Page 33 of A Million Times, Yes

I rested my arms on the bed and leaned up to look at him where he was kneeling on the floor in front of the mattress, my legs spread around him. I didn’t know how long he’d been down there, circling like a plane unable to land—ten minutes, fifteen, thirty—but it felt like an eternity. Especially since every one of my exhales ended in some kind of begging.

“Someone’s getting impatient.” His voice was as rough as a growl.

I couldn’t see his mouth; it was hiding in the far part of my thigh. But his eyes were enough, haunting as they stared at me, showing his true purpose.

His desire.

He’d promised dining, and he wasn’t joking.

This was a slow, winding suffering with no end in sight.

And unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

“Aren’t you getting impatient?” I asked.

His laugh was a deep wave of air that hit me the hardest. “No. I’m right where I want to be. Smelling the scent that I’ve been craving since we fucked under the bridge.”

“You’re evil.”

He got up from the floor, my whole body revving like a Mustang, and went over to the couch where we’d been sitting before he’d stripped off my clothes and carried me to the bed. He grabbed the glass of scotch he’d been drinking and sipped it while he walked back to me, returning to the same position.

“This is one of my favorite scotches.” He dipped his finger into the dark-amber liquid. “I like the smokiness and the way it bites my tongue.” A drip of booze dangled on his finger, and he held it over me, letting it fall.

I drew in a loud breath as it hit me.

A place I wasn’t expecting.

The very top of my clit, where he hadn’t yet touched.

Until now.

“Oh,” I sighed as it rolled down, down, down, and soaked into me.

The sensation wasn’t something I was prepared for. It wasn’t cold; there wasn’t any ice in his drink. It was more of a burning, a tingling—and strangely, I liked it.

His finger went back into the glass, and when he took it out, he aimed it over the same place. “Last night, when I was having a glass of this, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d rather be drinking your pussy. And over dinner—the food one—I thought to myself, Why not incorporate both?”

Even though I was prepared, when the liquor landed on me, I gasped. And I did it again as it ran and settled.

It only took a second before the feeling ignited.

Before it added to what was already pulsing.

“Is it a competition between the scotch and me? You know, which you’ll like better?”

He soaked his thumb in the booze, and when he pulled it out, he flicked it across my clit. Softly. Slowly. But enough that I moaned from the friction. “There is no competition, Maya. I’ll always choose your pussy.” He wasn’t speaking to me. He was speaking directly to my pussy, his lips close but not touching it. “Right now, I want both. I want to know what the scotch tastes like when it’s mixed with you.” He held the glass over me. There was no more than a finger’s worth inside, but it was still shocking when he began to tip it toward me.

“You’re going to put ... all of that on me?”

“And then I’m going to drink it off you.”

Once I felt the smoldering liquor, my neck leaned back, and my arms dropped, and I flattened against the bed. Unlike the previous drips, the feeling increased as he continued to empty the glass.

But the scotch wasn’t the only thing I felt.

There were his lips, too, planted at my base, catching the faucet of liquor washing down me.

“Oh my God, Jordan!”