cocktails
I stagger through the door, clinking with two carrier bags of bottles. Spirits. Some are started, brought from my place; some I’ve bought special.
“Cocktails,” is how I greet you.
“Okay,” you agree.
I lay out what we’ve got, from advocaat to Zinfandel, which I admit I only bought because I didn’t know a spirit beginning with z to fit that joke. It’ll go for sangria. You like sangria? I start mixing some up, handing you some oranges and apples to slice.
I ask you to put some music on. What’s your jam? I sing along, especially if I don’t actually know the lyrics. After some encouragement from me you join in too. We duet clumsily around the first cup of sangria.
Alright, next up. I suggest a slow comfortable screw against the wall, you counter with a multiple screaming orgasm. You saying the word orgasm throws me, and you see a rare predatory look cross my face that only means I’m thinking of a very different sweet, intoxicating liquor. You give a smile like butter wouldn’t melt and hold out the Bailey’s bottle. MSO it is.
Thankfully there’s vanilla ice cream in your freezer. I get you muddling it by hand since you can’t find the blender. You let out a distinctly un-alpha-pred squeal when a shock of ice cream freezes the skin of your neck, quickly replaced by the heat of my mouth as I lick it away, arms wrapping around the pudge that buffers you from the kitchen counter. You grow turned on—I can tell because your stomach growls its raucous, thrilling chorus.
You threaten to cover me in ice cream and suck me all down. I tell you I’ll fight you for it, and squeeze you to me, just about managing to pick you up and spin you around me. You squeal again, laughing, and a thrashing foot cracks my shin hard enough that I let you go with a curse.
Not one to lose the advantage you turn on a heel and jump at me. I almost freeze at the sight of your gorgeous mouth opening wide as you fly towards me. Heaven knows it’s not my brain that reacts, tied up as it is with the mysterious darkness behind the curve of your tongue; but my knees bend and I heft you on my shoulder onto a kitchen counter.
There I hold you in place by your hips and a stern expression with smiling eyes. You give me a smirk you know I’ll find cute and lift a “whatcha gonna do about it” eyebrow.
You’re wearing leggings. I have just resolved to tear them off you and expose the softly padded thighs to hand and eye and mouth when there is a knock at the door. We freeze.
I groan. “Ordered us Chinese.”
“Looks like you’re gonna have to wait for bao buns.”
I lift you off the counter and pull you into a kiss, a partial release of tension that fills our mouths with the taste of one another. It stretches so long, my fingers kneading the fat that pads your lower back and your hand possessive and dangerous at the value of my neck, that the delivery guy rings again. I regretfully disengage.
“One and a half cocktails before you got distracted,” you say, licking your lips and sampling the MSO. “A new record.”