she was able to recognize things. She just wasn't able to pick them up and hold them without dropping them.
They took her to bed with her weaving and slurring to Aunt Vicky that she was "so sorry! I'm just so sorry! I've spoiled everything!" And dear Aunt Vicky giving her that long cold look before finally, blessedly, relaxing and smiling and patting her on the cheek and saying that it was really all right, that anyone's entitled to a mistake in her own home and that just made Davette bawl some more because it was so sweet.
Ross excused himself while Kitty helped her struggle out of her clothes and into a nightgown and it felt great to just lie back and relax and she guessed the others went down to finish dinner because it was much later, after two A.M., when they came back and she woke up from that deep, deep sleep to see them sitting on the edge of the bed.
Why, she wondered, did I wake up?
But before she could think about that Ross leaned over her and asked, "Are you all right? Would you like to get sick?"
She had felt all right up until then. She hadn't felt nauseated, had she? Had she? But looking into his eyes she suddenly felt that alcohol vault and swirl within her and she lurched up tripping out of bed toward the bathroom and they both reached to help her.
But she didn't want their help, she thought. This was just too embarrassing. But ten seconds later she didn't care who saw her.
Ugggghhh!
She seemed to throw up for hours! She just couldn't stop, her bare knees hard on the tile on either side of the toilet, that awful wrenching in her tummy, those dreadful noises she kept making.
Once, hunched over with sweet Kitty murmuring gently and patting the back of her neck with that cool damp washcloth, she remembered thinking she was glad of at least one thing: she did not feel sexy.
In fact, she doubted she would ever feel sexy again.
But it happened.
She came to, more or less, curled up on the bathmat in front of the toilet seat, the nausea gone. She was dimly aware of being helped to her feet by someone gentle and very strong and she was almost to her bed before her beating heart allowed her to admit who it was. The top sheet and blanket had been rolled neatly to the foot of the bed and he lifted her up and carried her the last few steps, his hands cool and strong beneath her. She turned her head and swelled into his eyes as he put her down atop the broad empty bed.
He did not lay her down but, rather, sat her up against the headboard. And then he sat there beside her, boring his eyes and dreams of passion unknown to dull drab lives and fantasies of glorious ecstasy streamed into her when he smiled.
Her chest heaved. She panted and gasped and his face began to burn.
"Oops, I'm afraid you can't wear that anymore," he said.
He meant her nightgown, of course, and she did look down and she saw no stain...
But he wouldn't lie, would he?
"Better take it off," he said next.
And - God help me! - she did. She did, reaching up to the straps and pulling them slowly down off her shoulders and she knew just what she was doing.
And she did it anyway, slipped the nightgown down, exposed her breasts to the open air and to him and then...
Then his face was close to hers and tiny kisses all around her mouth as she slid backward, chest heaving, and then his hands were soft and cool and so strong on her shoulders and around her throat and the kisses slowly - too slowly - worked their way past her chin to her throbbing throat and across the top of her chest and to the breast the little creature had attacked the night before.
When he bit her the pleasure poured throughout her and arms shot out into the air and her fingers spread trembling and she moaned and cried and undulated wantonly beneath...
There! There at the foot of the bed, perched like a grinning cat, was Kitty! She couldn't believe it! Kitty! And she wanted, for just an instant, to throw him off and run away. But she knew she couldn't do that. She knew she couldn't stop him. She knew she didn't want him stopped. Ever.