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My lips curve faintly.
“Strong,” she says, her voice a little hoarse.
“Good whiskey usually is.”
She huffs a quiet laugh and takes another sip, this one slower. Her lips press against the rim of the glass, and I find myself watching the curve of her throat as she swallows.
The fire throws shadows as she tilts her head back just slightly. She lowers the glass and looks at me, her expression unreadable.
“Not bad,” she says, holding the glass back out to me.
I reach for it, deliberately letting my fingers slide over hers as I wrap my hand around the glass, trapping hers under mine.
She freezes, and her eyes drop to our hands. I catch the faintest hitch in her breathing.
My thoughts turn darker, more dangerous. Things I shouldn’t be imagining flicker through my mind—how she’d gasp against my lips, how her soft skin would feel against mine, how her body would move under my hands.
I shouldn’t. But I want to.
I reach for the glass with my other hand and slip it out of her grip before setting it on the small table beside me, my movements deliberate.
Now, it’s just my hand holding hers.
Her big blue eyes shoot up to meet mine, and I know she’s confused. But the tension is wafting off of her and wrapping around me. Whatever this is, she feels it, too.
She shifts slightly, her breathing unsteady, and I feel the faint tremor in her hand. I’m struggling—caught between wanting to do the right thing and wanting to say fuck it. My mind drifts again, right back to the dark place, to the idea of her being here with me tonight.
I don’t exactly struggle to find company in the bedroom, but I usually go to bed alone.
I don’t want to go to bed alone. Not tonight.
Neither of us speaks, the moment stretching out between us.
“Fuck it,” I mutter under my breath, the decisionalready made.
Before I can overthink it, I tug her hand and pull her out of her chair and into my lap.
“Mr. Wagner,” she gasps, catching herself with her hands against my chest.
But just as I’m pulling her closer, she’s reaching for me.
And then our lips meet.
Her lips are soft against mine, and the little gasp that escapes her only draws me in. But she's got her hands fisted in my shirt now, and she's not letting go.
I deepen the kiss, tangling a hand in her hair and tugging lightly, eliciting a faint moan from her. Her hips rock against mine, and the soft heat of her body is tempting.
Her lips part, and my tongue sweeps inside, tasting the remnants of whiskey on her tongue.
I break the kiss and trail kisses along her jawline, enjoying the little sounds she makes, the way her hips move, searching for more friction.
Her head drops back as my lips brush against her neck, and a low moan escapes her. My teeth graze against her skin, and her breath catches.
"Mr. Wagner," she says again, her voice shaking with the effort.
I press another kiss to her throat, enjoying the way her pulse beats rapidly against my lips.
Though I'm finding the idea of her calling me "Mr. Wagner" while I’m inside her is appealing—very—I murmur, "Cole," and nip her neck.