CHAPTER 2 #3
Something shifted in his expression. The careful control he wore like armor—it didn't crack, exactly, but it softened. He looked at me the way he'd looked at the bourbon earlier, like I was something worth savoring.
"One condition," he said.
"Name it."
"I want you to taste something first. Something new. Not on the menu."
"You and your experiments."
"This one's different. I've been waiting for the right person to test it."
He moved to the backbar, reaching past the rows of dropper bottles and amber vials to a small locked cabinet I'd never noticed before. From it, he produced a single dropper bottle—dark blue glass, unlabeled, the liquid inside a deep ruby color that caught the light like a garnet.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Pomegranate and rose. Infused with something I'm not going to tell you because I want your unbiased opinion." He unscrewed the dropper and held it out. "Open your mouth."
"You're giving me drugs at four-thirty in the morning in an empty bar."
"It's not drugs. It's a tincture."
"That's what drug dealers say."
"Drug dealers don't use dropper bottles. They use plastic baggies." He raised an eyebrow. "Open your mouth, Mara."
I did. The dropper touched my tongue—cool glass, then the liquid, three precise drops.
The flavor was immediate and startling: pomegranate first, tart and bright, then rose unfolding like a flower in time-lapse, then something else underneath, something warm and faintly spicy that I couldn't identify.
It reminded me of mulled wine and summer gardens and the way the air smelled before a thunderstorm.
"Cardamom?" I guessed.
"Partially. What else?"
I closed my eyes, letting the tincture spread across my tongue. "Something woody. Not oak—darker. Like a forest floor."
"Sandalwood."
"And pepper. White pepper, not black."
"Very good." His voice was closer now. When I opened my eyes, he was standing right in front of me, the dropper bottle set aside, his hands braced on the counter on either side of my body. "You're getting better at this."
"You're a good teacher."
"I'm a patient teacher. There's a difference." He tilted his head, studying me. "Can I taste?"
"It's already dissolved. You'll have to—"
He kissed me. His tongue swept into my mouth, slow and thorough, and I felt him searching for the flavors I'd just described. When he pulled back, his lips were stained faintly pink.
"You're right about the cardamom," he said. "It needs less. Overpowers the rose."
"I liked it."
"You like everything I give you."
"Not true. I hated the gentian experiment."
"You called it sad mouthwash. I remember." He kissed me again, softer this time, just a brush of his lips. "I like watching you taste things. The way your face changes when you find something unexpected."
"Is that why you keep making me drink your experiments?"
"Among other reasons."
"What are the other reasons?"
He didn't answer with words. Just lifted me onto the bartop—the smooth wood cool through my jeans—and stepped between my legs. His hands settled on my thighs, thumbs tracing the seams of the denim.
"This is very unprofessional," I said.
"I've been unprofessional since the day I hired you." His mouth found my neck, kissing a trail from my jaw to my collarbone. "You put the vermouth in the wrong place and I didn't fire you. That was the first sign."
"You didn't fire me because I'm good at my job."
"You're terrible at your job. You muddle like you're performing CPR." His teeth grazed my earlobe, and I shivered. "I kept you because I wanted to look at you."
"That's a terrible reason to keep an employee."
"I know. I don't care."
His hands slid higher, to the button of my jeans—the same button he'd undone what felt like hours ago, in the panic room, before his brother had interrupted.
He popped it open with one thumb, then the zipper, and I lifted my hips so he could drag the denim down.
My sneakers hit the floor, then my jeans, and I was bare from the waist down on the bartop of a speakeasy with the lights still on.
"Cole."
"If you're going to tell me to stop—"
"I'm not."
"What are you going to tell me?"
"That this is the most expensive barstool I've ever sat on."
He laughed, that low surprised sound, and dropped to his knees. The sight of him there—this broad, scarred man kneeling between my thighs on the floor of his own bar—sent a pulse of heat through me that had nothing to do with the bourbon.
"Expensive barstool," he repeated. "It's reclaimed walnut. Eighteen hundreds."
