I don’t mind, save my life again
She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “No. Ah, whiskey, please.”
One of his dark brows raised in surprise. “Just a shot or…?”
“A shot, please,” she confirmed. His surprise deepened, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second as the bartender appeared.
He gathered himself and, after a moment of consideration, ordered two shots of whiskey at the bartender's recommendation. Once they had their shot glasses in hand, Aang reached out to capture her waist and draw her closer.
“You’re a hard drinker, doctor.” He sounded impressed, and she laughed.
“My roommate in college loved the stuff. We called her Whiskey Grandpa, sort of developed a fondness for it.” He leaned back to rest his weight on one of the barstools, drawing her slightly between his knees.
“Well, Whiskey Grandpa.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Bottoms up?”
She smirked and tossed back the shot, grateful for the way it burned down the back of her throat and immediately silenced the anxiety radiating in her belly with a wash of heat. Aang watched her with hooded eyes, his expression difficult to read as he set his empty glass aside. His hand pressed more firmly against her side and dragged upwards—the slide of the silk between them was mind-numbingly sensual, and her breath stuttered against her ribs.
“Come on, let's dance,” he said, and she could just barely hear him over the music. “I need an excuse to touch you, or I might die.”
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