Blair's weaving through the crowd like a pinball on speed. I watch him bounce off Rhonda as she nibbles fruitcake and turn, spinning, to grin up at her, sweetest smile you've ever seen, and brush crumbs off her blouse. Or cop a feel. Maybe both. Drunk (and he's sure lit up tonight) Blair likes to spread his charms around. Henderson from Vice doesn't know what to make of him, I can tell, but if he didn't want a sloppy, seventy-percent-proof smooch, he shouldn't have held that mistletoe over the kid's head and dared him. Not much of a dare. Blair's been laying kisses on everyone who stands still long enough since about ten seconds after his first drink kicked in.
Blair had told me he was going to make a list of everyone he kissed and rank them according to a system he'd worked out: minus points for bad breath and brownie points for not using tongue on the first lip-lock. There was more to it than that, but I tuned him out and he drifted over to Simon and grinned up at him engagingly for as long as it took for the message to get through that Simon would squish him like a bug if he puckered up. Blair wasn't drunk enough to have lost his sense of self-preservation, which was good, because I wouldn't have saved him. I told him to steer clear of the eggnog, damn it.
God knows what the winner of the game gets, but I'm not playing. Kiss Blair in public? Be just one of the crowd? I don't think so. And I'm not sure I could pretend that it was the first time and make it convincing.
See, I know just how he likes to be held, my hands sliding into his hair, my mouth as gentle as I can make it on his. I know how to flick my tongue and get a moan that makes me shiver, how to move one hand down to cup his ass and bring him in closer. I know how to reduce him to the state he is now, buzzed and babbling, eyes unfocused, voice slurred, without a drop of alcohol involved.
Let him kiss his way around the room and make his list. When we get home, I'll tear it into shreds and watch it flutter down like snow as he smiles up at me, swaying gently, telling me that none of them kissed him as well as I do, none, Jim, not even close, so I'm the winner, and I can claim my prize right the hell now.
Think I'll wait until you've stopped puking, Chief. Take a rain check until you're conscious.
And in the morning, when his hangover's making him wish that he was dead, I'll kiss his aching, clammy forehead and tell him what I want for my prize when he's feeling human again.
Winner takes all, and Blair's always at the top of my wish list.
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