When she finally gets it undone—along with the snap and zipper—her triumphant smile nearly undoes me.My trousers fall to my ankles and I kick them aside while she reaches for my briefs.
She removes them with practiced efficiency, wraps her elegant fingers around my erection, and licks.The sight alone—Brie on her knees on my private plane, blonde hair falling forward, those crystal blue eyes looking up at me—could fuel fantasies for years.
I close my eyes, luxuriating in the heat of her mouth, the tight grip, the way she takes me deeper.It's exquisite.Perfect.
But that’s not what I want right now.
I pull back gently, tipping her chin up to meet my eyes.I press my thumb over her wet, swollen lips—gorgeous, ruined, mine—and urge her back onto the bed.
She spreads out on the satin coverlet, long blonde hair scattered around her, crystal blue eyes heavy-lidded with desire.She’s breathtaking—a daydream made flesh, better than any fantasy I’ve entertained.
Mine.Finally, properly mine.
I trail kisses up her body, taking my time with her stomach, her ribs, until I reach her breasts.I reach behind her to unsnap her bra—the clasp gives easily—and pull the lace away.
Bare before me, she’s perfect.I lavish attention on her breasts, tongue circling one nipple while my fingers work the other, and she arches into me with a soft gasp.
Then I reach for my scotch, fishing out a solid square ice cube.I hold it above her breast, letting one cold drop fall, watching her flinch and smile.Then I press the ice directly to her nipple.
She gasps—her back arching sharply off the bed.
I circle the ice slowly, watching her nipple tighten further, watching goosebumps race across her skin.When I replace the ice with my mouth—hot after cold—she moans my name.
The contrast makes her writhe.Cold shock, then the faint burn of expensive scotch still clinging to the cube, then the heat of my mouth sucking away the chill.She tastes like Macallan 25 and promises I’m desperate to keep.
Beneath me, her hips buck, seeking friction against my thigh.She mewls and twists, shameless in her need.
“You like that?”I ask, though I can see the answer written across her flushed skin.
Her tongue slips over her lower lip as she nods.That small gesture—so unconscious, so sensual—wrecks me.It feels like surrender, like trust, like the first crack in my own carefully maintained composure.
I sit back on my heels, grip her panties, and slide them down—over her hips, past her thighs, knees, calves.I toss them aside without looking where they land.
Then I reach for my highball glass.I fish out the ice cube, hold it between my fingers where she can see it, and with my other hand, I tip the glass forward.
Expensive scotch drizzles down her stomach—amber liquid trailing between her breasts, over her ribs, pooling in her navel, then continuing south to glisten at her core.
“I’ve been wondering,” I tell her, my voice rougher than intended, “what you’d taste like with scotch.”I set the glass aside and lean down, dragging my tongue through the trail I've created.“Fuck, Brie.This is exactly what I’ve been wanting.”
The taste of her mixed with fifty-year-old single malt is obscene.Profane.Perfect.
I nip at her hip bone, suck at the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, then finally—finally—I lavish her with my tongue.
She’s already wet, but the scotch adds a sweet burn, a slick glide that makes her gasp.I work her with my mouth—licking, sucking, learning the sounds she makes when I hit the right spot.My fingers join my tongue, curling inside her while I seal my lips over her clit.
The ice cube in my other hand is melting, so I drag it along her inner thigh—the shock of cold against overheated skin makes her jump.I trace it closer, closer, until it’s pressed right where my tongue was.She cries out, thighs trying to close, but I hold her open.
“Too much?”I pull back to look at her face—flushed, desperate, gorgeous.
“No.God, no.Don’t stop.”
I alternate: ice, then my hot tongue.Cold, then heat.Sensation she can’t predict, can’t control.Her hands fist in my hair, thighs trembling against my shoulders.
“Yes, yes, right there?—”
I feel the moment she breaks—muscles clenching around my fingers, back arching off the satin, my name torn from her throat.I work her through it, gentling as she comes down, until she’s boneless and panting.
When I finally pull back, I set what’s left of the drink aside.Her eyes are still closed, chest heaving.
