the small table next to him, dregs of whiskey at the bottom “—but I know better. Men like you never drown in the bottle. Gills instead of lungs.”
He outright smiled, and something about the imperfection of it made him a hundred times more attractive. It sent my stomach down into my feet and then back up to slam into my heart. I moved past him, deciding not to take the seat next to him, and leaned against the railing, my hands over the side.
After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. “Overcompensation,” he said. “It’s a real thing.”
Every time he said thing, it came out as ting.
“Are we speaking in riddles now, darlin’?” I copied most of his words and his accent. I grew up in New York, but I also grew up in a house with an Irish father and a Scottish mother.
Even though I couldn’t see him, I felt him move forward, and that unique smell became even stronger after I heard the breath leave his mouth. “The loudest voices outside are the ones whispering the lowest behind closed doors. Meaning. Those with something to prove usually have the most to hide.”
“Rhymes and riddles,” I said. “The Irish is strong with this one.”
“‘Tough. Tough. Tough.’ That’s what you scream the loudest.”
I squeezed the railing, my knuckles straining against skin. “What am I whispering then?”
“You want me, but your pride is standing in the way.”
“It’s not my pride,” I said. “It’s my principles.” Then I turned to him and unfastened the ties of the robe, letting it fall to the ground. “But since this is my choice, I choose now to say fuck it all. I do want you. I want you to fuck me.” Then I gave him that look, a look that dared him to take all or nothing.
He stood from the leather lounger, in no hurry. But when he finally made it to me, the tension between his body and mine was as taut as a bow about to release an arrow. His body was close, only a small gap between us, but his heat felt like a raging fire against my skin.
He looked down at me at the same time he took a puff of his cigar. He held the breath in and then slowly leaned down, putting his mouth close to my nose. His breath came out in slow exhales, a little smoke coming out with each release, until he made it to my mouth. I closed my eyes but parted my lips, breathing in, inhaling him like the drug coming from his mouth, until he hit my lungs and rushed into my bloodstream.
I could already feel him inside of me, the high making me feel like I could fly.
Each time he shared his breath and I took his in, the sensation only grew stronger. My limbs weighed nothing, and my head swam in the clouds. I barely felt it when he turned from me, but when he came back with a mouth full of smoke and I sucked in deep, his tongue invaded my mouth. His hands fisted in my hair, rough compared to the slow and delicious rhythm our tongues were moving to.
Remembering that I had hands, I used them to rip his shirt open. My palms caressed his chest, over his broad shoulders, until I forced the shirt from his muscular arms. My hands were back on him, my nails digging into his skin, ready to draw blood. Though I felt as flighty as a bird, there was this crazy energy running inside of me, waiting for the right time to rule my hands and maul him.
The kiss broke but his mouth didn’t stop moving. My chin. My neck. My shoulders. Back and forth. Long, slow, warm kisses. My chest. When his mouth closed over my nipple, I sucked in a breath, my claws sinking into his back, but not enough to draw blood. Just enough to gain some balance. My legs were weak, like they didn’t belong to my body, but wrapped around his.
A low noise escaped my mouth, and it didn’t sound like me. I’d never made noises during sex. I was too aware of every wrong move by my partner, of all of the problems that existed in my world, of how I’d never be truly satisfied after.
The same noise came again when his mouth moved even lower, his tongue dragging along my stomach, until he was face to face with my hips, his big hands on each