KAT
I situp and lean onto the back of the couch, resting my chin on my hands, as I watch Archer walk across the living room to the bar.
He knows he looks fantastic naked. Flaunts it, too, the cocky bastard.
Big Dick minus his Cuban links.
I smile with pride.
“Corlo, the romantic setting,” he says as he pours himself a drink, neat.
I smile at the word.
We are not romantic. Not by a mile. We are horny, sexed up, off the leash. Romantic is for lovers. We just fuck. And judging by how it’s going, we’re great at it.
The overhead lights dim, and a row of the smaller ones along the floor perimeter come on, sinking the living room in a soft glow. And Archer’s naked body sinks into shadows. The light casts a soft glow on the side of his body, accentuating his muscles. He looks like a Greek statue in a night museum.
“What would you like?” he asks from the bar.
“Surprise me.”
“Preference in liquor?”
“Not really.”
“Sweet, bitter, sour?”
“Strong and sweet.” I want to add that I like my drinks like I like my men. But he is not sweet, is he? Except for right now. He is being a gentleman. His talented mouth is a bonus, plus his tongue that licks in a perfectly filthy way.
I bite back a smile, watching Archer walk back to the couch, carrying our drinks.
The first sip is delicious. “Wow. What is this?” Whatever he made for me is the most exquisite cocktail I’ve ever tried.
“Chocolate Negroni. Gin. A little spicy, a little tangy, a lot of flavor. Vermouth. Campari. Orange-chocolate syrup.”
He sits a little away from me on the couch, slightly slouching, his foot against the coffee table, which makes his leg, raised and bent at the knee, hide the parts that I would like to study and see in action again. But his muscled thighs and chest are just fine.
That’s the thing I am loving right now—him being so open about his body and mine. The way he looks at me. I don’t need to hide myself.
I take another sip of the drink, not sure I need more booze but loving it too. Everything about this evening, in fact.
“It tastes amazing, thank you,” I say, licking my lips.
“I used to be a good mixologist,” he says, tilting his head back against the couch and studying me.
“Yeah? What happened?”
“I stopped giving a fuck.”
There it is again. “Why is everything so… depressing in the way you talk about it?”
“Is it?”
“Often, yes.”
“Not everyone is always chirpy and happy.”
“I am not. But I don’t brood.”