The cellar

The shop was closed. Stone, unlabeled bottles, the burgundy silk blouse I had worn to the tasting. Adam stood at the bottom of the steps with his jacket off, twenty-seven, careful. I am forty-eight. He does not work for me. I had invited him. I said the cellar is private tonight and the wanting is separate from anyone's job, and I want your mouth on my cunt if you still mean the yes you gave me upstairs.

He meant it. He knelt on the stone and kissed the inside of my wrist first, which undid me more than a grab would have. I told him he could lift the skirt. He did, and he looked up, and he said he wanted to worship my cunt until I was shaking. I said then start. His mouth was devoted and unhurried on my clit. I held a rack with one hand and his hair with the other and I came standing in my heels, a sharp bright finish, cunt pulsing, his name echoing a little off the stone.

I had him stand and I opened his trousers. I stroked his cock while I kissed him, blouse still on, and told him he could cum against my thigh, and that I was not going to fuck him down here yet. He did, groaning, forehead on my shoulder, thanking me. One heel had come off in the middle and I had not noticed. I picked it up after and sat on the bench. I said upstairs there is a sofa and a slower fuck if you want to stay. He wanted to stay. The bottles stayed unlabeled and uninvolved.