Other tasters’ notes: HEA. Sweet. Funny. Dirty. Muddy. Wet. Inspired by a real professor.
I need to drink whiskey from that belly button. Screw every other idea I’ve ever had. Jack Daniels. Belly button. Naomi. That’s the only fucking philosophical logic I will ever need.
She’s still on the heels of her orgasm, and I want to leave her there just like she is, but I have to take her with me. I have to keep her close. I hook my head under her bound wrists and take her off the bed to bring her with me as we kiss—because I cannot stop kissing her, will not stop kissing her. With my hand behind me, I fling open the minibar and fumble around blind. Chips, nuts, pretzels, what is that, a roll of Mentos?
Jack Daniels, where the hell are you?
Grabbing what feels like the right little bottle, I turn to look down. Gin. I toss it towards the desk. Second try, and bingo. I’ve got it.
But I’m going to have to let go of her to open this damned bottle. Proof that the world is an unfair and unkind place. It’ll have to be done. I let go of her face, and it makes her moan, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she grips onto the back of my neck with my tie and hangs on even tighter through the kiss.
As I crack the lid, her eyes widen, inches from mine. I feel her cheeks rise as she smiles. With one last dip into her mouth, I force myself to break the kiss, ducking down to get my head out from under her bound arms.
We stand there staring at one another for an instant. Her pupils dilate, and that’s when I press her to the bed. “Hope you’re not ticklish.”
Even as she lands with a cushy thunk on the mattress, she’s giving me that all-trouble smile. She scoots back towards the pillows, her long black hair a gorgeous tangle behind her, the same color as my tie. There’s a tan line at her stomach, and it’s killing me.
“So ticklish. But I can take it.”
I lie down at a right angle to her body, with my cheek to her stomach. I can smell her wetness in the air and on my fingers.
“Ready?” I ask. I sink my cheek deeper into her skin. God, this skin. God damn, this superfine skin. I tip the bottle towards her stomach.
“Ready,” she says. I feel her whole body quiver. The ticklish before the tickle is the agony of agonies.
When the whiskey hits her, she grips my hair tight. For one second, I resist all temptation: I watch it all unfold. The whiskey shivers, her body shivers, and then the shivers come out as a jagged gasp.
I lick it off, and she squirms and sucks air through her teeth. I suck it from her and growl into her body. Her feet hook around my calves. I move to her nipples, dribble on a few drops and smear them around with my tongue. I move to that perfect little depression at the base of her neck. Straight-up Naomi. Fucking heaven. Her skin, that hair, her sounds, the way her body moves under my mouth? Lemonade, when it’s too hot for anything else? I can still feel my first orgasm deep in my cock, but I’m hard again. She’s not only wrecked all my philosophies. She’s turned me into a goddamned teenager.
I grab a condom, from my wallet this time, and tear it open. “We’re going to need more of these.”
But she shakes her head into the pillows. She holds my stare as she slides her hands all over her body, red polish on porcelain. “Put it here. Put it everywhere.”
Christ. It’s official. I’ve been pussywhipped in record time.
And I don’t even know her last name.
Nicola Rendell writes dirty, funny, erotic romance. She likes a stiff drink and a well-frosted cake. She is at an unnamed Ivy and prefers to remain mostly anonymous for professional reasons. She has a PhD in English and an MFA in Creative Writing from schools that shall not be named here. She loves to cook, sew, and play the piano. She realizes that her hobbies might make her sound like an old lady and she’s totally okay with that. She lives with her husband and her dogs. She is from Taos, New Mexico.
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