Like Sex and Chocolate

I’ve sat across the bar from him for months, watching him make drink after drink. From Negronis to Old Fashioneds, Manhattans, and more, he pours some of himself into every glass. Every beverage he crafts is made with love, and every cocktail is a masterpiece. On Saturday nights, we chat while I watch his hands at work, fantasizing about the other ways his fingers might be skilled.

He’s always fascinated me. He carries an air of mystery beneath the brim of his wool cap, pulled down so his eyes are always cast in shadow. In the dim light of the busy bar, I have never seen the color of his eyes. They could be blue, green, or brown with gold flecks, and I’d never know. A crooked smile always tilts up the corner of his mouth, carrying into the creases of his eyes, and even then, I’ve never known what hue to call them. He’s beautiful in a manner that takes my breath away in the midnight hour when I fantasize about his fingers. He makes me laugh, and the sight of his lopsided grin shoots heat straight to my core. I picture him on Saturday nights when I come home late, stumbling through the door and giggling my way into bed.

When the rest of the house has long gone to sleep, I toss and turn, thinking of his voice, soft in my ear, as he leans over the bar to tell me a story. I think of his fingers brushing ever-so-gently against the back of my hand as he hands me a glass of whiskey, and I wonder if they’d be just as electric, stroking me from the inside. In the late hours of the night, when I pull out my vibrator and rock my hips to ecstasy, it’s his name, I whisper in the dark. When I close my eyes, it’s his face that I picture, his crooked smile reserved only for me. I wonder if his lips on my skin would be as smooth as the sound of my name, rolling off his tongue like a love song. I wonder how far up his arms his tattoos crawl and when was the last time anyone traced them with their tongue. When I fantasize, it’s about him. It’s always about him.

On this particular night, I already had two drinks when I wandered up to his bar. I greet him with extra exuberance, and he smiles, wipes down the bartop, and asks how I am. My head swims, and my core clenches while we catch up, listening to his butter-smooth voice roll over me in waves. He wears his usual hat and khakis combo, but tonight, there’s something different about him. Something deeper, darker, and more delicious than I’ve ever felt radiate from him. It draws me in like a moth to a flame, and I stare with rapt attention as he moves around the back of the bar.

He begins fixing my drink before I have to ask. He knows me better than I know myself, and I watch in awe as he works his strange magic behind the chalkboard-painted countertop. He reaches for a glass, and the spell is cast. Bippidi-boppidi-boo, this next one is especially for you.

Like an orchestra conductor, he waves his hands, and the liquor begins to pour itself. He adds a sugar cube to a rocks glass and crushes it with a dash of bitters, muddling while we talk. He reaches for a bottle from the top shelf, the one I’ve only tried once, and pours it into the glass, never spilling a drop as we lock eyes. He winks at me, and my insides burn like wildfire. The heat goes straight to my pussy, and I can tell I’ll be walking away from the bar with a wet spot in my panties. The breath hitches in my chest, and my throat begins to burn.

His eyes never leave mine as he reaches for a block of ice and drops it in the glass, grinning devilishly. With a little flourish, he slices an orange peel away from himself, the paring knife passing through the dimpled flesh in one fluid movement. With a practiced touch, he squeezes the flesh between his fingers, oils beading up on the surface, and lights a wooden match. Like a magician finishing with a triumphant flair, he sparks the oil over the flame with a subtle ‘whoomph!’ and then drops the peel into the glass. He blows out the match, and I exhale. My core and fingers tingle as I release them from the tight fists I didn’t know I’d been holding. A sly, all-knowing smirk passes across his full lips like a wisp, gone as swiftly as it came.

His long, calloused fingers graze mine as he pushes the glass across the chalkboard bartop, pressing it into my hand. Electricity buzzes through my entire body, and I’m sure he can feel it as our skin makes contact. My cheeks burn up, and I glance away, feeling his steely gaze on my face the entire time. The way he glances at me, it’s like he knows how wet I already am. It’s as if he puts on this magic act of alchemy just for me.

The way he peeks at me and doesn’t look away when I catch him staring at me unnerves me. I tighten my fingers around the glass and smile, thanking him. I tap my fingers on the curved edge, admiring it. I turn the glass and watch the liquor catch in the light, the amber liquid glowing gold.

“Bottoms up, gorgeous,” he cheers me on, nodding at the glass in my palm. He winks at me as I bring the glass to my mouth, and I pause with my lips on the rim, grinning back.

“Sláinte, sugar.”

I tip my head back, close my eyes, and revel in the flavor of the dark liquor passing over my tongue like velvet fire. The aroma of sugar, smoke, and orange peel overwhelms my senses like a delicious daydream. Whiskey, like sex and chocolate, is meant to be savored.

