You’re watching my finger, as it dips among whiskey soaked ice cubes, and comes up dripping before finding itself between my lips. White teeth smile around my dampened digit, I do enjoy the darkening of your eyes.
My hand hovers, then returns to the tumbler, the clatter of chill against glass audible even over the crowd around us. A second joins in, before following the same path to my teasing mouth. My lips close tight around them, pulling them slowly, languorously free as you groan and stand, adjusting your pants accordingly.
“You didn’t make me count to three. Good boy.”