Page 113 of Pour Decisions
“Nope,” I said brightly, leading him deeper into the building. Past the foyer—which our gift shop and bathrooms branched off—the space opened up onto the main entertainment area. Our bar dominated almost the entirety of the far wall, the bottom half constructed of matte black posts and corrugated steel sheets, the top a highly polished bird’s eye maple. A massive mirror hung in the center of the wall itself, lined with glass shelves that held our branded bottles as well as an assortment of bronze, glass, and wooden trinkets. The POS system was hidden in an alcove off to the side so as to not ruin the line of sight.
The contrast of textures and materials was one of my favorite parts of the whole design scheme, and it continued into the seating arrangements.
At the bar were metal and wood stools, the seats deep brown tufted leather. And, heavily influenced by the place we’d gone in New York, I’d taken a bit of a chance for the armchairs and couches, the deep pine fabric dotting the spots between more bird’s eye maple tables with chairs that matched the bar stools.
“Green?” Owen asked when he laid eyes on them.
“Green,” I confirmed. “I thought they provided a nicecontrast to all the more natural elements and colors while staying cohesive.”
Personally, I loved the way the deep green leather, the rolled arms studded with brass buttons, popped against the rest of the furniture. Still, I held my breath as Owen turned in a slow circle, surveying everything.
“You hate it, don’t you?” I asked, unable to stand it any longer.
At last, he faced me, his face softening. “Hate it? Whiskey, it’s…perfect. Masculine and rustic but warm and welcoming.” He scooped me up in his arms and spun me in a circle. I couldn’t help the yelp of surprise that left me, though it quickly morphed into happy laughter. “It’s exactly what you promised.”
“So you don’t hate it?” I confirmed when he returned me to my feet.
“I fucking love it,” he said, eyes suddenly sparkling with mischief. “And I love you.” He stepped toward me, and I retreated, my lower back connecting with the arm of one of the couches. “In fact, why don’t you let me show you how much?”
Already, his hands were dropping to the fly of my jeans, and though I opened my mouth to protest, to make it clear we couldn’t do that here, I quickly snapped it shut.
After all, the building was ours, and if my man wanted to give me an orgasm to christen the space, then who was I to deny him?
“Turn around,” I toldher when that fire sparked in her eyes, then pointed to a couch. “And bend over that arm.”
“Yes, daddy,” she quipped, spinning around and hinging at her waist, wiggling her ass in the air.
“Fuck, Whiskey,” I said, reaching out to smack it. She yelped, the sound shaping itself into a moan when I gave the other cheek the same treatment. “Your ass is unreal.”
“It’s all yours.”
I damn near choked on my own tongue at the implication in her words. “You mean…”
“Why not?” she said. “Go big or go home, right?”
“I—have you ever?”
Delia shook her head. “Have you?”
“No,” I whispered.
Delia grinned at me over her shoulder. “It’s like we’re virgins again!”
I groaned. “Christ,Whiskey.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood,” she said. “You’re fucking shaking.”
I was shaking, my hands settling on her hips without having thought about it, squeezing the shit out of her flesh. But it wasn’t because I was nervous. It was because I wanted to do this so badly with her, but I didn’t know if this was the place.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive, QB. Fuck my ass.”
Fucking hell. Those might have just become my new favorite words.
Folding myself over her, I grabbed a fistful of her hair and turned her head, giving her a messy kiss. “I’ll be gentle.”
“You better not,” she said into my mouth.
