Page 88 of Chris

Not yet.

Valeria had closed the door to her daughter’s bedroom when Jorge came stumbling drunk down the hall. His drinking had become more regular, and that concerned her if only because he was a mean drunk, and she always seemed to be right in his fucking line of fire.

“Hermosa,” Jorge slurred, coming closer to her. “We need to celebrate, woman.”

Valeria took a careful step backward. “Why?”

She ignored the red lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt, and the undone buttons because she didn’t give a fuck who put it there as long as it wasn’t her. The strands of his hair stuck up everywhere. Sweat dotted his forehead and wrinkles covered his slacks.

It wasn’t like Jorge to be messy.

Except lately, he was more often than not.

He reached out for her when she was close enough and grabbed onto her. Valeria didn’t have the chance to react before his disgusting mouth came down on hers. The taste of the rum he had been drinking flooded her tongue, making her want to gag. Her hands hit his chest, ready to push him away even though that would cause her more trouble.

She didn’t get the chance.

In a flash, the two of them stumbled into their bedroom. Jorge stepped back from her, realizing where they were, and grinned. He pointed a finger at her while pulling his shirt down his arms, and nodding.

“Ah, now get undressed for me, sí?” He winked, as stupid as that looked. “Slowly, Val. I like that, don’t you?”

God.

“You’re too drunk,” she told him.

Jorge rolled his eyes and fell back to the foot of the bed to get his shoes off. “I am not. Get undressed, or I will cut the fucking clothes off you.”

She didn’t doubt it.

She also didn’t lie.

He struggled to pull the leather loafers from his feet, almost falling face first to the floor. Another night, and she might have laughed at him. Except, the time closed in on eleven-thirty, and in a half an hour, she needed to meet Chris in the stables. She hadn’t forgotten about that.

If she could help it, she would not let her husband touch her one more fucking time. She searched for a way out of this situation while Jorge continued to struggle with his shoes, and his socks, too, when he finally removed the loafers.

“What are you standing there for?” he snapped up at her.

Jesus Christ.

The last thing she wanted was this drunk pig hauling his body on top of hers to get himself off—whiskey dick was a real thing, and not specific to onlywhiskey, either. Sex with Jorge was bad enough when he stayed sober although she didn’t think of him raping her as sex. When he was drunk, though, it became a whole different horror.

“Did you remember to let the kitten in?” she asked, hoping for a distraction.

Jorge’s brow furrowed, and sleepy eyes stared up at her.

Hazyeyes, too, she noticed. Drunk as fuck. She might have asked him how much he drank downstairs before coming up to bed if she cared. Except she didn’t, and really, if he gave himself alcohol poisoning, she would not cry about it.

Damn.

Might he fall asleep if she gave him the chance?

Pass right out?

“What kitten?” he slurred again.

“Never mind,” she blurted, “I will use the bathroom—freshen up, okay? I’ll be right back out. Lay back and take a break. You deserve it.”

Right.