A damp, dreary day morphed into a damp, chilly evening. I should have worn gloves, it was just cold enough to need them, but I’d been denying the change in season.
I spotted the smoke from the chimney as I came up the walk. I stood in the cold, gray sharpness anticipating the warm, soft yellow glow that awaited me. She was there. She was in my study reading my books and waiting patiently for me.
The entranceway was dark. I hung my overcoat in the hall closet. I tossed my briefcase on the floor, my workday forgotten the moment I saw her smoke signal. I didn’t hurry though. I knew she’d have heard the front door open but I didn’t want her to think I was anything but patient.
I didn’t bother turning on lights as I walked to the liquor cabinet in the dining room. The fire in the study did nothing to take the chill out of the rest of the house but I unbuttoned my suit jacket anyway and slung it over the back of a chair. Chairs for six diners around the table. I rarely used more than one or two of them. I doubted we’d use any tonight.
I loosened my tie and undid the top button of my shirt with one hand while my other hand ran over the bottles in the cabinet. Cold, unyielding glass. My fingers rested on the good scotch. The company scotch. She didn’t drink scotch and she barely counted as company.
Like the contents of the bottle, though, she would warm me pleasantly. She’d glow amber from the firelight. She would flow through my fingers and taste smoky under my tongue.
I poured two glasses. She would drink it if I asked her to.
A sliver of yellow light sliced through the dark hallway. The door to the study was open just enough for me to watch her undetected for a minute. She lay on the couch under an afghan tucked up to her chin, but with bare shoulders and arms exposed holding a book. She brushed her bangs aside and turned a page, her fingers long and delicate. In a few minutes I would feel the heat from those fingertips through the fine weave of my shirt as she traced my bicep the way she liked to do. Watching those fingers, I was jealous of that book, of her hair. I wanted them to touch me.
I nudged the door open with just enough sound to cause her to look up. She wasn’t startled. She’d been expecting me. She smiled. The fire made her cheeks flush and eyes shine.
“Come here, you.” I held up one of the glasses.
She stood, the afghan falling to the floor to reveal her complete nakedness. She stepped toward me but didn’t take a glass.
“Drink.” I was not asking her if she wanted one. I was telling her to take one.
She took a glass and sipped. She would never let me see her flinch from the burning down her throat but after another sip I saw the scotch beginning to take effect. Lips moist and red as if they’d been kissed too much. The flush from her cheeks spreading down to her breasts. Her nipples hardening.
I stood still, watching her, letting her sip but not touching my own drink yet. I watched her body change as the scotch coursed through her blood. The flush spread across her soft skin. Small beads of sweat along her hairline glistened. The space between her legs would mirror the soft, warm, moist invitation of her mouth by the time she finished the glass. Glowing amber from the firelight. Ready to flow through my fingers, skin tasting smoky under my tongue.
I loosened my tie a bit more and slipped it over my head. The icy gray color reminded me of the coldness outside and for a brief moment I wondered if the tie would melt if it came in contact with her skin. The tie retained a coolness. Her body throbbed with heat.
She dropped her empty glass onto the thick carpeting. She held her arms out in front of her, wrists together in offering.