Page 50 of Peaches

“You’re not the kind of man to just give up,” I counter his response and finally see the light return to his eyes because we both know I am right. “That I know I am 100% sure about.”

“True,” he states, still assessing me and thinking about the questions I asked. He looks off in the distance, in deep thought, and then continues. “But giving in isn’t all ‘going with the flow,’ Peaches. Sometimes, the trick is to play along, at least while the current is flowing. Then push back, swim harder when it’s calm, when nobody is looking. Maybe then, you get a shot at winning.” He stares back in my eyes and that playful look I love so much, (love, oh God did I really just use that word), returns to his stare. “Something tells me you know all about pushing back, Peaches. Especially when thewater is hot.”

My sympathy for him snaps, just like my arm that comes up and not so playfully smacks him in the bicep. He laughs and then holds up his hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine,” he says as he takes a step away and starts on the path at our side. “Maybe not hot. But hard and willing, if you’d let it.”

With that, he leaves me stuck in my heels in the gravel and speechless at his flirtatious confession. I don’t need hard, at least not right away. I can work that part into the equation myself with a little effort later. But willing. Mercy! We can’t have that. Because that would mean anything that happens between us going forward is consensual. Agreed upon even if we both never say the words.

Infatuation a thing of the past.

And that, Dear Readers, is a whole lot more muddy water than I ever thought I’d find myself in, given my current situation, that is. And, if we’re being honest, it’s totally not self-capable of clearing itself once we really let what’s been brewing between us fully get started.

Am I right?

God, I really hope so.

* * *

BRETT

That dress!

God, that fucking dress!

I’ve been watching it all damn night. The coral, (more like peachy), shade that highlights her rich tan. The tight fabric around her tiny, (as in I can put my hands on both sides and almost have my fingers touch), waist. Although, I do have rather large fucking hands. Her thick hips and round, plump, vivaciouspeachlikeassthat calls to me as I watch her from afar. Sweet hell, all I can think about is sin when she walks around me looking like that.

Her thin upper body is elegant, showing just enough to make her a temptress without bordering on obscene. Her rounded breasts in that tight bodice, (God, I feel myself harden just with the thought), are on the smaller side, but just as mouthwatering as any large breasted woman could be. To be honest, I prefer them that way. Enough, without being too much. Always perky and never weighted down. Sufficient enough to hold in my hand and ravage with my hot, warm, greedy mouth.

Fuck!

I close my eyes and think of anything.

My fourth-grade gym teacher.

The smell of dirty laundry.

My ex-finance!

That finally does the trick.

Anything to keep from getting a raging hard-on in the middle of a conversation with my father’s business partners. Men who also happen to be my grandfather’s old business partners. Ones that still think of me as the little boy who used to run around and swear he was going to follow in Bryson’s, (my grandfather, remember), footsteps. A dream I can’t believe I opened up about to my little Peach, (well kind of), when I hinted I used to be exactly like her.

Dream filled and full of an eager ambition to make others love my make-believe worlds as much as I did. Maybe a reason I’m enjoying this make-believe world with her so much right now. But the truth is, I’ve never told anyone that before, including my ex Kimberly.My author dreams.But, when I think about it, it’s a fact I’m surprisingly happy to share with Grace. A thought that leaves me confused, in a good way - I think - as I open my eyes and can’t help but study her again from across the way.

It’s not just this make-believe arrangement, is it? These feelings. The ones I am not used to experiencing.

“I wish Brettly would take that advice. I’ve been telling him for years, but he never listens.”

The statement snaps me out of my trance and has me looking back at the group of men I’m standing with. In the center of the ring, my father looks at me with disapproving eyes, (but come on, what’s new, right), and then I hear the collective agreement of most of the men standing around us.

“And what advice is that?” I ask, attempting to catch back up in the conversation, but let’s all be honest, present company included, I don’t really care, and weallknow that.

“Focus on one asset. One author. Take their talent, perfect it, and make it work out for you,” my father begins his notorious speech. “For your business. You have many bestsellers on your roster, Son. But no award winners. You need to give clients a reason to sign with you. If they know you take the time to build and market the best in the business, well, more would be lining up at your door and you’d actually make a name for yourself.” I hate to admit it, but The General almost has a point. “Since you won’t take the good, established name, that you were born into.”

And there’s the blow. The last word that is supposed to make me do what he says because, after all, I’ve somehow, in some way or form, shamed him. This time, it’s because of my preferred last name.

My mother’s last name. One he can’t stand to even say anymore. The bastard. I’m about to rebuttal. I’m moments away from telling him tosuck a fat cockright in front of his work colleagues, (that’s right, a fat cock, because the word dick doesn’t seem harsh enough), when I feel a hand gently take my arm in theirs.

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