By the time his boss's secret claws had inched to the fullest length possible down his spine, James's eyes had drifted half-shut. Practically in a trance-- he was more relaxed than he could remember being in years.

Go figure that the only time James Sunderland could manage something remotely resembling relaxation was when someone physically forced his muscles to.

The smack on the chest snapped him back to reality-- or as far into reality as he could get after three or four glasses of scotch, anyway- and he startled on the floor, eyes popping back open.

"--Oh! Uh-- uhm, sure!"

He didn't even ENTIRELY know what he was agreeing to there, but WELLP.