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It’s not usually like this. Not after a blinding round of sex like that. Declan is usually in a hurry. Needing to be elsewhere, drawn away by the dozens of different responsibilities he juggles. Today, it’s different. Like he wants to stick around.
I’m not sure what’s happening. And I’m not sure what it is I’m feeling, warmth spreading from my stomach and up into my chest. Maybe it’s just in my head.
“Sophie?”
“You’re going to have to wait a little longer for me to remember how to speak,” I joke finally. “Because I think you just fucked my brains out.”
Declan snorts and then smiles—crooked and genuine—and I realize a terrible thing.
The warmth in my chest? The desire that goes beyond the bedroom? It’s not in my head, and it grows every time I see a little more of who this man really is.
I’m falling for him. After I promised not to.
I’m helpless against it.
And I’m starting to not care.
Chapter 27
Sophie
“What you’re tasting right now is—no, Spitfire. You have to chew it. You keep swallowing it like that and you’re going to get shit-faced.”
I laugh at Declan’s admonishment, and his instructions. “How can I chew whiskey?”
“Let it linger in your mouth,” he says, fighting back a smile as I raise an almost-empty glass to my lips. “Don’t you dare shoot that. Let it reach every part of your mouth. Your entire mouth works together to fully experience it. Do I need to show you with my tongue which parts of your mouth you need to let the whiskey touch?”
He’s the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him, lounging in an armchair, partially wrapped in the sheet from the bed. He has his own tumbler of whiskey, but he’s doing a much better job of not getting buzzed.
I’m… tipsy. A little bit. Though I’m not about to admit it to him.
“Is that how you do a whiskey tasting?” I ask, pacing a bit in front of him just to watch his gray eyes track my movements. I’m wearing his dress shirt, the buttons fastened unevenly. “How do I know if the notes I’m picking up on are from the whiskey or from your mouth?”
“Only one way to find out,” he says. “Now. Slowly. Chew it. Look at you. You’re drunk. I should’ve insisted on a spit bucket.”
I splutter at that and almost—accidentally—spit out my last swallow of whiskey. The way that it sloshes in my mouth makes my eyes water, and I suddenly get something I haven’t before.
“There’s something at the back end. It tastes sort of like… caramelized sugar?” I say with a light cough. “Is that even a way to describe whiskey? That’s what I’m picking up.”
“Well done,” Declan praises, openly amused. “I’ll make a whiskey connoisseur of you yet. Or a drunk.”
“I’d never spit out good whiskey,” I protest, sashaying over to the bar cart. “I’d rather be drunk than someone who wastes a quality drink. What’s next?”
“We’re circling back around to the Glenlivet Eighty Year Old,” he says, pointing me toward a bottle we’ve already imbibed, the one I told him was my favorite so far. “Just a little bit of that, and then some ice.”
“Ice?” I wrinkle my nose at him. “Are you sure you don’t want me to just pour a soda into it?”
“I wouldn’t even let you open the tab,” he promises. “That’s sacrilege.”
“Ice is basically a mixer.”
“Ice is going to melt,” he corrects me. “And the water is going to, in increments, open up the flavor of the whiskey even more. It’s an entirely different experience. One we’re going to take the time to have.”
“Hm, time,” I say, dropping a few ice cubes into the glass before splashing the whiskey over them. “What is taking so long?” I glance pointedly at his crotch. “My guess is it’s all the whiskey you’ve been drinking. If you really want another round, you’d probably better stop.”
“Good things come to those who wait,” Declan says archly, letting his eyes roam up my legs. “Unless you’d rather be somewhere else.”
Careful here. The need for caution cuts across my whiskey buzz, and I pad away in the guise of looking out the window. It’s getting late, the colors of the streetlamps painting the buildings around the apartment and the streets below.