The intoxicating fragrance whisks me away in a fantasy, my eyes shut, my body relaxing with each sip.  Smoke and bitters wash over my tongue like a warm afterglow. It spreads through my limbs, setting my senses alight and burning me from the inside out. The glow settles in my core, sending tingles through my pussy. This may be his greatest trick of all.

The spirits taste so heavenly, it makes me shiver as I set the glass down, wiping my lips. A perfect red print kisses the glass where my lips have been, and his eyes flicker between it and my face.  I swear something flashes upon his face. It looks like fascination, like intrigue, like… lust. His eyes never leave mine.

“Okay?” He grins at me, wiping down the bar. He leans on his elbows, crossing his arms over his chest, his biceps becoming unexpectedly defined. I drag my gaze to his face and try to hide that I’ve been ogling him all night.

“Amazing.” Heat rushes through my core as his voice washes over me. He sounds like smooth jazz and smoke, like dark chocolate and vinyl records. Any remaining resolve pools in my panties when he laughs. If he doesn’t make a move, I will.

He wipes a spot on the counter and chuckles. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would,” I reply, growing bold while the liquid courage works its way into my veins. He looks like an angel, but he grins like the devil as he pulls the pen from his pocket and a napkin from the stack. He jots something down and passes it to me slyly, our fingertips brushing before he slides his hand back. With a smirk, he leans in, his voice quiet and silky in my ear.

“Call me when I get off, and I’ll show you something amazing.”

“And when do you get off?” I lick my lips, wiping a drop of whiskey from them with the tip of my bubblegum-pink tongue, watching his eyes trace the path intently.

“When do I get off?” He laughs and leans over the bar, glancing at the other patrons, who are too busy in their conversations to hear ours. “I get off when you do, pretty girl. Finish your glass, and give me a call. Tonight.”

He slaps his palm on the chalkboard-topped bar and walks away, smirking over his shoulder. He disappears into the back, and I don’t see him for the rest of the night. I sip my drink, basking in the glow of the whiskey on my tongue and the heat bubbling in my belly. Anticipation tingles through every nerve ending. I finish, close my tab, and use the app to call a car.

The napkin with his number is tucked into my pocket, burning a hole into my leg with the heat of a thousand suns. My fingers shake as I pull it out and unfold it, reading his scrawl carefully. I dial the number and wait. One ring, two rings. The call connects.

“I thought you’d never call.”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“If it weren’t you, I’d be disappointed.”

“Well,” I fumble for my words, watching for the car. “I’d hate to disappoint you, sugar.”

“Where are you off to, pretty?”

“Home.”

“Change the address. Come over. We’ll have a nightcap, and I’ll show you something amazing I promised earlier.” He sends an address to my phone, and I hastily change my drop-off point in the app.

“Good girl. I can’t wait,” he says, and I can almost see the crooked smirk tilting up his cheeks.

“Is that so?”

“You think I haven’t been watching you, too? It’s practically written on your face.”

“What is?”

“You fancy me.” There’s a teasing lilt in his smooth voice. “You fancy me, and we both know it.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Oh, but I’m hoping you will. How far away are you?”

Butterflies fill my stomach, and my palms feel hot as I stare at my phone. “Five minutes.”

“Perfect. Just come in when you get here. Oh, and darling?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you’re thirsty.”

I check my lipstick on my phone screen as the car pulls alongside his house, steel myself with a deep breath, and step outside. The cool night air kisses my face, and I swallow my nerves as I make for the front door. I reach the doorway in three strides, my hand poised to knock when the door opens.

He greets me in gray sweats and a white shirt, barefoot and smiling, with a glass of something dark and shimmery. He pushes the glass door ajar with his foot and beckons me inside.

“You made it. I was beginning to think you were teasing me. Those were the longest five minutes of my life.”

“Me, tease you? I’d never.”

He cracks a smile, ushering me into a cozy living room with soft music playing in the background. I leave my shoes at the door and join him, his large, rough hand finding mine like a magnet. Our fingers intertwined, he offers me a drink as he sits on the couch.

I swirl the glass in my hand, watching the amber liquid glow golden in the dim, moody lighting.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk.” I hiccup, and he chuckles. It’s a low, soft musical sound. I could listen to him laugh all night if it meant being this close.

“Never. Try it.”

He nudges my hand toward my mouth and studies me intently. The liquor mixes in the glass, dancing slowly before my eyes. It’s captivating, and I take a sip, letting the amber liquor wash over my tongue like a warm ocean wave.

Deep smoke and sensuous spice flood my senses, and I shut my eyes in reverie. I let the warmth of the dark liquor overwhelm my body, spreading through my chest and belly like an inferno. The first sip burns through me, but it’s the second that makes me shiver with lust. It nearly makes me moan out loud, and he knows it. He slides his palm over my knee and murmurs, “Keep going, baby.”

