Chapter 1: Whisky Sour Kiss
The brass knocker was cool under Dean’s palm, a familiar weight before the door swung inward.
And there she was.
Siobhan filled the doorway, backlit by the low amber glow of the hallway lamp. The black lace of her bodice was a stark contrast against her pale skin, a deliberate frame. Her lipstick was a slash of crimson, a promise. In her hand, a whisky sour beads with condensation.
“Long day?” Her voice was a low hum, smoother than the liquor.
“The longest.” He dropped his bag, the sound swallowed by the thick rug. His eyes traveled over her, the precise arc of her brows, the dark fall of her hair over one shoulder. “You look like an answer to a question I forgot I asked.”
A smile touched her lips. She offered the glass. “Then catch up.”
He took it, his fingers brushing hers. The ice clinked as he drank, the sharp sweet-sour taste cutting through the warehouse dust still clinging to his throat. He watched her over the rim. She watched him back, something knowing in her gaze, a silent conversation ticking between them.
She took the empty glass from his hand and set it on the console table with a soft click. The potted fern beside it seemed to hold its breath.
“Better?” she asked.
“Getting there.”
She stepped into him then, her body aligning with his, no space for the ordinary world. Her mouth found his, and the taste of her lipstick was waxy and faintly botanical, undercut by the whisky on her tongue. He sank into it, a hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, his other arm banding around her waist, pulling her lace-clad hips flush against him. She made a small, approving sound against his lips.
When she broke the kiss, they were both breathing harder. She didn’t go far, her forehead resting against his, her eyes closed. He could feel the beat of her pulse where his thumb stroked her jaw.
“Missed you,” he murmured, the words raw, stripped of his usual wit.
“Show me.”
Her command was quiet, absolute. She sank down, the carpet muffling her descent, her hands going to his belt with a practiced efficiency that made his breath hitch. The click of the buckle was loud in the quiet apartment. The rasp of his zipper was louder.
He looked down, his view all dark hair and the elegant line of her spine, the intricate straps of the lingerie crossing her back. Her hands were firm, insistent. When she took him into her mouth, it was with a slow, enveloping heat that punched the air from his lungs.
His head fell back against the doorframe with a dull thud. One hand tangled in her hair, not directing, just anchoring. A moan crawled up his throat. The world narrowed to sensation: the wet silk of her mouth, the scrape of her nails along his thighs, the frantic meter of his own heart.
“Siobhan…”
Her name was a plea, a prayer. She hummed in response, the vibration traveling through his entire nervous system like a live wire. Her pace was merciless, all taking, giving no quarter. He was unraveling, the tensions of the day, the petty frustrations, the noise of the world, all dissolving under her relentless attention. He was gasping, a litany of curses and praises falling from his lips, desperate and incoherent.
Just as he was certain he would fracture, she pulled away, leaving him aching and exposed in the cool air. She looked up, her lipstick smudged, her eyes dark and triumphant. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.
“Now,” she said, her voice husky. “Now you’re home.”
She rose, fluid and powerful, and took his hand. He followed, lead-legged and pliant, into the shadows of their apartment, the door clicking shut behind them on the empty glass and the silently swaying fern.