He doesn't know what to say, which is his default setting around her, so he just mumbles "Whatever you're having."
He knows - he knows! - that he should never issue her a challenge, and his insides clench with apprehension as she pours the pale golden liquid into a tumbler.
"Let's start with one finger, shall we?" she asks, not that his answer will in any way effect what she's going to do. "Just let me know if you can handle any more."
Blood rushes to his face, pounding in his ears. He clears his throat, emitting a harsh, strangled sort of whine.
"What?" he chokes out, when he recovers the power of speech.
"It's how you measure whiskey," she tells him. Her face is deceptively innocent, but her eyes are full of mischief. "Here, let me show you."
She takes his hand, separates his fingers, and presses it lengthways against the glass. Sure enough, the thickness of his finger is equal to the contents. Her hand keeps it there for a moment, her touch lingering a fraction longer than it needs to, and he's painfully aware of her own long, slender digits caressing his lightly. He realises, with a sort of delicious horror, that if she'd meant what he thought she'd meant, he would have let her do that, too.
When she releases him, he takes a large, eager sip and shudders, warmth coursing through him. When his vision clears, he sees Tilda watching him hungrily.
no subject
"Do you want tea, or something stronger?"
He doesn't know what to say, which is his default setting around her, so he just mumbles "Whatever you're having."
He knows - he knows! - that he should never issue her a challenge, and his insides clench with apprehension as she pours the pale golden liquid into a tumbler.
"Let's start with one finger, shall we?" she asks, not that his answer will in any way effect what she's going to do. "Just let me know if you can handle any more."
Blood rushes to his face, pounding in his ears. He clears his throat, emitting a harsh, strangled sort of whine.
"What?" he chokes out, when he recovers the power of speech.
"It's how you measure whiskey," she tells him. Her face is deceptively innocent, but her eyes are full of mischief. "Here, let me show you."
She takes his hand, separates his fingers, and presses it lengthways against the glass. Sure enough, the thickness of his finger is equal to the contents. Her hand keeps it there for a moment, her touch lingering a fraction longer than it needs to, and he's painfully aware of her own long, slender digits caressing his lightly. He realises, with a sort of delicious horror, that if she'd meant what he thought she'd meant, he would have let her do that, too.
When she releases him, he takes a large, eager sip and shudders, warmth coursing through him. When his vision clears, he sees Tilda watching him hungrily.