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“Henry, there’s levels of being drunk, okay? I’m not blacked out. I know who I am and where I am and what I’m doing. And if you want to know… if you really want to know… Henry… I want you to fuck me.”
The words spilled from my mouth with such casual ease.
And not even a second later, Henry made his move.
He swooped down and kissed me.
My hand fell from his.
He lowered his hand from my breast to my hip, now holding my hips with both hands.
Tight. Firm. I was his.
He picked me up.
We kept kissing.
He was familiar to me. Too familiar. A surging reminder of the best I had ever had in my life.
Whether it was that night he beat up my boyfriend for me.
Or that other night… ten years ago…
I groaned into his mouth.
He started to walk, going the obvious route of exiting the kitchen. Wanting to take me to my bedroom.
My drunk brain felt as flirty as my body did.
I reached with my left hand and grabbed the doorway and I broke the kiss.
“Dining room table,” I purred. “Take me as your midnight snack, Henry…”
Heat and color flooded my cheeks.
I wasn’t sure that comment hit the mark.
I should have just said - eat my pussy on the dining room table…
Henry didn’t flinch as he turned and stomped through the kitchen toward the dining room.
Like a monster carrying his prey.
I’m the prey! I can’t wait to get eaten!
It felt like a wall had been broken down inside me.
All this sudden want and need and all these urges… all this offering for Henry.
He sat me down on the dining room table and dropped his mouth down to my neck.
He kissed. He growled. His teeth grazed my skin.
His hands moved up my dress with ease. A perfect kind of ease. Like this was always meant to be.
His fingertips climbed up to my panties.
His right thumb pressed directly between my legs.
