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“‘Had I The Heavens’ Embroidered Cloths’ then?”

“Yeats at his best.”

“At his most romantic too.”

What I don’t say? That poem is also as melancholy as it gets.

Nate sets down my vape pen and lifts the glasses, handing one to me. This moment—the one when our fingers brush and our eyes lock—might be my favorite time of day.

I give the whisky a sniff, blinking at the peaty-sweet scent of it. “Smells expensive.”

Nate’s given me a crash course in whisky over the past few months. He’s a good teacher, and I feel like I’m finally learning the difference between a decent whisky and a really good one.

“Glenfiddich, forty year.”

I blink again. “Ridiculously expensive. You’d better tell me what’s going on, or I’m going to think you’re breaking up with me.”

He taps his glass to mine. “We’d have to be dating to break up.”

“I don’t date,” I say, lips twitching even as the thought darts through my head: time to change that, chickenshit.

I continue to sniff my whisky, tucking my nose into the glass just how Nate taught me. My master-distiller-in-training is a total whisky nerd, as evidenced by the way that darkness in his eyes lifts for a split second as he watches me go through the now-familiar motions of sniff, swirl, sip.

Fire explodes on my tongue, followed by something exquisitely, achingly lovely.

“Caramel,” I say, vision going hazy as I focus on the flavors, blood already beginning to heat from the alcohol. “Cinnamon. Sea salt. Burnt rose petals.”

“Craft.” One side of Nate’s mouth quirks in his version of a smile. “Good.” It’s a question even though it doesn’t sound like one.

“Very.”

“The woman who makes this is a fucking rock star. Her mastery is the tits.” His eyes lock on mine again. “Just like yours.”

“Are you talking about my mastery? Or my tits?”

“Both.” He sips. “I’m roasting a pork tenderloin with apples and shallots to go with it—the whisky.”

“Smells delicious, Nate.” On cue, my stomach rumbles. “You’re lucky I’m a foodie.”

“You’re lucky I’m a foodie.”

“I am. I really, really am. The stick-to-your-ribs stuff you make—it’s heaven. Especially when I get to eat it in my sweatpants.”

I mean that. I come from a family of cooks and live less than a mile from one of the South’s most celebrated culinary institutions, The Barn Door Restaurant. Even so, I never eat better than I do when I’m with Nate.

“A meal that fails to satisfy is a sin,” Nate replies. He glances at his gray joggers. “Also, sweatpants are the best.”

Frowning, I fold an arm over my chest. “I don’t disagree. But no tenderloin and definitely no tits until you talk.”

The darkness in his gaze returns, casting a shadow over the warm flecks of gold in his irises. Tipping back his whisky, Nate looks away, a tic in his jaw. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“I had a shit day.”

I wait for him to go on. He sips again. Swallows. The light of the fire catches on his face, producing flickers of light, darkness, depth.

I’ve never seen him like this. It bothers me, and I feel my throat start to thicken.

I should be terrified. I should run. I don’t do vulnerability, least of all with a Kingsley.

But instead, I plant a hand on Nate’s chest and give him a gentle nudge. “Sit.”

“Milly—”

“Sit.”

My voice is sharp and so is the look in his eyes when he falls heavily into his leather chair.

I set down my glass on a side table. My gaze never leaving his, I put my hands on his bent knees and get down on my own, pushing his legs apart so I can settle between them.

Reaching for the waistband of his sweats, I say, “Let me make it better.”

“Milly,” he repeats, this time in that bare, thin voice of his.

I pull down the waistband. The bulge in his pants presses against the heel of my hand. “Let me. Please.”

His nostrils flare as he runs a hand down his face. “Why you gotta be so good at this?”

“At what?” I ask innocently and tug the sweats even lower while simultaneously reaching inside his navy blue briefs. My hand finds his dick—hard, hot, the perfect handful—and I run the pad of my thumb up the slit on his head.

He hisses, his other head falling back. “Fucking with me. God, I love it when you fuck with me.”

I bite my lip, grinning harder.

I guide his dick through the opening in his briefs. My pussy swells as I lean in. Turning him on turns me on in a way that’s terrifyingly erotic. He’s gorgeous. Smooth skin, the vein on the side of his shaft soft against my palm. A pink head that glistens as he leaks into my hand. His neatly trimmed auburn pubic hair peeks through, dark enough to almost look brown.

“So let me fuck with you for a little while,” I say.