see. She tilts the glass a little more and I expect her to touch her tongue to it and call it a win, but instead she downs at least two shots’ worth. Oh shit. She’s going to puke that up.
Her eyes shut tightly and I hear the whisky struggle down her throat. The second it hits her stomach, that’s it. I grab her arm and bring her over to the sink. “Damn, girl. I didn’t think you were going to drink half the glass. That’s whisky not lemonade.”
She lets out a loud “Woot!” and I’m shocked. Like, utterly shocked. This little Southern belle with perfect blonde curls, red lipstick, and a white sun dress is standing before me with a cocky-ass grin on her face right after she downs way too much straight-up Jack. Someone needs to pinch me right now because I might have just fallen in love with her.
“You haven’t had whisky before?” I ask again.
“Nope,” she says with a croak in her voice. “It was good, though.”
A glaze quickly covers her eyes and a smile larger than I’ve ever seen her stretches across her lips. “There, maybe now you’ll lay off my case,” she says, slurring her words a bit.
“Well, no,” I argue. “I can’t lay off your case. You’re still missing out on other things.”
She shifts her weight to her right foot and crosses her arms over her chest while still holding the flashlight between us. “I’m not sure I’m missing out on anything,” she says.
“You didn’t think you were missing out on whisky just a minute ago, either,” I tell her.
Her free hand drops, like she’s frustrated with me, which is exactly what I was going for. What I wasn’t going for, or necessarily trying for, is what she’s doing right now. Her small hand shoots out and firmly grips my cock. To say this is shocking the hell out of me is a complete understatement. With no control wanting to be had, I harden immediately within her hand. I didn’t exactly ask for this, but I sure as hell am not complaining either. I love that I can still see her eyes right now. They’re large. They’re surprised. This is awesome. I’d like her hand to stay right-t-t-t-t like this for the rest of the night.
“If you move your hand up a little, then down, that would be just perfect.”
Gambling my last statement, I lose the hand. Literally. “Jags,” she says. “I’m a little afraid of what would happen if I did that.” The words drawl with her cute southern accent, which sounds enhanced under the influence of whisky.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, doll-face. I’ll keep you safe,” I say quietly.
“I think I’d need a lot more whiskey to be convinced of coming any closer.” Drunken women are usually the only ones who will come near me anyway, so it isn’t a huge shock to hear this.
“That’s what they all say,” I tell her.
The look on her face changes, like I just said something hurtful to her. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “But it’s nice to know that’s what they all say.”
Jack has a way about him. Almost always, he brings something good to the table, but then it’s normally followed up with something real shitty. Like this. “What can I say?” I finish the deal off.
“How many women have you been with, Mr. Jags?” We’re back to the Mr. Jags shit now?
“That’s none of your business,” I use her own words against her. In truth, I couldn’t come up with an accurate number. Sex is like water, it makes up seventy percent of my life, and right now I’m very dehydrated and no closer to a nice cold glass than I was six hours ago. God knows I can’t get an actual girlfriend so I do what I have to do. “Let me tell you this, Miss Sasha. A man who has been with too many women is obviously a man no woman wants to love. Think of it that way instead of considering me a manwhore.” Using this as my exit strategy since I now feel like a million fucking bucks, I grab the rest of the Jack from her hand, leaving her so I can go find the sheets and shit for the couch.
“Jags,” she calls out after me.
“People are sleeping,” I tell her.
“Stop,” she says again.
I’m not stopping. She’s no different than any other woman shooting me down. She’s the one who just grabbed my cock