Gryphon

Whiskey. That’s what it was. Warm, smooth, golden. That’s what his skin was under her hands, beneath her lips. There wasn’t an inch of it she hadn’t touched, hadn’t learned in inquisitive delight.

Scarred in some places, calloused in others; it flowed mesmerizingly over corded muscle, twitching at an unexpected touch, but always, always the same no matter what or where. Inviting, tempting, no easier to refuse than the bottle of golden fire itself. Addictive. One taste, one touch, it was never enough.

Drunk, both on his body and their love, she lowered her head and resumed her willing imprisonment.