He speaks so quietly, so gruffly, I almost don’t hear him when he says, “Don’t move.”
He walks toward me, stopping at my feet and looking over my entire back side. His gaze is scorching. Or is it just my mind?
He leans in and I think he’s going to touch me, but he doesn’t. He stretches across the bar and grabs a bottle of Jack from the shelf beneath it.
I’m watching him from above, every nerve in my body alive and waiting for him to touch me. But still he doesn’t. Instead, his eyes locked on mine, he unscrews the bottle of Jack and pours a shot.
“Turn around,” he commands.
Tingling with excitement, I do as he asks, stopping myself from crossing my arms over my chest self-consciously. I stand proudly before him, too eager for what’s ahead to feel overly insecure.
“On your knees.”
I sink to my knees on the bar in front of him. His dark eyes embody everything naughty and sexy and dirty and hot and taboo that I can think of, and I feel the warmth of them all the way to my core. I’m so ready for him, I ache from the neck down.
“Spread your legs.”
Edging my knees apart, again I do as he asks. I watch his eyes as they skim over my breasts, down my stomach and stop right between my legs. I swear I can actually feel him there, feel his tongue, feel his fingers, feel him moving inside me. I gasp, thinking I can’t take it one more second, but then his gaze flickers back up to mine.
He hands me the shot glass. “Don’t swallow it.”
I take the liquid into my mouth and hold it there, watching him, waiting for him to speak, wondering what comes next.
“Now open your mouth. Slowly. Let it run out. Down your chin.”
I part my lips and let the fiery liquid ooze from between them. It trickles down my chin and throat, veering to the left and traveling over my nipple then dripping off onto my left thigh. From there, the stream starts to drift inward, toward my center. Cash bends forward and stops it with his tongue.
Starting just to the side of my knee, he licks the liquor from the inside of my leg all the way up to the bend at my thigh. He traces the crease there, coming dangerously close to the throbbing that never seems to cease when he’s around. But he stops just shy of it, just shy enough to make me feel like screaming. He laps his way up my stomach to my nipple, where he licks and sucks until every drop of alcohol is in his mouth.
Still not laying a hand on me, Cash reaches to my side and pours another shot. He hands it to me. “Again.”
I repeat the steps, only this time Jack dribbles from my chin straight down the center of my chest, between my breasts and over my stomach.
The first drop that slides through the short hair between my legs hits my hot, sensitive flesh like a tingle of electricity. I let the rest of the liquid flow past my lips, hyper aware of the stream that’s pouring between my legs.
Reaching out with his hand, Cash moves one finger between my legs, wetting it in the whiskey that’s collecting there. His eyes rise to mine as he slips that finger into his mouth.
“Mmm, that’s good,” he purrs. He bends his head and kisses the inside of my thigh. “But not nearly as good as you.” With one long stroke, he licks the opening between my legs. “I didn’t even want to think about never tasting you again,” he whispers. His mouth is so close to my wet body, I can feel his warm breath. “Oh, God! The way you taste…”
Planting his hands on my inner thighs, Cash pushes them further apart and presses his mouth against me. With one quick thrust, his tongue is inside. If I were standing I would collapse. The whiskey was like electricity, but this…this is like lightning.
I reach out and thread my fingers into his short hair, holding him to me as he moves his lips and tongue, sucking and licking and penetrating me over and over again.
I’m straining against him, moving my hips against his face. The familiar aching tension is building within me when he suddenly stops.
I could cry. Or scream.
“Not yet, baby,” he says softly, putting his hand in the center of my chest and pushing. I turn and lie back on the bar. Cash hops up onto it, settling between my legs. “I want you coming on me, while I’m filling you up, stretching you tight.”
He bends each of my knees until my feet are flat on the bar and then I feel his tongue again, probing me, making hot circles over the most sensitive parts, giving me stabbing thrusts in the others. He works first one, then two fingers into me, crooking them and rubbing me from the inside as he pulls them in and out of me.
Within seconds, I’m right back where I was—riding the cusp of an impending orgasm.
Again, he stops. Just before I tip over the edge. My breathing is ragged and so is his as he moves forward, scooting his knees under my hips and grabbing my arms to pull me up onto him, my legs on the outside of his.