At some ungodly hour in the morning, Dale felt someone unbuckle his belt. He muttered groggily and shoved at the hands on his waist. His head throbbed, his mouth tasted like it was stuffed with cotton balls, and he thought he might throw up. With considerable effort, he rolled onto his side and coughed into the duvet covering his bed. If he got sick, he didn’t want to drown in his own vomit. “God,” he muttered, coughing again. Just how much had he had to drink the night before?
Strong, insistent hands tugged at his jeans. Blearily, Dale opened one eye and let it roll up as far as it could, trying to see who was in the room with him. As far as he remembered, he’d gone to bed alone. All he could make out was the faint shape in the corner of his vision, so he moved his head and looked again,
