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“How long is it going to take for Cole to realize what you’re doing?” I ask, laughing.
“Better question is, how much money have I made from Cole because of my fake tell?” Declan counters.
“Enough to fund your whiskey habit?” I’m guffawing at this point, certain that I look and sound ridiculous, but I don’t care enough to try to put a lid on it. I’m having fun, feeling good, and there’s a shine in Declan’s gray eyes that I really like.
“You know, my dad kind of swished his whiskey around in his mouth when he was sipping it,” I say, taking another taste of the Glenlivet. Declan was right. The taste has changed with the added water. “I always teased him that he should get water or mouthwash if he was afraid he had something in his teeth—that there were better options than swishing with whiskey.”
“That’s chewing,” he says.
“Well, if you had described it like that, I wouldn’t have drunk so much,” I inform him. “You could’ve said, ‘swish the whiskey like you’re trying to dislodge a whole broccoli stem from between your teeth,’ and I would’ve understood.”
“Swishing is very casual.”
“So was my dad.” I smile at the memory that comes to my mind, his shirt sleeves rolled up, as he treated himself to the simple pleasure of a glass of whiskey in the evening, the crickets chirping just beyond the screen door as the sky deepened into night. It took me a long time to smile at the memories instead of cry.
“You’re not wincing as much,” Declan comments, pulling me back to the present. “You’re enjoying it more on the rocks.”
“You were right,” I say, regarding my glass. I didn’t pour very much, but it’s already almost gone. “It’s a different taste to the same whiskey. I do like it on the rocks. The cold and the water add something to it that wasn’t there before. Does that make me a bad whiskey drinker?”
“You’d be a bad whiskey drinker if you put it in cola,” he warns. “Don’t be that person, Spitfire.”
“Or what?” I ask, feeling daring. The liquor has lit something inside me, igniting my courage. Or a fuse. I’m not quite sure yet. “What would you do if I turned out to be a bad whiskey drinker?”
“I’d have to teach you differently,” Declan says, his voice deliberately light as his gaze darkens. “Expand your palate. Use some positive reinforcement.”
He dips his finger into his glass, swirling it around, and then lifts it, dripping, before offering it to me.
My mouth opens of its own accord, and then I’m tasting whiskey with a bouquet that’s uniquely Declan’s.
And—my cheeks heat at the realization—me. Especially since he was fingering me earlier, I can taste both his skin and my lingering arousal on his fingertip.
“What do you taste?” he asks, his voice roughening. “What notes?”
His finger in my mouth was an inexplicable turn on, and now I’m feeling bereft as he removes it so I can answer him.
“Oak,” I whisper. “Salt.”
“My turn,” he says, reaching over to my armchair to jerk open the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt. I hear a couple of buttons skitter across the floor, but neither of us follow the sound. He’s pouring his whiskey in a thin stream down my chest, and he’s out of his armchair and kneeling in front of me, his lips and tongue chasing the liquor, lapping it off my stomach and breasts.
The sheet he’s been wearing pools around him on the floor, revealing his cock, which juts out proudly from his body. Declan is definitely ready for that next round we’ve been waiting for.
“Tell me what you taste,” I pant out, my clit pulsing.
He smiles hungrily. “Vanilla. Oak. Desire.” He pours again, then drinks the liquid off me like it’s the best cocktail he’s ever had. “You.”
“Are you sure you want to waste it like this?” I ask as he slowly dribbles a stream of whiskey over my nipple and follows it with his mouth. “That’s probably a couple hundred dollars’ worth of whiskey, and I’m sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to be sampled.”
“On the contrary…” He laps at my nipple before tugging it between his teeth, making me gasp. “I think this is the only way I’ll drink the Glenlivet from now on. Because it’s never tasted better than it does right now.”
“Fuck,” I whimper, because the mouth on this man really might be my undoing.
He pours whiskey over my other nipple, sucking it off with deep pulls that I feel all the way down in my low belly. When he finally releases me with a wet pop, he looks up at my face, his dark gray eyes glinting beneath the shadow of his thick lashes.
“Touch yourself,” he murmurs.
I whimper as he takes my hand and puts it between my legs.
What he’s asking me to do? I’ve never done that. Not for anyone. But Declan is an immovable force, and I want to please him. Every time I give him what he wants, it pushes me past my comfort zone and into unimaginable pleasure. And even though this is only supposed to be sex and nothing else… I trust him. I’ll chase these feelings anytime, as long as he’s the one I’m following.
