No, Emily gets too drunk and Kevin helps her to bed

Kevin watched Emily's third vodka vanish with alarming speed—her throat working in quick swallows that made his own pulse jump. She giggled at something he hadn't said, the sound looser and warmer than her usual boardroom laugh. When she reached for the minibar again, her fingers brushed the plastic bottle three times before finally closing around it. "Oops," she murmured, blinking slowly at the label as if it were written in Cyrillic.

"You might want to slow down," Kevin said, his own words thickened by the whiskey heat pooling in his chest. He caught her wrist—too late—as she twisted the cap off with a decisive pop. Her skin was fever-warm under his fingers. Emily just grinned, swaying slightly as she clinked her bottle against his abandoned glass. "S'celebratory," she insisted, the word stretching into four syllables.

By the time she slumped against his shoulder, her blouse rumpled and one heel dangling precariously from her toes, Kevin realized three things simultaneously: 1) The minibar was now empty, 2) Emily's eyelids were at half-mast, and 3) he was significantly drunker than he'd admitted. "C'mon," he muttered, sliding an arm around her waist as she listed sideways. "Bedtime."

Emily made a soft, protesting noise that vibrated against his collarbone. "Can't sleep in this," she mumbled, plucking at her blouse with clumsy fingers. The top button popped open without resistance, revealing a sliver of lace that made Kevin's throat go dry. "Help?" she asked—or maybe demanded; the line blurred when her tongue was this heavy with vodka.

Kevin's hands hovered over her shoulders like he was defusing a bomb. He could see the outline of her bra through the thin cotton, the way the fabric clung to the curve of her ribs. Every rational thought screamed that this was a spectacularly bad idea, but the **** had dulled the volume on that particular voice. "Emily, I don't think—"

"You're just—*hic*—helping," Emily insisted, swaying slightly as she plucked at her blouse again. The second button gave way beneath her fumbling fingers, revealing more of that maddening lace. "Professional... courtesy." Her words slurred together like honey dripping from a spoon, slow and thick and sweet.

Kevin exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching at his sides. "Emily—"

"Shh." She pressed a fingertip to his lips, the touch feather-light and electric. "No overthinking." Her breath smelled of vodka and mint gum, warm against his skin. "Just... unbutton."

His hands trembled as they rose to the remaining buttons. The fabric parted like a curtain, revealing the delicate scalloped edge of her bra—cream-colored silk that made his mouth go dry. Emily sighed as the blouse slid from her shoulders, the fabric pooling at her elbows before dropping to the floor.

Kevin’s fingers hovered over the skirt’s zipper like a man handling live wires. Emily swayed slightly, her breath warm against his cheek as she murmured, "See? Professional." The word dissolved into a giggle that vibrated through her ribs where his knuckles accidentally brushed skin.

The zipper gave way with a slow, **** hiss. Kevin kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling—counting water stains like they held the secrets of the universe—as the fabric slid down Emily’s hips. He caught a flash of thigh, the pale curve of it interrupted by the stark black line of stocking tops. His pulse hammered in his throat.

"Stockings," Emily sighed, lifting one knee like a sleepy flamingo. She braced a hand on his shoulder for balance, her fingers digging in slightly when the plane hit imaginary turbulence. Kevin swallowed hard. This wasn’t happening. He was dreaming, or dead, or—

The first garter clip snapped open with a sound like a gunshot. Emily’s stocking peeled away in slow motion, revealing skin that looked impossibly soft in the dim hotel light. Kevin’s hands moved with mechanical precision, undoing each clasp with the same detached focus he used to disassemble quarterly reports.

"Almost there," Emily slurred, her head lolling against his collarbone. Her perfume—something expensive and citrus-sharp—clung to his shirt. Kevin could feel the heat radiating off her bare legs where they brushed against his slacks.

The last garter clip surrendered with a quiet click. Kevin exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath since takeoff, carefully draping Emily's stockings over the chair beside her discarded blouse. She swayed slightly, her eyelids at half-mast as she mumbled something that sounded like "gentleman" before face-planting onto the king-sized bed with a soft whump. One arm flopped out to the side, her fingers twitching against the duvet like she was still reaching for another vodka bottle.

Kevin stared at the ceiling—counting the acoustic tiles like they held the answers to his sudden moral crisis—as he tugged the comforter out from under her. Emily made a sleepy, protesting noise when he draped it over her, her nose scrunching adorably before she burrowed deeper into the pillows. In the dim light, the straps of her cream-colored bra stood out against her flushed skin, one strap slipping halfway down her shoulder. Kevin reached out instinctively, then froze, his fingers hovering millimeters from her skin.

Professional, he reminded himself. Courteous. A fucking saint.

With meticulous precision, he adjusted the strap without touching her, using the edge of the blanket like a surgical instrument. Emily sighed in her sleep, rolling onto her side and dragging the covers with her. The movement hitched the silk higher on her thigh, revealing the faint tan line where her stocking had been. Kevin's throat went dry.

"Thank you," Emily murmured unexpectedly, her voice thick with sleep.