Irish Whiskey

Part Three

He considered her words – and her – for several long heartbeats. Siobhan assumed he was trying to gauge her sincerity, and impassively allowed herself to be scrutinized until, casually, but without warning, his hand shot outward. In a single motion he guided the glass from the table to his mouth, gulping its contents in one breath before returning it to its original position.

"I think you mean that," he observed quietly, twisting the top from the next bottle.

"Good, because I do. Wet panties are not a life threatening condition. Walking away would be disappointing, but not devastating."

He froze, mid-twist, transferring his attention from the distilled alcohol to the 'live' Whiskey. Dark pupils ate away at brown irises, making his eyes appear black.

She pretended not to notice behind the fallen curtain of her hair, just absently tucking it behind one ear, waiting to see how he would respond. The crass words were completely out of character for her, but the shock of her bold statement had obviously made him feel... something.

"Your panties are wet?"

If they weren't already, the sexy rumble that his voice had adopted certainly did the trick. "I'm alone with a gorgeous, half-naked man in his hotel room. I'd be dead if they weren't. But," she continued casually, "Feel free to see for yourself."

The words were flippant, but even as they spilled from her mouth, they drove this little escapade home for Siobhan. This no longer smacked of a goodwill ambassador mission to help the hurt and lonely – she had just invited Richie Sambora into her panties.

For his own good of course.

It appeared to serve the same purpose for him, because he bypassed the distant place he'd been drifting toward, careening to a screeching halt right before her. He was fully immersed in the here and now, interest piqued.

The intensity in his eyes bridged their emotional connection more easily than he was able to overcome the physical one. The long, beige sofa stretched between them like a desert, its two vacant cushions an obstacle in reaching their mutual oasis.

"My arms are long, Whiskey, but they're not that long. Slide over here next to me."

Only partially complying, she lithely slid her feet to the floor, and in the space of two small steps, had sandwiched herself between his splayed thighs. Their knees had no more brushed than his hands were skimming beneath her top and up her ribcage, thumbs grazing the edges of her pert breasts.

"That's not my panties," she chided, nimble fingers finally indulging in the impulse to brush the errant hair from his forehead. No receding hairline here, only soft dark waves to detract from the fine lines fanning outward at his eyes – lines that spoke a lifetime of laughter and smiles.

You'll get there again, handsome. Just give it some time.

"It's not? You're sure?" His thumb rasped across the lace demi-cup, and she was treated to one of the crinkly smiles that had left its calling card on his face. That brief glimpse was enough to make her breath catch and willingly enlist as one of his faithful followers. The fluffy headed singer may be pretty, but this man exuded a pheromone laden charm that was irresistible –and right now he wasn't even trying. He would be lethal with any type of intent.

"Pretty sure," she nodded as his hands slipped down to cover her backside. "But you're getting closer."

"I bet you've got on one of those matching bra and panties sets that screams 'do me' all over it, so I don't really see that there's any major difference."