He fucked her through her orgasm as his own release surged down his spine, her sounds driving him on. Her body clamped down on him, hugging his dick until he unraveled, pleasure surging, spreading, lighting him up everywhere as he came hard in her, his entire body shuddering from the pure, electric intensity.
He was spent, exhausted, and lit up from fucking the love of his life in a whole new way.
A few minutes later, he ran a warm bath while he took her to the shower, cleaning her up and washing himself off her before he scooped her up and brought her to the tub, joining her. She snuggled against him as water sloshed around them.
“Does it hurt?”
“I’m not going to lie and say no.”
“So it hurts?” he asked, running his fingers over her shoulders.
“I’m sore, but it also felt incredible.”
He wrapped his arms around her wet body. “Thank you. I love my gift.”
“Had a feeling you would. But I hope you don’t mind that I’m not in the mood to go to a restaurant now and sit down on a hard, wooden chair.”
He cracked up. “You can curl up on the couch, and I’ll order us some food.”
And that was how they spent their anniversary—eating Thai food from the carton, watching Ocean’s Eleven on TV, and enjoying the aftereffects of some pretty fantastic sex.
18
This was the moment of truth.
The cameramen captured the press of bodies and the noise of the crowd inside the Lucky Spot. Patrons jostled for prime position at the bar, and random bar-goers were picked to vote on the drinks. Julia watched from a corner table, parked next to her husband, as well as Spencer and Charlotte.
Byron had arranged for the taste test to judge the drink contest to happen here at Spencer and Charlotte Holiday’s bar.
Julia squirmed in her chair.
Charlotte patted her hand. “Don’t worry. You’ll do great.”
But Julia wasn’t worried about the competition. She was a tad sore. She’d rather liked what she and her husband had done, and she had a hunch she was going to want to go again soon. Maybe she’d become a little back-door junkie. But really, that wasn’t a bad thing. Julia didn’t judge her sexuality, or others for what they liked in bed. Some might call her a dirty girl; some might call him a filthy man. Maybe they were, and maybe they weren’t. What did it matter, though, if somebody liked it vanilla, if someone liked some kink, if a person liked it risky, if they liked it dirty? Who cared whether she wanted it slow and tender, or rough and ready?
At the end of the day, Julia believed that screwing between two consenting adults was a good thing. Sex could tether two people and bond them in a beautiful way. For Julia and Clay, passion was their favorite pastime. Some couples liked golf, some played bridge, and some binge-watched TV shows. For them? Sex was their hobby.
And so, she was a little squirmy. But at least she’d learned the secret trick to her new favorite thing in bed. A good stiff drink helped her take a big thick cock.
Charlotte looked at Julia expectantly. Oh, right. Her friend thought she was tense about the contest. Julia laughed to herself then answered with, “Just a bit of nerves.”
Clay draped an arm around her, and she spent the rest of the evening watching the patrons at this fine Manhattan establishment test the Gin Fiesta and Julia’s riff on a Sazerac.
When the night wound down, Byron called Julia and JT to join him at the bar.
“It was an epic battle, but we’re ready to tally the votes now,” he said to the camera, glancing at JT, who smirked, then at Julia, who flashed a smile. Byron cleared his throat and spoke to the crowd. “All in favor of the Gin Fiesta?”
Throngs of patrons raised their hands, and Byron’s assistant producer counted them all. Julia held her breath, and crossed her fingers as the producer announced the headcount. Fifty-two.
“And now, who here prefers the new version of the original cocktail?”
More hands thrust in the air.
Counting heads wasn’t Julia’s specialty, so she did her best to wait for the result, pleased that she’d given this impromptu drink contest her best shot. Even if her creation didn’t win, she’d gladly serve it at Speakeasy. She was confident it would nab new fans at her bar, because it was not only delicious, it was also purposeful.
“By the way, Julia,” Byron said, “as we wait for the final count, I don’t believe we ever had a name for your drink. Are we just calling it riff on a Sazerac?”
But before she could bless her beverage with a name, he held up his finger. “Looks like we’ve got a number.” He leaned close to his assistant who whispered in his ear.
“And that’s sixty-seven to fifty-two in favor of the Sazerac riff!”