Ernestine’s favorite thing to do with an evening to herself was to sit at a bar with a book, sipping something well-mixed and interesting, becoming nicely tippled. There is simply nothing, she always thought, like boozy literature.
On this particular occasion, she was pleased to have found a rather swanky bar at a little place on a particularly lovely spot along the river, set against a waterfall that was a constant presence in the room as much as the Bessie Smith warbling over the sound system. A lavender-infused cocktail and Emile Zola completed the scene. As she read, she rubbed at the end of her dangling opaline earring—a sign of just how absent her mind was, consumed as it was with the 1885 Paris described on the page consuming her attention. Even alone, she never left the house in anything less than moderate splendor (it would simply be a waste of youth and beauty to not decorate the bar, stockinged legs wound around each other and back arched, head down, betraying a touch of secret far-sightedness).
It was late, and in the sumptuous state of mind that follows the third cocktail, she had not noticed the restaurant emptying itself, nor the servers’ and bartenders’ occasional glances her way, wondering if she would notice her solitary conspicuity.
A man with a brisk step and brisker demeanor emerged from the kitchen and quickly appraised the situation. Quietly, he made his way around the room, exchanging a quick chat with and then dismissing each of the servers. As Chapter 17 finished with the two main characters poised at the brink of a duel, she quickly turned the page and continued to read. Her fingers working themselves repeatedly up and down the stem of her cocktail glass was the only outward sign of the dire predicament of the only two people in her universe at that moment—the poor gentlemen in peril. Which one would take the bullet? Suspense. Impossible to drag herself away, even as she vaguely felt eyes on her in the comparatively inanimate, if elegantly appointed, real world.
Straightening his waistcoat, the man spoke a quiet word to his bartender, who gratefully vanished as well. Perceiving her absorption, he didn’t speak, but held up the bottle of rosé in front of her empty glass, and she nodded absently. A beautifully tattooed arm poured her another glass.
Another ten minutes and the room was empty except for the pair of them, one inwardly aflow with empathy for the weeping intended bride of the duel’s victim, the other calculating the receipts of the day. As he finished, he exhaled, with the air of a ship’s captain after a storm realizing that it had not been quite as bad as he had expected, circled his head to ease the strain on his neck that he had ignored up until that very moment, and felt…
—what was it?—a prickle?—up his spine, dispersing among his shoulder blades.
He turned. She was looking at him, her glass midway to her lips.
“This is quite good,” she said, sipping the Cuveé Sabine he had poured for her.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he replied. Emerging from the dense, daylong fog of running the restaurant, he realized just what manner of creature was sitting in front of him.
He poured himself a glass.
Turning around to tidy the bar, when he faced her again, he was surprised to see that her eyes were still on him.
With the benefit of intoxication on her side, she neatly propped her three‑inch‑heeled feet on the edge of the stool, slid onto the bar, and swung her legs alongside her. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, she continued to sip, thoughtfully, savoring the delicacy of the old-world vines, staring at the rather beautiful, clearly Italian-American specimen in front of her. He blinked a few times in surprise—
…and then something about the moment clarified itself to him. He took another mouthful of the cuveé, and, washing it back and forth over his palate as only restaurateurs can without gaudy affectation, he walked to the door; decisively locked it; returned—the briskness gone, his manner newly calm and assured. This was his place. And something was about to happen here.
She had been regarding him thoughtfully. Returning behind the bar, he placed a hand on the knee of the leg elongated on the polished walnut. She didn’t flinch. Tipping back her head, she finished her glass in a single quaff, placed it on the far corner of the bar, and turned her torso to fully face him.
That was all he needed. He took hold of her legs, swinging them over the back of the bar and around his waist, and pulled her down to kiss him. It started as a few short bises, testing the waters, but they were warm and enticing as a deep pool; running his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, he pulled her deeper, and their mouths met…overlapped…submerged into one another.
Her hands were at his waist, holding him firmly—surprisingly firmly—and then unbuttoning his vest, dispensing with his shirt, as he, with equal swiftness, laid waste to her light sweater, blouse, and flimsy lace brassiere. Reaching under her skirt, he was surprised to find garters, and where the stockings ended, velvety, cool thighs, beyond which there was…nothing.
“I wonder if this is alright," he thought, being normally quite considerate and not at all the Don Juan sort.
But then, before even touching it, he smelled her wetness, and leaned in to devour her mouth as he thrust his fingers inside her. She was so wet that he couldn’t think but that she had been somehow watching him all along, envisioning and keening for exactly…this.
Throwing into the river all caution and inhibition—conscious thought, even—he raised her skirt and leant down to taste her. “Bold, yet delicate—sophisticated, yet with a certain wanton purity of desire…” But the musings of his razor-honed palate were quickly overwhelmed by her moaning, alternating with an almost kittenish mewling, and an abject undercurrent of desperation. His fingers inside her and his mouth working against the grinding of her hips, she spread her legs wider and wider for him until they heard a distant shatter. As if in another world entirely. Looking down, he said, breathlessly,
“It’s nothing. Just a 2009 Clos Saint Jean Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It was a bad year.”
She panted, waiting, impatiently.
He returned to his former position, and within moments, she was climaxing, howling over the din of the river and sliding off the edge of the bar, having lost control of her musculature. Rapidly, with determined fingers, he undid his belt and pulled out the large cock that had been straining against his trousers. Entirely gone in the moment, he grasped her around the waist and roughly turned her entire body so that her sumptuous bottom below her garter belt was facing his hardness; he bent her over the glasses, formerly so neatly aligned with one another, and thrust himself inside her aching wetness. Her yelp of electric sensation was all the affirmation he needed; he pounded her as hard as he could, holding her waist, her own arms bracing her against the wood, meeting his every thrust with equal strength pushing back against him and the guttural cries of a woman lost to euphoria.
Suddenly, he wanted to see the face of the exquisite woman making these salacious sounds—he pulled out of her, and as she wailed a wild complaint, he pushed her down onto the floor, narrowly avoiding the pile of broken glass. Clawing for anything to hold onto as he rammed into her dripping cunt once again, she grasped the rubber mat, her fingers becoming saturated and dyed with the spilt wine. Watching her brow furrow in beautiful agony, again he fucked her, recklessly, senseless even of the sounds emanating from his own throat—and he felt himself growing closer and closer to that intoxicating moment of explosion inside a woman that he hadn’t felt for agonizingly long. Giving into a sudden animal impulse, he shoved her over again on the damp ground, her alabaster breasts inches from glassy ruination; he pulled her white arse toward him, her back arching and fingers dragging against the perilous ground, and felt himself on the very verge the moment he entered her.
For the first time, she spoke—more of a gasp.
Stunned, given his thorough roughness to date, he found strength inside himself that he had never found before, and, feeling he might split her in half, he was able to thrust exactly four more times until electricity shot through his entire body, emanating from her soaking warmness and terminating at the top of his head, which fell onto her heaving bosom as his orgasm ebbed out of his body.
He heard her scream, dimly, in the distance, but he felt her jerk underneath him, her legs in spasm. As she felt his climax throb into her, she felt that manic tingling that began at the tips of her nipples, ground, as they were, into the floor, resonating in her chest and then expounding into that uncharted territory between her clitoris and g-spot, arching her back and wresting control of her voice away, hearing it, disembodied, her waves of climax as she ground her ass in to him and he poured his load into her, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of her throat as she screamed a resounding wail of agonizing ecstasy.