The rest of the "celebration" involved Melisa sitting on Sirah's lap like the world's most uncomfortable throne.
And by uncomfortable, she meant both physically and mentally. The leather scraps they called an outfit were riding up in places that shouldn't be ridden up, and Sirah's hand stayed glued to Melisa's ass like it was magnetized.
Sirah squeezed hard enough to make her jump. The darian was on her fourth horn of ale. Maybe fifth. Hard to keep track when warriors kept shoving new drinks at their table like they were trying to set a record for "most alcohol consumed before someone dies."
[If I say no to sex tonight, she might not be as understanding as she was earlier.]
The thought made Melisa's stomach do uncomfortable flips. Drunk Sirah could potentially be a very different beast from sober, relatively reasonable Sirah. And considering sober Sirah had just decapitated someone for sport, drunk Sirah was probably not someone she wanted to piss off.
