His fingers brush mine as he takes it. He moves the way he does everything, with power and finesse.
He sips. Swallows. Returns the glass to me.
Fuck, he's unnerving.
So much for it being easier to touch him. I take the last sip. Let the drink warm my tongue and dissolve my inhibitions.
It's slow. A hint.
Then Simon's hand is on my cheek. And his lips are on my lips. And the glass is on the ground.
Not broken, somehow.
Not a concern.
He pulls back with a sigh. "It tastes better on your lips."
"The mix of bourbon."
"No. You." He bends. Picks the glass from the ground and places it on the table. "Do you want another?"
"Only one."
"Give me a minute." He stands. Moves around the corner. Inside, to the bar.
I take a deep breath. Let out a steady exhale. Try to find the thread of my thoughts.
Some semblance of calm.
I'm out here, on the balcony, without a single scrap under my dress, waiting for Simon Pierce to bring out our next round.
The air is warm. Almost sticky. But I still crave the heat of his body. The pressure of his touch. That hint of bourbon on his lips.
Simon returns quickly. With that same firm, in control posture.
Again, his fingers brush mine.
Again, he watches me bring the glass to my lips.
"I looked it up," he says. "The Aviation. It was forgotten for ages, because it was impossible to find Creme de Violette or maraschino liqueur. It built a reputation. A mystique. When the liqueurs finally became available in the US, everyone wanted it. For a few years, it was all the rage."
"Then?"
"It fell out of favor. There was no more mystery. People didn't care."
And I'm drinking it, because I tried it at one of my mom's parties and loved it. Because I don't need the mystery. I appreciate the truth.
Or because I like the mix of tart and herbaceous.
It's not too sweet, but it's not as biting as straight gin either.
But that isn't what Simon means.
What the fuck does he mean?
"What does that make me?" I ask.
"Loyal."
"To a cocktail?"
"People are who they are," he says. "When they run, when they eat, when they fuck."
"I'm loyal. And you're… old-fashioned?"
"I've heard worse."
"It could be worse. You could drink old-fashioneds."
"Do you like them?"
"I don't like whiskey. Any kind of whiskey."
He pulls me into a quick kiss.
"But it's not terrible. In this context."
"High marks."
"I try."
He smiles, actually smiles, then he peels my fingers from the drink, sets the glass on the table, pulls my body into his.
This time, his kiss is slow.
My lips part.
His tongue slips into my mouth.
He explores my mouth with steady swirls of his tongue. It's not rushed. It's not slow.
It's Simon Pierce.
Steady and sure.
I'm not sure if people are who they are all the time.
But he is who he is.
A man who knows what's expected of him.
Who follows duty. Honors tradition. Favors simplicity.
Straight whiskey. Silk lingerie. Soft kisses.
His hand goes to the strap of my dress. He traces the neckline, from the tip of my shoulder, over my chest, to the v between my breasts.
Then back up.
Down.
Up.
His thumb against the edge.
His fingers on the silk, brushing the fabric over my nipple, the perfect hint of pressure.
Soft strokes.
Teasing. Again and again.
And again.
Until I pull back with a sigh.
He brings his lips to my ear as he slips his hand between my thighs. "Are you wearing anything under this?"
"If I am?"
He nips at my ear as drags his hand higher, higher, higher.
There.
His fingers brush my sex.
"It will be harder to make you come." He rubs my clit with his first two fingers. "But not impossible."
Fuck. That feels good. My eyes flutter closed.
He pushes my dress aside, exposing my breast. The right side. Then the left. "You're fucking gorgeous."
My eyes flutter open. Find his. "Thank you."
His eyes rake over me slowly.
My wine lips.
My exposed chest.
The silk fabric clinging to my stomach and hips.
My thighs just barely parted for him.
I'm on display.
On the balcony, where anyone could see me.
There's a window behind us. We're barely covered by the couch.
This is dangerous.
Illicit.
Potentially disastrous to our reputations.
Mine especially.
The thought makes my sex clench.
Am I reckless? Or am I finally listening to my body?
I don't know.
At the moment, I don't care.
I don't care about anything except the desire in his eyes.
Simon gives me another long, slow once-over, then he pulls me into his lap.
I place my knees around his thighs to straddle him.
He pulls my body into his, so my sex is against his cock.
His slacks are in the way, but I can feel him, hard against the soft wool.
Ready for me.
It feels good. It feels really fucking good.
A simple pleasure. Familiar. Like a memory. Or a dream.
I was here with him a few nights ago, but that was different. Tangled.
This is easy.
Easier than it should be.
The thought dissipates as he brings his hands to my hips, rolls my body against his.