Page 37 of Whiskey Throttle
My hand grips his bicep. His muscle twitches in my palms as if not prepared for my touch when he’s been holding me throughout his revelation. I reach for him, not because I’ve made a decision and not to comfort him. No, I reach for him as a buoy tumbling in the vast ocean, waiting for calm seas.
I’ve been that buoy. Far too many times. Not that the seas are calm around me, but I miss the excitement the waves once brought. My hand moves from his tight muscles to cup his face.
His eyes close when he leans into my touch like he’s been starved for it. My other hand drops to his chest. His heartbeat thuds hard against my fingertips.
“I didn’t come here to fall in love,” I murmur, needing to acknowledge what this is. What this will be, at least for me. He’s been honest every step of the way. Now it’s my turn. It’s just fun. Something to make me feel wanted and desirable again. He opens his eyes, searches mine.
“Then don’t.”
There’s no smirk.
No punchline.
Just sincerity. Like he’s offering me an out instead of a promise. A way to gently bob on the surface of the water rather than be pulled under the crashing waves. I lean up and press my mouth to his.
The kiss starts carefully.
Hesitantly, as if our shared confessions changed the state of things. His lips are gentle, tender in their approach until his tongue pushes forth, wanting more. His hand slides up my back, catching the zipper to my dress at my nape. I don’t stop him. I know where this is going. Fully onboard to experience everything he brought me here to do.
My hand moves from his cheek to his hair, twisting in the sandy blonde strands and eliciting a pleasurable groan from him. No more resistance. No more waiting. Just him and me, in his studio, surrounded by his works. I should be thrown off kilter. Worried or cautious, but I’m not. I want this. I deserve him after everything I’ve been through.
Our lips and tongues intertwined, getting acquainted again. Deeper and more intense than at the gallery. He breaks the kiss, tugging at the dress to get it up and over my head.
“So fucking stunning.”
His words are a mutter of admiration. His gaze drinks me in with blown-out pupils. A ring of wetness shimmers at his lips. His index finger traces under my bra strap, dragging it off my shoulder to fall against my arm. I hold my breath when his touch tickles across the mound of my breast, trapped in the fabric cup. He traces the top of one breast, then the other, before moving to my collarbone..
“When I sketch these later, I want to know I got it right.”
An artist explaining his process. His touch blazes a trail over my flesh and down to my core. I’m dripping in my black panties. He’s got to know that. Yet he takes his time. His index finger joined by his other fingertips as they feather over my shoulders and the column of my neck, settling under my chin to hold it in place, the same as he’s done before.
“Will you let me?”
I blink and exhale. His lips are right there. His cock is hard and pressed into my stomach. Wanting and waiting as I am.
“Let you?”
His hand slips from under my chin to the base of my neck, holding me there, not forcefully, not possessively, but with the steady confidence of a man who’s studied every angle of me, sketched every curve, and is now ready to explore the real thing.
His lips meet mine again, firmer now. Hungrier. I feel the shift. From tenderness to urgency. From admiration to possession. My dress is already gone, somewhere on the floor. His fingers dip at the back of my bra, unclasping it, baring me completely to him. The air is cool. My skin is hot. The contrast has me aching.
He leans back just enough to look at me. Really look. His hands trail over my ribs like he's cataloging me. Not in a way that makes me feel exposed, but worshipped. Remembered. One palm curves under my breast, lifting it slightly, thumb brushing across my nipple until it’s drawn tight and peaked.
“Yeah,” he breathes, almost reverently. “This is exactly how I’ll draw you.”
A bolt of need sparks through me.
I arch into his touch, legs parting on instinct, even though he hasn’t moved lower yet. His mouth returns to my neck, kissing his way down the slope of it and sucking just below my ear. The moan that escapes me is desperate. I clutch at his shirt, wanting to explore him as he is me.
He sinks to his knees in front of me, and now it’s me who’s breathless. There’s something deeply decadent about watching a man that beautiful on his knees, framed by morning sunlight and smudged canvases, pushing his face into the soft silk of my panties. He drags them down slowly. Licks his lips like he’s about to taste the rarest dessert.
“You’ve got no idea,” he murmurs, fingers teasing up my thighs. “How many times have I imagined this?”
Then he’s on me.
Tongue, lips, fingers.
Everywhere at once.
