Two Shots of Gin



Jade A. Waters

Shadowy image of two shots of gin

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One hour, thirty-four minutes, twenty-seven seconds and two shots of gin. That’s exactly what it took him to get me off the dance floor and into the room.

The dancing was lusty. He bent me this way and that, one hand clutched against my back and the other on my chest, his fingers spread wide as they raked along my sternum. His breath smelled of gin and his cock nudged against my thigh.

Normally, I wouldn’t have said yes to this. I’d have made him dance with me for hours, more hours, than just one hour and a couple of measly minutes. But he was slick and suave, his dark hair thick around his face and his smile so out of this world I could see the stars shining in his teeth.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, “and damn, you can move.”

He could, too—straight against my back. His hands were tight on my hips as he steered me out of the club and up the elevator to a room at the end of the seventh floor. He slammed me against the door, my head banging on the copper number 52 before he grabbed my chin in his hand.


My answer was a wide-eyed pant, and he took my mouth in a long, deep kiss before popping open the door.

He guided me backward by a hand on my groin, then brushed back the strands of hair that had fallen into my face. My heart thundered in my chest. When the back of my legs hit the bed, he spun me around.

“Strip,” he said. He sat on the mattress, unfastening his tie. Watching. He had black eyes that commanded my movements. I should have been stubborn. I should have drawn it out.

Aloof was never my forte.

I was naked in forty-three seconds.

“Gorgeous.” He lifted his fingers to the drenched crevice between my thighs, testing me. Approval flickered across his face and he tipped his fingertips to penetrate me. I moaned. “Spread your legs.”

Impossible. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Two shots of gin and already he had me here, naked and spreading my thighs?

I separated my feet. His fingers snuck all the way in, searching inside me. When I pitched forward to cup his face, he shook his head.

“This is how you’ll come. Put up your hands.”

I reached them for the sky and he pressed his mouth against my navel, tonguing it instead of my throbbing clit. Such a tease. His fingers glided and stroked, rubbing skillfully against my ridges.

He drew almost all the way out, cocking his head to listen to my whimpers. He took a few more laps at my belly button and then shoved his fingers in again. His thumb was quick to my swollen nub, massaging me so fast, so easily, into a series of heated cries. I came, my walls shuddering around his fingers, my belly tightening beneath his tongue. It was the wail I released that brought him up to a stand, his face lighting in a smile as I trembled under his gaze.

He came around behind me and pushed me forward. I caught myself as I landed on the bed, my legs wide while Arthur unzipped his fly and guided his crown against me.

“Two shots of gin and my wife comes in under three minutes.”

He thrust deep, both of us moaning. I grasped the comforter and arched up my ass.

“Again, Arthur,” I said.

His hands were on my hips, his breath ragged as he dragged himself slowly back out. He drove forward with a curse and groaned my two favorite words.

“Gladly, beautiful.”

It was two minutes, seventeen seconds, and the memory of two shots of gin before I came again.


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