The angostura in the Old Fashioned tingles on my lips and the ice slips down my throat as I stare at his message. “I want a whiskey and I want to go down on you.”
There’s a moment’s pause in which my heart swoops in my chest. Then he writes, “Not necessarily in that order.”
I contemplate this slowly, my tongue tracing my lips. I’m already drinking whiskey, for a start. I let the dew on the glass side down my wrist and onto the cool sheets of my bed. The glass rests easily against the warm skin of my inner thigh, where his hand might be. Where his lips will be.
A third text.
“I’m on my way.”
So, he’s 20 minutes away, which means 6000 agonising seconds thinking of his lips on my inner thighs and his tongue between my legs. The ice clinks in my glass.
The last time he was here, he pulled me towards him and kissed me with his hands on my face, his tongue luxuriously coaxing my lips open, slipping inside my mouth, ever so slightly pulling my hair so that my face tilted towards his. I think of him pulling away and looking at me with those deep, dark brown eyes, thumb on my bottom lip, teasing it open more.
Then his hands beneath my legs, lifting me onto the kitchen counter. My hands slipping underneath his shirt only for him to unbutton it himself, revealing olive skin and inch toned muscles. His skin burned beneath my fingertips, and I dug my nails into his back.
Back in my bed with my Old Fashioned, I slide my legs together under the sheets and arch my back, move my hips; a slow dance of grinding as if he were right there behind me, his crotch against my ass and his hands on my hips.