I take a third sip. A fourth, a fifth. My eyes stay closed, my heart pounds, and my core aches. With each moment, the tension in my belly tightens, and I fight the urge to squirm. This drink builds like an orgasm, and if I don’t slow down, I’ll make a mess of this couch.

When I open my eyes again, he grins like the Cheshire Cat, his fingers sliding smoothly up my arm. He takes the drink from my hand and sets it on the table without looking. His hand finds my face, and I relax into his touch. When his rough fingertips trace my jaw, I nearly purr with delight. His palm cups my cheek, and he stares into my eyes, holding my gaze steady. For the first time, I see the color of his eyes. They’re dark like chocolate; they’re amber like whiskey.

He strokes his thumb across my cheek wordlessly. I melt under his careful touch, feeling myself turn to mush beneath his fingertips. He leans forward, caressing my cheek with the back of his hand. I close the gap between us, sliding closer until I can smell the liquid courage on his breath. He pauses, studying my face carefully. His eyes linger on my lips, and he cups his hand under my chin.

“Are you too drunk for this?” His eyes travel between my pout and my gaze.

“No.”

I inhale a ragged breath and bring our lips together. He kisses me like it’s the first contact he’s had in months, and I hope it is. I want to be the first person to relish in his kiss. I want to savor him like a fine whiskey. Kisses, like sex and chocolate, are meant to be reveled in.

Our mouths dance for what feels like hours. Jagged, needy sighs and hot, breathless moans fill the air between us. His hands explore my body, and I whimper with need each time he moves them somewhere new. Inching closer, I all but crawl into his lap as he massages my breasts and kisses my neck. I mewl beneath his lips and feel his familiar sly smirk spread across his face.

He pushes my skirt up my thighs and sinks his fingers into the soft flesh. He grips my hips tight and hauls me into his lap, my legs caging his. I sit on his lap, cup the back of his neck, and tilt his head back as I bring our lips together again. He gasps and groans as I ride his lap like a dime-store mechanical pony, my panties dampening with each movement until I’m sure they’re completely soaked. His fingers sink deeper into my overheated flesh, and I’m positive I’ll leave with bruises in the morning. To wear his mark would be a badge of honor, and I would wear it with pride.

It’s not every day you find yourself in an embrace with the mysterious bartender, but when you do? You take in every moment.

He breaks away with a rumbling groan that echoes through my chest like gruff, sonorous thunder. The sound settles in my pussy, and my core clenches like a fist. A soft moan escapes my lips as white-hot wildfire courses through me. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, trying to quell the raging ache. He picks me up, his firm hands lifting me by my hips, and eases me onto the cushions.

“Do you want this?”

I nod, the words stuck in my throat. My mouth feels like cotton, and my heart pounds a mile a minute. My palms sweat, my knees knock, and it takes everything I have to hold myself together. I would fuck him here on this couch, right this moment, if he wanted. The need to feel his lips on my skin, his fingers in my hair, and his breath in my ear is overwhelming, and I need him now like I’ve never needed anything before.

He shakes his head and asks me again, softer this time. “No. I need to hear you say it. Do you want this?”

“Yes. I want this.” My words are steady and unwavering despite the jackrabbiting in my chest. He reaches out his palm and cups my cheek, the warmth of his touch slowly spreading across my skin. He inches closer and presses his lips to the shell of my ear, his voice deep and sensuous.

“Come with me.”

He slides off the couch and offers me his hand, pulling me swiftly to my feet. I stumble as I find my footing, and he reaches out to catch me, holding me upright.

“I’ve got you, pretty.”

Our fingers intertwine as he leads me down a dark hallway into his bedroom. Once inside the welcoming darkness, he pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me, and puts his lips to my ear. His mouth trails the distance between the shell of my ear, the dangling lobe, and the crook of my neck in slow, smooth movements while his hands tug up my shirt.

The moment I feel his rough finger skitter over the curve of my belly and along the indentations between my ribs, I lose all track of time. Do we kiss for moments or hours? Does it take an instant for me to shed my clothes, or does he take his time removing layer by layer until I’m completely bare and vulnerable before him? When he lays me on the bed, does he crawl up my body, leaving bites and lavishing kisses across my skin for moments, or is it days?

By the time his mouth claims mine in a searing kiss, I’m too gone to savor the taste of whiskey on his tongue. I’m too needy to revel in the smoke on his breath or enjoy how his fingers tangle in the hair at my temple, tilting my head back to deepen each kiss. My head swims, my heart races, and the need in my aching core spreads. I need to touch him to know this is real.

