"You’ve never had whiskey, right?" His words are liquid amber on my skin, flowing into me like a hot caress.
I shake my head, not wanting this moment to end.
My cheeks flame hot, like this is something to be ashamed of. "No."
"But you knew about all the brands in the basement."
"Just because I know about them doesn't mean I've tasted them." I try not to sound defensive. I'm cold now, the glow from his touch fading a little.
He turns me in his arms, a faint smile on his lips. "We have to fix that."
"Right now?"
"No time like the present." He laughs softly and pulls a cardboard tube off the top of his refrigerator. Laphroaig 10 year. I recognize the black and white label, the smooth green glass shielding the whiskey from the light.
He pours two small glasses, barely a finger’s worth of the dark amber liquid. "I learned this on my first trip to Scotland. I was on R&R from my first tour in Iraq."
"You didn't go home?"
"No real reason to go home after a while." He looks up at me. "My father and I are like oil and fire. It's better if we don't spend any time together."
"That's…unexpected." I'm not sure how to process his revelation. "You're on your own then?"
He shakes his head. "I've got the bar. The guys."
"Your tribe."
He nods once, a silent acknowledgment of his life and his choice. "You pour a tiny drop of water in the whiskey to bring all the flavors out."
I make a face. I'm not overly excited about trying this, especially not right now when I really just want him to stop teasing me with promises of his cock that he never delivers.
I'm not a really big drinker, but I want so badly this man's hands on my body, that if this is a detour on the way to that destination, I'll try it.
"So this one is made in barrels smoked with peat. It's the smokiest whiskey I've ever tasted."
I frown. "Why would you want to drink smoke?"
"Life is all about the simple pleasures. Taste. Touch. You can't buy sensations." He hands me the glass. "Taste it. Don't shoot it."
I sniff the glass, hesitant, then take a brave sip. I've heard the stories of whiskey burning all the way down, but this is literal fire burning down my throat.
I cough and try to keep a straight face. I fail and he laughs. "Oh my god, that is literally like drinking liquid smoke."
"Not a fan?"
"Why would anyone want to do this for fun?"
He's still smiling. There is something vulnerable in that smile. Something warm and genuine that I rarely see in Eli when he's at work. There's a tension that's always there, but right now, when it's just him and just me, there's something else. Something I want more of.
"It's about the process. The time that it takes to perfect the drink. The time that it takes for all the flavors to fully release."
"It…definitely has a taste." The words get stuck in my throat. He is watching me. Like he did that first night I met him and he turned down carefree, guilt-free sex. "What?" A hoarse whisper.
He hesitates, dragging his hand through his hair. The tattoo on his upper arm flexes as he moves.
"I…I want to know what it tastes like on you."
My belly tightens instantly, a sharp bolt of heat straight to parts of my anatomy that are definitely doing the thinking right about now. Maybe not thinking. More like purring. Yes, parts of me are definitely purring.
His voice is deep and smooth and he's there, just there. He moves easily, straightening and coming to stand between my thighs, nudging them apart just so. His hands are braced on either side of my hips.
"I think this is sexual harassment of your employees," I whisper.
"So you don't want me to kiss you?"
He nips my bottom lip. The movement is at once hesitant and bold. He is a mix of contradictions. Powerful and yet, when he touches me, he's infinitely gentle. I would never have thought it. Not for a man who looks like him. "Where on earth would you get that idea?"
He is close, so close. I love the lines beneath his eyes, the softness of his lips beneath the harsh edge of his beard.
He brushes his top lip against mine. I can taste the smoke on his breath, doubling the residual flavor from my own drink.
His breath is hot on my ear, his voice vibrating against my skin. The air buzzes with energy, crackling and tight and tense.
He's close enough that I have to lift my hands. They curl into the solid wall of his chest. I can feel his heartbeat racing beneath my palm.
"I'm afraid."
"It's too late for that." His words are rough now. A tremble of restrained violence beneath my fingers.
I swallow hard.
"Parker?"
"Hmmm?" I don't want to think. I want to close my eyes and lose myself in the texture of his touch, his kiss. The way my stomach tightens when he looks in my direction.
"Can I taste you?"
* * *
Eli
* * *
I've never been so to the point before with any woman and in that moment of her response, I am infinitely grateful that she is here and she is fearless, even as she's afraid.
Her confession from the other day burns me. Sex hurts her. And I refuse to be a source of pain for her.
The whiskey is a gamble. I don't want her drunk. I want her to know who is touching her, making her feel.
Making her come against my lips, my fingers.
I slip my thumb over her bottom lip, nudging her open. Her lips are moist. Soft. She flicks her tongue against the tip of my thumb, a slight smile on the edge of her mouth.
I want her open. Begging. I want her so fucking ready and wet that when I push inside her, she feels nothing but pleasure.
The thought of her tight body squeezing my cock is enough to drop me to my knees, to worship at the altar of her body.
Instead, I press my lips to the side of her throat where her pulse scatters. She is liquid heat, smoky and sultry.
Her body is waiting and eager. I brush my finger lightly over her nipple. "You're not wearing a bra." I don't bother to conceal the amazement in my voice. I'd been so distracted by her that I hadn't even noticed.
