Page 59 of Where the Blacktop Ends

It’s been a while since I’ve had an orgasm that isn’t at my own hands but whatever Troy is doing down there isn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced before, even with other guys.

When I finally catch my breath, I see him using the edge of the rough towel to clean me up which only makes my already sensitive pussy tingle with pleasure. He doesn’t wipe his face, just rubs his beard like he wants the scent of me to stay with him.

Andfuck, that’s sexy.

I’m exhausted, my body still tingling and relaxed when a soft breeze blows across the sand. I reach my limp hands up to touch his firm cock that’s tenting his shorts, but he pulls back, the action making my heart lurch.

“Not tonight, Georgia,” he warns. “You’re exhausted and you’ve had a long day.”

If I had a little more fight in me, I might push back, but I’m satiated, exhausted from a full day of running around town with Liam and thoroughly fucked and he knows it. I love that he doesn’t push me but a part of me wonders if he is simply holdinghimself back. Holding himself back from crossing one more line with me. Always in control while I feel like I’m falling apart.

He chuckles as my eyes drift closed and I feel my body moving. He’s wrapped me in the towel and is carrying me easily across the sand and up the wooden steps into his beach house. And somewhere along the trip, I doze off, only to awake tucked under my covers, still naked three hours later, completely alone.

Chapter 22 – Georgia

I should have thought this through better.? But in my defense, how could I have known that this would happen??

Troy had told me to let him know the next time I planned to take Liam into the city so he could arrange for security to travel with us, but we weren’t in the city—we were in the Hamptons, our supposed safe place where no one knows who we are, and paparazzi aren’t looking for photo ops except from the really rich and famous.

At least, that’s what I thought.

James took the train out this morning, planning to spend the weekend at his parents' massive estate while overseeing some renovations. We enjoyed breakfast together at one of our favorite spots, a charming farm-to-table restaurant that serves nothing but cold-pressed juices, mimosas, and dishes made from ingredients raised and grown in their garden. All things that I thought Liam would enjoy.

We laughed and chatted as Liam chimed in showing off the adorable new sentences he’s learned to James. When we parted ways, I made a last-minute decision to pop into one of those upscale thrift stores that are scattered throughout the Hamptons—where the wealthy donate their barely worn, name brand designer clothes, and people like me can snag them for a fraction of the cost. It’s where I bought my dress for the end of the summer Hamptons party, and I’m determined to find another great steal.

“Oh, look at this, Liam!” I exclaimed, holding up a gorgeous white tutu-style skirt adorned with delicate tulle and tiny beaded sparkles.

Chanel, of course. The original price? A staggering $3,000. Current price? $300. Even with that discount it still felt wildly overpriced.

Liam clapped, jumped up and down, and swayed his little body to the 90s pop music coming from the speakers overhead. It was one that I grew up listening to in my dad’s truck when we’d drive around the acres on our family ranch, looking for breaks in the fences and checking on the cattle. I couldn’t help but join in, the two of us dancing like no one was watching. And maybe it was that carefree moment—just me and Liam, laughing and bonding—that made me completely miss the fact that we were being watched—by a group of paparazzi that had snuck into the shop completely undetected.

“Hey! Hey! Can you please give us a statement on Troy Marshall’s run for governor in North Carolina?” a reporter’s nasally voice cuts through the store, and before I can process what’s happening, a long, black microphone is shoved in my face.

I freeze for a second, blinking away the confusion. I’ve never been approached by the paparazzi before, and it takes me a few moments to even register who this person is. But once I do, I move into action. Dropping the dress back onto the hanger and grabbing Liam’s hand tightly, my protective instincts kicking in as my heart races.

“Come on, Liam, we’re getting out of here,” my voice is steady, calm and in control in an attempt not to startle him though inside I’m a mess of nerves around what’s about to happen.

Of course, this is the exact moment he decides to throw the mother of all two-year-old tantrums.

“No! I don’t want to leave, Georgia! NO!!!” Liam’s wails echo throughout the store, and I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks. If they didn’t know Liam or my names before, they do now considering Liam is screaming it at the top of his lungs as I drag him through racks of dusty, way too expensive clothing.

The reporters begin to close in, cameras clicking in rapid succession as they call out more questions about Troy, his love life, rumored relationship with Minnie Meadows, and close working partnership with the mayor of New York City.

One reporter swoops next to my side, bumping into me while I bring Liam to the front of my body to shield him.

"Were you aware that Troy Marshall and Minnie Meadows were spotted having breakfast together this morning? What could they have been discussing? Are they dating? Is this young boy their love child? And—who exactly areyou?"

For someone who values privacy, who has never been in the spotlight or subjected to invasive questions, this is a nightmare. Cameras flash, microphones shove closer, and the reporters' voices blend into a chaotic hum, each one eager to pry into a part of Troy’s life that he’s never shared.

But what truly unsettles me isn’t just the ambush. It’s the way their words hit a place in my heart I hadn’t realized was vulnerable. A place that, despite my best efforts, had started to soften towardTroy.

And to top it all off, a reporter somehow knows about Colt.

“We’ve heard that Troy has three brothers who work on his family’s farm. Where’s the third one? He hasn’t been spotted in four years.”

I keep my head down, dodging their questions and gripping Liam’s hand tighter while I’m practically dragging him through the store.

“Move out of our way!” I snap, trying to muscle my way through the pack of paparazzi that have now closed in on us. But Liam, still crying and flailing, is slowing us down too much.

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