

“Come here, silly boy,” she says, her voice warm with affection. She wraps an arm around my waist, supporting me as my knees threaten to buckle beneath me. “Let’s get you somewhere you can sit before you fall down.”

Her body feels solid and warm against mine, a stabilizing force in my tilting world. She guides me toward the plush couch, her grip firm but gentle.

We reach the couch, and Caterina eases me down onto the soft cushions. The leather is cool against my overheated skin, and I sink into it with a contented sigh.

Caterina sits beside me, turning her body to face mine. She tucks one leg beneath her, looking remarkably casual for someone who was the picture of corporate professionalism just hours ago. Her crimson eyes study my face with fond amusement, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“You’re always so funny when you’re drunk,” she says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. Her touch lingers, gentle fingers tracing the line of my brow, carefully avoiding the bruised area around my eye.

The alcohol has dismantled whatever filters I normally possess, leaving my thoughts to tumble directly from my brain to my mouth without the usual inspection process.

“I like your pussy,” I announce with drunken solemnity as if imparting some profound philosophical truth.

Caterina blinks at me, momentarily taken aback, before a laugh bursts from her, rich and genuine. “I know,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

I lean forward, nearly toppling off the couch in my eagerness. “How can you know?” I demand, my voice louder than necessary.

She steadies me with a hand on my shoulder, still chuckling. “Adam. You make it very obvious.”

As she speaks, her fingers move to the top button of her shirt, unfastening it with casual ease. My eyes lock onto the movement, my mouth suddenly dry despite all the alcohol I’ve consumed. She continues down, one button after another, revealing a strip of smooth skin that widens with each flick of her fingers.

My breathing becomes audibly heavier, each inhale a little more ragged than the last. The room seems to narrow until all I can see is Caterina, her golden hair catching the light, her crimson eyes watching me with a mixture of amusement and heat as she slowly, deliberately undresses.

She pauses halfway down, her shirt hanging open enough to reveal the elegant lines of her collarbone and the upper curves of her breasts, held in a simple black bra.

“You’re obsessed with my breasts, though,” she says, her head tilting slightly as she studies my reaction. “That’s kinda odd, isn’t it?”

I stare in confusion, my alcohol-soaked brain struggling to process her words. “Odd? What’s odd about it?” I gesture expansively toward her chest, nearly spilling my forgotten drink. “Your tits are perfect! They’re like... like... art. But better. Because art you can’t touch. Usually.”

She glances down at my lap, a knowing smirk playing at her lips. “Look,” she says, nodding toward the obvious bulge in my pants. “They made you rock hard. Just from seeing this much.”

I look down at myself, then back up at her, bewilderment written across my flushed face. “Yeah? Because I love them?” I say it like a question, genuinely confused by her point.

“But isn’t that weird?” she presses, her fingers resuming their work on her buttons until her shirt hangs completely open. “Most men don’t get this excited about breasts. They’re just... breasts.”

I stare at her with glazed eyes, processing her words through the pleasant haze of tequila. “Not... excited about breasts?” The concept feels fundamentally wrong, like saying water isn’t wet or Frankenstein’s monster isn’t kosher. “But they’re tits!”

A delighted laugh escapes her, and she shakes her head, golden hair swaying with the movement. “You’re ridiculous.”

Before I can formulate a proper defense of my completely reasonable breast appreciation, Caterina reaches forward and gently cups my face in her hands. With careful movements, mindful of my swollen eye, she guides my head forward until my face is nestled against her chest.

“Is this what you want?” she asks, her voice soft and teasing above me.

The world narrows to this single point of contact, my cheek against the warm, soft skin of her chest. I feel my entire body relax, tension melting away like ice in summer heat. A contented sigh escapes me, embarrassingly close to a moan.

“This is the life,” I mumble against her skin.

Her chuckle vibrates against my face, and her fingers thread through my hair, stroking gently. “You’re like a dog with a bone,” she murmurs, amusement coloring her voice. “So easy to please.”

I nuzzle closer, emboldened by alcohol and her apparent acceptance of my fascination. “Can you take your bra off?” I ask, the words slurring together slightly but the request unmistakable.

She pulls back slightly, looking down at me with raised eyebrows. “Why? So you can suck my nipples like a baby?” There’s no judgment in her voice, just genuine curiosity tinged with amusement.

“Yeah,” I reply, my voice coming out entitled and demanding, like a child asking for candy.

Caterina’s eyebrows climb higher, but her lips curve into an indulgent smile. “Look at you, so bold when you’re drunk,” she says, her crimson eyes glittering with something like affection.

Her hand reaches behind her back, fingers finding the clasp of her bra with practiced ease. With a flick of her wrist, the garment loosens, and she shrugs her shoulders, letting both her shirt and bra slide down her arms in one fluid motion. The items fall forgotten to the floor, leaving her bare from the waist up, golden hair cascading over her shoulders and framing her exposed breasts.

I stare at her, mouth slightly agape, my alcohol-addled brain struggling to process the perfection before me. Her breasts are full and firm, the skin smooth and pale in the dim light of the suite. Her nipples are a soft pink. To me, they’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. To her, they’re just another body part, as casual as an elbow or knee.

“Come here,” she says, her voice low and inviting as she beckons me forward with one crooked finger. “Come to Momma.”

I nearly fall off the couch in my eagerness to comply, the world tilting dangerously as I lurch toward her. She steadies me with a hand on my shoulder, laughing softly at my drunken enthusiasm.

“Slow down,” she murmurs, guiding me with gentle pressure. “They’re not going anywhere.”

As I nestle against her, face pressed to her warm skin, a thought bubbles up through the alcoholic haze, demanding expression with an urgency that only drunk people understand.

“Cat,” I mumble against her breast, my lips moving against her skin. “How did you fall in love with me?”