I'm a fucking blind man when it comes to Parker.
"Maybe I was hoping to drive you to enough sexual frustration that you'd finally have your way with me."
I laugh against her neck, then squeeze gently, flicking my thumb over the tight peak. "I think we've got to work on your strategy."
"Seems to be working pretty well right now." She spreads her thighs a little more. A subtle shift but I notice. Lust rockets through my veins. I want this woman in a primitive way. I want her bent over, her pink flesh exposed to only me. I want to suck on her until she screams my name.
I want to feel her coming around my cock.
I pinch her lightly and she makes a rough noise, deep in her throat. "Tell me if you don't like something." I nip her earlobe. "Tell me what you like."
She makes that noise again, driving me a little crazier each time.
I tug the edge of her leggings, thanking whatever gods may be for this brilliant fashion trend, and draw them gently over her hips. Her body glistens as I lean in and press a kiss to the top of her pubic bone.
"Up." I shift her until she's sitting on the counter, her pink and wet body perfect height for me when I kneel in front of her.
Her glass of whiskey is within reach. Watching her the entire time, I tip the glass, dribbling a little on the soft mound of her pussy. Her eyes never leave mine as I catch it with my tongue, before it runs into her slick folds.
I do it again, running it closer to where she aches, each time denying her the feel of my lips on her swollen, pink body.
Finally, I dribble a little where she is infinitely soft and wet. The direct contact shocks her and she jerks, trying to close her thighs. I capture her then, my hands holding her open, my mouth claiming the smoky whiskey and potent slick sweetness of her body. I suck her, watching her head dr
op back, her eyes finally flicker closed.
I lick her again, my tongue tracing her folds, learning what makes her hips twist, what makes her moan.
When I slip a finger inside her, she is pulsing and hot, right there at the edge of an orgasm. Right on the edge of falling.
As much as I want to be inside her when she comes, I want her mindless when I finally am. I want her flying high from the pleasure.
I want to ride it with her.
Her body tightens around my finger, clenching in wave after shuddering wave. There's something beautiful about this woman in her arousal. Like she's learning what she likes even as she surrenders to the moment.
I suck her hard into my mouth again, stroking her with my fingers, my tongue. My hips rock in time with the slide of my finger. Her body tenses again, twisting, her breath coming in tiny pulsing gasps. I stroke her clit with my thumb, slipping through the mix of whiskey and her own wetness, pinching her gently.
And then she's gone, flying, biting her lips together to keep from crying out. Even in this she attempts restraint, attempts control. I pinch her gently, and she comes unglued with a shout, her thighs locking around my shoulders. I hold my mouth to her, sucking her, licking her, driving the wave longer for her. Just her.
And then I'm there, waiting at the entrance of her slick heat. She's still gone, flying, her body trembling as wave after wave crashes through her. I kiss her, deep and slow, licking her lips, her mouth, drawing her back into me.
Praying that she's ready.
I press against her, just a little, a tormented movement in near-absolute stillness.
Her eyes fly open, her lips parted in a gasp. "Does it hurt?" I need her to know she can stop this. That no matter how much I want to push inside her, I'll stop.
She's holding her breath, her arms braced behind her. She's still, watching, her eyes drifting from mine down to where our bodies are barely joined and back again.
Her mouth moves, a single word a rush of breath. "More."
I can die happy. Knowing she's wet and ready, knowing I brought her to this…it's such a simple, powerful thing.
I push a little deeper, giving her body time to adjust, to tighten and clench around my cock.
"Christ you're tight." I drop my forehead to hers. "It feels so fucking good."
She makes a noise deep in her throat. A noise I'm beginning to associate with her deepest pleasure. "Tell me?" she whispers. "Tell me how it feels?"
Jesus, she wants me to talk dirty. I'm thirty seconds from completely humiliating myself and…I close my eyes and start to whisper.
"You're tight." I press my lips to her throat. "Wet." I scrape my teeth over her ear, nipping, biting. "Hot."
She spreads her thighs a little more, and it takes everything I have not to push inside her. She rocks her hips, urging me deeper, pressing her thighs against my hips, urging me fully home.
I slide deeper inside her, slow, smooth, hoping, praying that for once, it doesn't hurt. I'm lost in a sense of completion, of being one with a partner in the deepest of connections.
She brushes her lips against my neck. “Please,” she whispers.
And then I start to move, drowning in the sparks and fire from her tight body that grips me as I spiral out in a million starbursts of raw, intense pleasure.
Chapter 23
Parker
* * *
He is wrapped around me, one thigh pressed between mine, his hips flush against me. His scent surrounds me, penetrating my skin like the heat from his body. I never want to move again. I want to stay here forever and pretend that the world outside doesn't exist.
That I'm just a girl, asking a boy to love her.
But I can't.
And Eli deserves to know why.
Because everyone should bare their dark and twisted trauma right after the glow from amazing, mind-blowing sex starts to fade.
