He lowered himself onto her and kissed her, letting the sharp amber trickle into her mouth, feeding it to her as it leaked off his lips and tongue. She shivered at the taste of it.
He made his way down her body with hot glacial languor, biting her so that she could feel the sharp burn of the liquor where teeth met skin. The elegant white curve of her neck, then down to the meat of her tits. He lingered on each nipple, biting and pulling, letting the fire of the alcohol inflame her thickening flesh. He moved lower, trailing bourbon, letting a small pool form in her belly button before lapping it back up.
By the time he got to her pussy his mouth was emptied. He raised himself onto his knees.
“I am on fire,” he told her.
“Don’t make a fuel of yourself,” she replied, and they both began laughing, pleased this ancient childhood joke still held its power. It did not break the mood, but enhanced it, all aspects part of a larger whole: sex, humor, intellect, emotion. It was one thing. It was all things.
from Fire and Ice, by J G Cain