My hands find the muscular planes of his back as I tug the gray t-shirt over his head, revealing tattoos I’ve never seen before. I never imagined that this beautiful man was a living canvas for even more beautiful art, but once I see the markings on his skin, I’m entranced.

He pulls his mouth away from the spot on my shoulder he’s been nipping and sucking at with a wet pop, and I shudder as he blows a cool burst of air across it. I mewl and whimper as his hands explore my skin. New patches of gooseflesh spring up along the rabbit-trails his fingers trace up and down my arms and over my chest. When his lips wrap around my nipple, and his teeth sink into the taut flesh, my eyes roll back in my head, and I moan loud enough for the whole street to hear.

Out of habit, I cover my mouth to stifle another moan, and he pulls my hand away, gently pinning it above my head. “You don’t have to hide your pleasure from me, pretty. Let me hear it. I want to hear all of it.”

Releasing my wrist, he goes to town, lavishing attention on my chest. He presses his mouth against my breast again, nipping at my skin. He sinks his teeth into my flesh, and I moan again. I feel the smirk spread across his face as he sucks and licks his way from one pert nipple to the other, humming against my skin.

“Good girl.”

I feel myself beaming, and I try to hide it, but he shakes his head. “You like being called ‘good girl,’ don’t you, pretty? What else should I call you?”

My mind goes blank, and I struggle to find words. He palms my breasts and rocks his hips into mine, and I feel every inch of his painfully evident need against my parted thighs. His cock strains against the dark fabric of his well-worn, low-slung gray sweatpants, begging to be free.

“Baby,” I gasp, the word spilling out before I can catch it, and he chuckles softly against my throat.

“‘Baby,’ it is.” Kissing me deeply, he grinds against me again, his hips crashing into mine like rolling waves. His cock bounces against my thigh, and I roll my hips, matching his movements. He pants and groans as he gyrates and undulates, and I moan his name openly, begging to touch him, to taste him, to feel him everywhere all at once.

“Please…”

“You don’t have to beg, baby. You never have to beg.” He pulls back and sinks to his knees. He rolls the waistband of the sweats down and frees himself, letting his cock hang in the air between us.

Spreading out, he positions himself over my body, skin-on-skin, our hearts beating at a dizzying pace. I feel the bead of slick pre-cum slide down the tip and land on my thigh. He drips with desire, and I’ve never needed anything more.

“Do you still want this, baby?”

“Uh-huh,” I manage through a cotton mouth and a desert-dry throat. He smirks as he seats himself, and with one slow, smooth stroke, he presses inside me. My pussy molds to the foreign shape of his cock, accepting every inch greedily. Once he’s fully seated within me, he rocks his hips, and the dance begins.

His hands find mine, fingers tangling in the sheets as he takes his time learning the way my body reacts to his. Our mouths mash, tongues darting and dashing against one another as our bodies entwine. Legs tangle. Toes curl. Names are whispered and moaned into the darkness and on each other’s shoulders.

His thumb finds my clit, and he strums a melody of pleasure across the throbbing bud. Pressure builds in the pit of my stomach, and I cry his name into his shoulder, digging my nails into his back as he coaxes the first orgasm from within. Passion bubbles to a head inside me and breaks like the bursting of a smoke-filled bubble over a fancy cocktail. Heat courses through every nerve ending in my being as my climax burns through my body.

He fucks me through my release, talking me through each moment. Good girl, that’s it. Come for me, baby. Let me hear you.

We spend the rest of the night drawing endless pleasure from each other, whispering names like benedictions and prayers over sacred relics. He worships my body like a pilgrim reaching the shores of the holy land. I use my mouth to map out the constellations on his shoulders and back, kissing my way across the sacred geometry of his skin.

This night, like chocolate and whiskey, is meant to be savored. But when the glass is empty and all the chocolate has been eaten, it’s time to go. In the latest hours of the night or the earliest hours of the morning, we dress, and he offers me a ride home.

The city is quiet, with hardly a car on the streets. His hand never leaves mine on the ride home, and when he drops me off at the foot of the driveway, he leaves me with a kiss. A kiss, like sex and chocolate, is meant to be savored and tucked away for a rainy day. When it ends—breathless and panting—there’s a twinkle in his eye.

“Goodnight, pretty.”

“Goodnight, sugar.”

He watches as I walk to the door on shaky legs. He watches until I’m safely inside, the large wooden door locked behind me. I listen to the baritone rumble of the engine as it disappears down the street before making my way to my bed. I collapse, smelling the salt of his sweat on my skin and the floral musk of his cologne in my hair.

Good sex, like fine chocolate and expensive whiskey, is meant to be savored. Great sex is meant to be repeated.