Page 43 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
“Yes.”
He said the word like a curse, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his forehead drop to mine as I dug my nails into his shoulders.
“Jamie,” I breathed, wrapping my hands around his neck and pulling his lips to mine again. “I can forgive you for kissing me, but I can’t forgive you if you stop right now.”
He groaned, low and throaty before he kissed me back. And then, with the slow steadiness of an expert, Jamie filled me, and we tumbled into hell together.
We both gasped, open mouths against each other, my hands on his neck and his forearms braced on either side of me. He withdrew even slower before pushing in again, this time hitting deeper than before.
“God, B,” Jamie hissed. “I’ve dreamed of what this would feel like, taking you, feeling you wrapped around me. But it doesn’t even compare. I can’t…” He shook his head, moving just a little faster. I felt each thrust through the movements of his thighs, his back, his shoulders, and I wrapped my legs around him tighter. “I’ll never—”
“I know,” I stopped him, because I did know.
He would never be the same, and neither would I.
If you asked three different whiskey distilleries what the best kind of whiskey is, you’d find three different answers. Some like their whiskey sweet, infused with honey or fruit and smooth on ice. Some prefer their whiskey bold, with sharp spices and mint. Me? Personally, I preferred whiskey that burned — slowly — in an all-consuming fashion.
And that night, I felt every inch of my body catch fire as I drained the bottle.
Jamie took his time, finding what worked for me and what didn’t. He explored my body, tasted my skin, and exposed me to a passion unfounded in my life before that night. I came first, tightening around him and fisting the sand at the edge of the blanket. Jamie followed closely, and I nearly lost myself again at the sound of my name on his lips as he fell apart.
He held me close as we climbed the stairs back to Earth. He was still inside me, and he kissed me softly, his eyes lingering on mine. I think Jamie was drinking me in that night, too. I wondered if I burned. I wondered if he liked it.
So you see, the addiction was born on a chilly February night in the soft sand of a private California beach. In that moment, wrapped in his arms under a woven blanket, I felt euphoric. But as we all learn at a young age, what goes up, must come down.
And oh how we crashed.
FOR THE FIRST THREE minutes of consciousness that next morning, I lived in complete and total bliss.
I lie in bed, stretching my arms high above me and flexing my toes as a sleepy smile moved in on my face. I was deliciously sore, aching both physically and yearningly. I wanted more, I wanted to relive last night, I wanted to stay in that memory forever.
After three minutes, my eyes shot open, and dread rushed in like a hangover.
I sat up straight, clutching my sheets in one hand while the other found my forehead. Gazing around my room, I tried to guess what time it was. Jamie and I had stayed out late — too late — the sun already rising when he dropped me off. We’d both been quiet on the ride home, and even though he held my hand the entire way, I worried what he was thinking. Was he feeling guilty about Ethan? Did he regret making the move? Or was he high off life like I was, even if what we had done was wrong?
I couldn’t tell, and since it was daylight when he dropped me off, we didn’t risk another kiss or even a hug. He simply squeezed my hand before letting it drop and I snuck back into my dorm.
Reaching for my phone, I groaned at the time — 1:42 PM.
I’d missed my Sociology class and I was about to miss English Comp I if I didn’t get my ass across campus in less than twenty minutes.
I jumped up, throwing my hair in a sorry excuse for a bun and rushing to brush my teeth before dressing in the first pair of jeans and long sleeve shirt I found. Even though I was in a hurry, it wasn’t enough of a distraction from the thoughts racing through my mind.
Adjusting my book bag on my shoulders, I pulled out my phone again, checking for a text from Jamie that still hadn’t come in. The dread I’d been feeling low in my stomach all morning made enough room for doubt and anxiety to slink in with it.
Last night had been amazing, and Jamie had seemed so sincere, but what if it was all an act? What if he planned that — the whole opening up to me thing before making his move?