"My mom died when I was sixteen." He shifts behind me, his arm tightening around my belly. It’s a subtle movement but I know he's listening. "My dad told me he found her in their bed. Said she died in her sleep." I swallow and close my eyes. "I didn't believe him but her death…it destroyed him." His fingers are strong and steady on my forearm. "She overdosed. In hindsight, it makes sense. She'd have these episodes where she'd slur her speech or stagger around the house." The dark tunnel of the memories leads me only toward further darkness. But Eli deserves to know. Maybe then, he can understand why I'm trapped in my life.
"Jesus, Parker."
I drive on, needing to get everything out. Needing to excise the wound just once more before I cover it up and pretend there's no scar. "She'd filed for divorce a few weeks before she died." My voice is steady, surprising me. Like this isn't my story but some sad tale about someone else's life. "She made the national news. For a whole week. There was sympathy, at least at first. The press followed me to school, asking me if I knew my mom was an addict."
"You were a child."
"Rich people's kids never get to be children. It's a very First World problem."
He nuzzles my neck. "Don't trivialize how hard that is. Just because you're not starving and homeless doesn't mean your problems aren't real."
I'm not sure how to respond to that. "My dad didn't think so. I started acting out. My friend Meaghan and I started partying, hard. I wanted to hurt him. To embarrass him." I take a deep breath. "It was a universally stupid thing to try with someone like my father."
"What did he do to you?"
"I left. I tried to anyway. I convinced Meaghan to leave with me."
"Where were you going to go?"
"I don't know. I think I was hoping my aunt would take us in. She refused. And then my father found us."
His body is tense behind me now, his breathing rough. "He hurt you."
"I'd just lost my mom. And then I lost my dad, too. He stopped talking to me. Pretended I wasn’t there. Married his new wife within a year." The words aren’t easy, don’t take away the pain. The words I need aren't breaking past the blockade in my chest. "I tried everything I knew to get him to see me. To remember he had a daughter.” A final deep, shuddering breath. The tightness in my chest breaks up a little. “When I met Davis, it was like I suddenly had my dad back. After ten years, he was finally able to be in the same room as me. Finally, able to talk to me. It was like being born again, having him back.” I swallow hard. “But it’s always about Davis. I’m a means to a son for him.” I thread my fingers with his, needing to remind myself that this is real, that I’m lying here with Eli and that for a brief moment, everything is all right in my world. Even as I rip the scars off old wounds, I’m with him.
"Then I got this sad little dick pic from a sixty-year-old man. One of my father’s closest friends, of all people, who was supposed to give me an internship to help me compete for the executive management program." I laugh at the thought of that terrible image, burned for all eternity into my memory whether I want it or not. "Something inside me snapped. I wanted out. And Davis blamed me.”
“Wait, he blamed you for your future boss sending you a dick pic?"
“Pretty much. He just saw the picture from the unknown number that popped up in my notifications.”
“Charming people you hang around with,” he says dryly.
I've almost forgotten how good his voice sounds in my ear. How warm and rich and real. Everything about Eli is authentic. I twist in his arms, turning until my breasts tease the crisp hair on his chest. Until I can look him in the eye. "It's what I love about you. You mean what you say. You believe in what you do. You didn't turn me away." I cradle his face, kissing him lightly. "But now you know why I’m stuck. Davis won't let me leave. It’s too embarrassing for him to get dumped. And even if I tried, the media would catch wind and resurrect the ghost of my mother."
He tugs me even closer, tucking my head beneath his chin. His heartbeat is steady and strong beneath my cheek, reminding me that this isn't just a dream. This is real, even if it's only a brief moment that
will become a memory. It's a memory I'll hold on to. This time with him. This connection.
"What do you want?" He presses his lips to the top of my head. "If you could have anything in the world, what would you want?"
I close my eyes and breathe him in. In theory, it's such a simple question. To imagine the best possible future and ignore the most likely one. To hold on to an ideal, a fantasy as an escape from the reality that's dark and full of emptiness. "To stay."
* * *
Eli
* * *
It's unreasonable. Her reasons are completely irrational and based on emotion. But those are the most effective prisons.
None of that matters, because for her, the bars are as real as anything in our world. She lives in her own iron cage, created bar by bar by two insecure men obsessed with control and power and how they look in the press.
Her father's also not just a handsome face with a winning smile. The cage he’s built around his daughter reveals a ruthlessness about him that shouldn't be ignored.
In any campaign, you need to understand the enemy. And I have a perfect opportunity to observe him at his party.
I know how to walk in his world, how to blend in. Even with my beard and tattoos, I can still play the game.
It’s a game I've avoided for years. The risk attached to my past is well-hidden, but it would only take one industrious reporter to connect the dots and that's just operating on the assumption that people don't ask Google the right question.
For Parker, though, I'll step back into the world I've walked away from.
I'll talk to her father tonight, see what I can learn about her soon-to-be ex-fiancé. Ply him with expensive whiskey. Men will always talk over whiskey, especially men like her father. They need to brag, need the world to see how shiny and bright they are to hide the pitiful man they see in the mirror.
"You can, you know." I wait until her face is lifted toward mine and I drink from her, sipping at her lips in a gentle, coaxing kiss. "Stay."
After I Fall: A FALLING NOVEL Page 15