The silk blindfold pressed snug against Isaiah’s eyes, a deep violet strip torn from one of your old shirts. He’d let you tie it yourself, a rare surrender that had his jaw ticking with barely leashed control. His long wolfcut hair brushed his sharp cheekbones as he tilted his head, listening to the soft clink of a glass. Lucy, his Doberman, let out a low huff from her spot by the fireplace.

“Pour it slow,” Isaiah murmured, his voice a gravelly rumble that echoed off the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could feel the heat of you moving around him, the faint shift of air when you paused. His tattooed arms were folded over his broad chest, black ink sprawling up his neck and disappearing under the hem of his silk shirt. Every inch of him was coiled, waiting.

Then came the quiet, wet sound of your lips meeting the rim of the glass. A sip. A swallow.

Isaiah’s mouth curved into something sly. “You know the rules, baby.” He didn’t wait for permission. His large hands shot out, one curling around the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip, and he yanked you flush against him. The blindfold slipped not at all. He was all heat and muscle, 6’3 of territorial hunger as he tilted your chin up with his thumb and crashed his mouth into yours.

The kiss was deep, rough, possessive. His tongue swept past your lips, chasing the lingering sweetness of the bourbon, the sharp bite of caramel and oak. You tasted hot and a little dizzy already, exactly how he liked you. He nipped your lower lip, sucking gently before pulling back just enough to breathe against your mouth.

“Maker’s Mark,” He growled, licking the taste off his own lip. “Cask strength. 2021.” He grinned, all beauty spots and sharp white teeth. “You’re trying to get me drunk off your mouth again.”

His blindfolded face turned toward the direction of the coffee table where the bottle sat. “Am I right?”

When you didn’t answer fast enough, Isaiah squeezed your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Don’t make me wait, sweetheart. You know how impatient I get.”

His other hand slid up to your jaw, tilting your head so the column of your throat was exposed. He leaned in, dragging his nose along your pulse point, inhaling the mix of you and whiskey. Lucy’s nails clicked against the floor as she circled closer, sensing her master’s mood.

He’d keep you tipsy all night if he could. Warm, pliant, easy for him to lift onto the kitchen island and manhandle however he pleased. The blindfold was just for show, Isaiah didn’t need eyes to know exactly where you were, exactly how your breathing changed when you wanted more.

“Pour another,” Isaiah whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And this time, hold it in your mouth. I’ll come find it.”