A brunette perches at the bar, her eyes catching the glint of amber in the bottle—Macallan 25, dark and enigmatic, a suitor in a glass. He’s handsome by every measure, aged to a quiet swagger, promising warmth and secrets.
She orders him neat. No pretense, no dilution. The glass arrives, heavy with anticipation, and she cradles it in both hands, fingertips tracing the cool curve. She lifts him to her lips, pausing to let his scent—oak and spice, a whisper of leather—curl into her senses. Her breath softens, expectant.
The first sip slips past her lips, slow and deliberate, like a lover’s advance. It lingers just inside, bold yet restrained, teasing her tongue before she lets it glide down. Warmth blooms, thick with desire, spreading through her chest, pooling deep within. It’s a hot knife through butter, effortless, decadent, yet she savors the weight of it, the way it fills her with a quiet fire.
She tilts the glass again, another taste, another surrender. A rogue drop clings to the corner of her mouth, daring to flee. Her tongue flicks out, drawing it back, a private reclamation. Her eyes flutter, a tousled cascade of exhilaration, lips curling into a smile that’s half mischief, half reverence.
The glass is empty now, set down with a soft clink, but she’s alight, radiant in the afterglow. She catches the eye of Lucky, the bartender, who’s been watching the ritual unfold. Her voice, low and velvet, cuts through the hum of the bar. “Same place, tomorrow?”
Lucky grins, already reaching for the bottle.
BB Grey--musings 
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