Page 109 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
Jamie slid my panties down next, hands wrapping around the backs of my thighs as he planted one soft kiss against my center. I was completely exposed for him, save for the tube socks still on my feet.
“Fuck,” I whispered, chest aching with want. He hooked his hand behind one knee and brought it to his shoulder, allowing him better access, and his tongue slid along my opening before circling my clit. He sucked hard, sliding two fingers inside me at the same time, and the leg holding me up shook. “Oh, God.”
“Mmm,” Jamie hummed against me, fingers deep and working with the rhythm of his mouth. The front of me was still wet from his shirt, my back slick with sweat against the glass, and my leg trembled as I balanced. He was so skilled, such an expert with his tongue, with my body. He knew me well — too well — and maybe that had always been my downfall. No one knew me like Jamie. No one ever would.
I was on the brink of coming when Jamie dropped my leg, crawling back up my body slowly, lips dragging against every inch of my skin as he did. My hands were still high on the glass and when Jamie saw, he smirked, eyes finding mine with a new heat. “Such a good girl.”
He backed up, no longer touching me, and slowly, he peeled his wet t-shirt off and let it fall to the floor in a wet heap. His eyes were hooded, jaw jutted up and lip between his teeth as he unbuckled his belt. Jamie was practically fucking me with his eyes as his hands undressed himself, and I squirmed, aching and ready. He pulled a condom from his wallet before kicking off his jeans, and I swallowed, body remembering before my brain what it would feel like to have him inside me again. When he finally dropped his briefs, his erection sprang forward, and my mouth watered. He was so hard, all for me, and that fact obliterated any self-control I thought I had left.
I pushed forward, hands leaving their hold on the glass and reaching for him, instead. But Jamie caught my wrists, backing me into the glass and spinning me until my breasts and cheek were pressed into the glass. One hand held my wrists in place and the other dragged the wrapped condom down my arm, my ribs, the small of my back before he hooked my hips and pulled me back against him. His cock lined my ass and I whimpered, knowing just a few inches of movement could land him where I wanted him.
“Do you moan like that for him?” Jamie asked, the tip of his nose running the back of my neck. “Does he touch you like I do?” He sucked my skin between his teeth and his hand snaked around to find my clit. I should have been angry, I should have thrown him off and realized then what I was doing. But I was blinded by lust, high for the first time in years, and his words only pushed me further into the addict state of mind.
Jamie pushed back, all contact lost, and I heard the rip of the condom wrapper. I breathed hard exactly five times before his hands pulled my hips into him, back arching, and he positioned himself at my opening. I turned my head, lips on the glass, breath fogging up against the rainy night — and then, he filled me, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, burning and stretching and murdering my attempt at rehab once again.
“Goddamn,” he breathed, pulling out before gliding in again, this time a little harder, a little deeper. He repeated the motion, each time thrusting me into the glass, and I stared out at the rain-soaked city, wondering if it shielded us from the other high-rises or put us on a more prominent display. I didn’t care. Let everyone watch, let everyone see my weakest and most euphoric moment.
Jamie’s hands snaked into my hair and he tugged, pulling my hair tie loose, my throat exposed to the city as he rammed into me from behind. He sucked the lobe of my ear between his teeth and chills raced across my skin. Every touch was too much, every kiss too hot. He was consuming me, taking me under, my fight completely lost.
He was close, I could feel the tension in his muscles, the shortness in his breath, but he lifted me suddenly, breaking our contact and carrying me to the couch. I always loved how effortlessly he carried me, like I weighed nothing, like his strength was unstoppable. He touched me with such a gentle, yet firm demand. I felt safe with Jamie. Always.
He threw boxes off the couch, sitting on the middle cushion and pulling my thighs forward until I straddled him. My knees hit the cushion and I leaned forward, bracing on either side, and lowered myself down slowly. We moaned in unison, and Jamie’s head fell back.
