“I'm not a teetotaler,” she responded somewhat defensively.
“No need to get defensive,” I reassured her. She started to bring the glass to her lips. “Wait.” I brought a hand to her arm, stilling her. I could feel the warmth of her skin through her sweater. I wanted to leave my hand there, or trail it up, catch the end of one of her curls in my fingers. “You need to take some time before you taste.”
I tilted my glass, showing her how to let the whisky coat the glass. “It enhances the aroma,” I explained. “And see these?” Legs ran down the glass, sticky like fine honey. “See how good that looks?”
She imitated my movements tilting and swishing her glass, dutifully studying it like an attentive pupil. She was so good at following directions. For some things, you had to take your time. I could be an impatient man, but when it took to enjoying life's pleasures, I saw no rush.
“A lot of people think drinking scotch is just about the taste. But it's more of a sensory experience than that. It engages all five senses, the sight of the warm amber liquid, the sound of the pour, the feel of heavy glass resting between your fingers.” I held up my glass and she adjusted her grip, bringing the stem between her index and middle. She picked things up quickly when she wanted to learn. There was so much I could teach her.
“Bring your nose to the glass. And keep your mouth slightly open.” I touched my finger briefly to her chin and her lips parted, plump and juicy. The smooth feel of her skin jolted me. The brief contact ran through my whole body, charging through me like a live wire. It seemed like she felt it, too. Her eyes widened and she licked her lips.
“What do you smell?” I nodded to the glass.
She brought her nose to the glass and inhaled, then looked at me a little shyly. “I'm not sure I know how to describe it.”
“You don't need to worry about finding the right description,” I reassured her. “They're plenty of snobs out there saying they can smell or taste random things. But they’re just making it up. I want to know what you smell.”
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the experience, breathing in the Scotch. I could see a sensuality to her, one that perhaps she’d yet to explore with any time and attention. I’d be happy to be her guide.
“I feel like I smell flowers?” she mused, eyes still closed, breathing in. “Or cherries?”
“Possibly both,” I agreed.
“I don’t know why it smells so sweet but burns so badly when you drink it.”
“Ah,” I shook my head. “That’s because you’re not holding it in your mouth.” I couldn’t resist another brief stroke of her bottom lip with the pad of my thumb. “After you take a sip, hold it in your mouth for at least 10 seconds. The burn dissipates, and you’ll start to taste the sweetness. Then it’ll go down smooth.” She looked at me, unsure. “Try a small sip,” I encouraged her.
Trusting, she brought her lips to the glass and tilted the barest of sips into her mouth. She looked at me as I mouthed “10, 9, 8…” then nodded at her when it was time to swallow.
“I can’t believe it!” After she finished, she looked at the glass, then at me with surprise. “Scotch has always made me burn and choke. But that tasted delicious.”
“See how much you can learn from me?” She gave me a glance that suggested she might know I had other things on my mind. Watching her sip and swallow gave me all sorts of ideas.
After she finished her taste, I poured her another batch of Douglas whisky, telling her about the process, the aging in oak barrels a minimum of three years. I coached her through the next sip, reminding her to coat her tongue as she held it in her mouth.
My arm stretched out along the back of the couch and she leaned into me as if on instinct. “This is so fun.”
“You like Scotch?” Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright. I bet she’d taste divine, her own natural sweetness mingling with the drink.
“I never did before.” She smiled up at me. “How do you know so much?”
“It’s in the blood.” Some of my fondest childhood memories were spent in Scotland. I told her how my grandfather had passed when I was 10, but before then I’d spent time with him each summer, mostly at the distillery. “When I was a kid, the distillery seemed like a sorcerer’s secret, magic lair.”
She laughed, music to my ears.
“One more.” I poured her another.
“Last one,” she agreed, a hand to her head. “I don’t exactly have your tolerance.” She sipped, savored, and swallowed, looking up at me as if she were having a mystical experience. “So good,” she exhaled, looking straight at my lips.
I couldn’t help it. I dipped down, tasting what I’d wanted to for weeks now, really since I’d first met her. Her lips opened to me the instant we touched. Warm, liquid fire, her tongue met mine and she moaned into me, pressing closer, kissing me back as if she’d been wanting it as much as me.
She tasted like heaven, honey, Scotch and sex. I drank her in, moving closer, kissing her deeper as I stroked her neck, her hair.
“Ian,” she murmured, clutching at my sweater, breaking from me as she looked up into my eyes, panting sweetly.
I could see how the night could play out. I could lay her back on the couch, spread her before me, kiss her until her little moans and sighs built and I worked my hand up her thigh. I could touch her where I wanted, feel her wet and throbbing, watch her face while I caressed and stroked, coaxing out as much pleasure as she could give.
But then what? I pulled back, adjusting myself, putting some distance between us on the couch. With the separation, she seemed to come to her senses as well. She stood up on slightly shaky legs.
“Well, I’d better be bedding to get.”
“Getting to bed?” I asked, a wry smile playing at my lips.
“Right.” She nodded, not moving, as if forgetting what she’d just said.
“Out you go then.” I shooed her away, assuming my detached demeanor once again. It was easier, simpler, cleaner that way.
Only now I’d tasted her. And it only made me want more.
7
Annie
“Morning, Annie.”
Sunlight filtered into the kitchen window over the sink. I rubbed my eyes. “Am I still dreaming?”
Ian chuckled, getting out a coffee mug from the lower cabinet and then, yes, pouring me coffee.
“You slept in this morning,” he informed me, handing me a steaming mug.
“Did you make coffee?” The aroma already started warming me, waking me from my fog. I knew technically I hadn’t drunk a lot of whisky the night before, but my usual amount was zero. It had gone to my head, making me all mixed up and swirly the night before. So much so that we’d kissed on the couch. It
had felt like melting into him, his rough stubble against my cheek, his surprisingly soft lips, the sure way he’d held me and sank down into my mouth. I could have kept kissing him for hours, clinging, sighing, wanting more. But he’d pulled away and sent me to bed.
I took a sip of coffee, hiding my burning cheeks. I looked away as I thanked him.
“There’s toast in the toaster. It’s not eggs and bacon, but I’m not as good as you, am I?” He winked at me and left the room.
I sat down. What the hell was happening? He looked so damn handsome in an old tattered Irish knit sweater. Torn around the edges, it didn’t look disheveled so much as having a laid-back, casual appeal.
Last night I’d wrapped my arms around him, pressing myself against his chest for all I was worth. I’d like to say I’d been drunk, but I couldn’t blame it on that. I had a buzz, sure, but kissing him was exactly what I wanted even when I was sober. Just now, he’d winked at me, giving me a rakish smile, his flash of white teeth contrasting with his thatch of black hair. My stomach gave a little flip at the memory.
When had this happened? How had this happened? I forced myself to stand up and bustle around like normal, sponging off crumbs into the sink, buttering my toast. The toast Ian had made for me.
I’d pretty much assumed he’d hated me up until last night. He’d called me Mary Poppins on more than one occasion. No one wanted to make out with Mary Poppins. It was kind-of how I tended to think of myself, to be honest, a rather sexless caregiver tidying up and sending the little ones off with a “spit spot, toodleoo!”
That wasn’t how I felt last night in his arms. I’d felt nearly dazed with arousal, the feel of him, his kisses, his arms, it had felt like melting and soaring all at once. I’d never felt so swept up and transported, so satisfied and filled with longing all at once.