"Are you going to tell me about the woodwork, or are you going to—"
He didn't let me finish. His mouth found the inside of my thigh, and my words dissolved into a gasp.
He worked his way up slowly—kisses and careful bites, the scrape of his stubble leaving a trail of sensation that made my legs tremble.
By the time he reached the center of me, I was gripping the edge of the bartop with both hands.
"You're still wet," he said, his breath hot against my skin. "From before."
"You were inside me an hour ago."
"I know. I remember." His tongue traced a single line from my entrance to my clit, and my hips jerked. "I remember every second of it."
"Cole, please—"
"Please what?"
"Don't tease."
"You told me to taste things slower."
"This isn't a tincture."
He looked up at me from between my thighs, his dark eyes burning with something that made my whole body clench. "It's better."
His mouth returned to me. This time there was nothing tentative about it—his tongue parted my folds and found my clit with the same precision he brought to everything else. I cried out, the sound echoing off the bar's brick walls, and I felt him hum against me in response.
The pressure was exactly right. Not too gentle, not too rough—the kind of pressure that built slowly, heat spreading outward from the point of contact like whiskey warming a glass.
He used the flat of his tongue, then the tip, and his hands gripped my thighs to hold me open.
I couldn't close my legs if I wanted to. I didn't want to.
"God," I breathed. "Your mouth."
He didn't answer. Just sucked my clit between his lips and flicked his tongue against it, rapid and merciless, and I arched off the bartop.
My head fell back, and I stared up at the pendant lights—gold and glowing, slightly out of focus—while Cole ate me out with the same focused attention he gave to aging experiments and closing counts.
My hand found his hair. Tangled in the dark strands, holding him in place. He groaned, and the vibration traveled through me.
"Like that," I managed. "Right there, right there—"
He stayed there. Stayed exactly where I needed him, his tongue working me in circles that got smaller and more precise.
I could feel the tension building—not like a wave, but like a string pulled tighter and tighter, vibrating with potential energy.
My thighs began to shake. My grip on his hair tightened.
"You're going to come," he said against my skin, and it wasn't a question.
"Yes—"
"Good. Let me taste it."
His mouth fastened on me again, and the string snapped.
The orgasm hit hard, sudden enough that I forgot to breathe.
I went rigid on the bartop, my back bowing, my mouth open in a soundless cry.
Cole didn't stop. He kept his tongue on my clit through every pulse, every aftershock, until I was gasping and pushing at his shoulders.
"Enough," I panted. "Enough, enough—"
He pulled back, his lips glistening, his pupils blown wide. "That," he said, "is what I meant about tasting."
I couldn't speak. Could barely think. I slumped forward, bracing myself on his shoulders, and he steadied me with one hand on my hip.
"You're very good at that," I finally said.
"I've had practice."
"With tincture ingredients?"
"With knowing what people like." He rose from his knees, wincing slightly—his injured leg, I remembered, protesting the prolonged position. "It's the same skill. Pay attention. Notice what works."
"You've been noticing what works on me for three months."
"Longer."
I pulled him in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him. The taste of myself on his lips was strange and intimate, mingling with the last traces of rose and pomegranate from the tincture. His hands slid around my bare waist, and I felt him hard against my thigh—still in his jeans, still waiting.
"Your turn," I said.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, freeing his cock. It was already slick at the tip, and when I wrapped my hand around it, he sucked in a breath. "You've been patient. You've been patient for years."
"I can be patient a little longer."
"Don't be."
I stroked him once, twice, feeling the weight and heat of him in my palm. His forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breath coming in uneven bursts.
"Mara."
"Yes?"
"I want to be inside you again."
"Then do it."
He lifted me off the bartop and turned me around, bending me forward over the polished wood.
The position was brazen—anyone could have walked in, if there had been anyone to walk in—and the thought sent a thrill through me.
His hand pressed between my shoulder blades, gentle but firm, and then the head of his cock was at my entrance.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said.
"It won't be."
He pushed inside, and I gasped. The angle was deeper than before, and I felt him everywhere—filling me, stretching me, his hips pressed flush against my ass. He stayed there for a moment, letting me adjust, and then he began to move.