Page 98 of Pour Decisions
“What was it likegrowing up on a ranch?” Delia asked the next morning over breakfast.
Around four that morning, we’d finally managed to burn off enough of the desire driving us to pass out for a few hours. I’d woken Delia shortly after ten with my head between her thighs, then hauled her out of bed for a real breakfast.
It was Saturday, the sky outside gunmetal grey, rain lashing the windows. The lake was dark and choppy, dotted with white caps as far as the eye could see.
The perfect day to stay inside and make it my mission to fuck this woman in every goddamn room of this house. I wanted her memory everywhere, filling these rooms with her sounds, with reminders of the pleasure we’d found together.
And then I wanted to keep making more, both inside and outside these walls, forever.
“Loud,” I said at last with a chuckle. “At least when my brothers came along. But chickens make constantnoise, cows are always mooing, and if a horse gets spooked by something in the night, they wake the rest of them up with their neighing. The house isn’t that far away from the main barn and pens, and my bedroom faced out that way, so I never really got to sleep in. I supposed that made it easier once I started playing competitively and training happened at all hours of the day. I learned to survive on very little sleep.”
Delia rolled her eyes. “And you were complaining about me keeping you up all night.”
“Don’t get confused, Whiskey,” I said, pausing my flipping of our French toast to point the spatula at her, “I’ll never tire of that perfect pussy of yours. Getting no sleep to fuck you is hardly a hardship. But I feel like I ran a marathon. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
She popped a grape in her mouth and said, “Could’ve fooled me.”
With a smirk, I turned from her and after a final flip, plated the French toast and slid a stack in front of her, along with butter, syrup, and powdered sugar.
“Eat,” I said. “Then maybe I’ll have you for dessert.”
“Promises, promises.”
I chuckled as I sat down next to her, diving into my own meal.
“To truthfully answer your question,” I said around a mouthful, “growing up on a ranch was probably a lot like growing up on the peninsula. We were outside all the time, running through the fields, messing with the animals, getting into all sorts of trouble. But we weren’t doing drugs or getting arrested, so Mom and Dad let us have our freedom.”
A wave of nostalgia crashed over me, had me wishing forsimpler days. When it was just me and my brothers, raising hell, always discovering some new hidden gem on the ranch property. Like the swimming hole tucked away behind a tangled copse of trees a thirty minute walk from the house. Or the fast-rushing creek we’d taken to floating down on logs when we were feeling extra rebellious.
“The summer before I left for college, Trey and I got this idea to go rafting down this creek on the property,” I started a bit wistfully. “We invited all our friends, had some older guys buy us cases of beer, tied like thirty tubes together and set off. It was a blast…until we were ready to get off the water and realized we had floated too far away to walk back. My dad was spittin’ mad when he came to pick us up, a whole slew of other parents in tow to collect their own children. We’d ended up twenty miles from home and drunk off our asses. Trey and I were grounded and forced to stay within sight of the house for a month, which, I’m sure you know as a free range child yourself, was pure hell.”
Delia laughed. “That does sound a lot like growing up on the peninsula. All of my favorite childhood memories involve my sisters and being outside.”
“Mine too,” I said. “Because we were so close in age, Trey and I had a habit of encouraging each other’s recklessness. Dad tanned our hides more than once because of it.”
God, I’d have given anything to talk to Dad now. To tell him about this woman that had stolen my heart.
“He would’ve loved you,” I said quietly.
“I wish I could’ve met him. But I want to meet the rest of your family,” she said, at last looking up at me. “I want to see where you grew up.”
“Whenever you want, Whiskey,” I said earnestly. “Say the word and we’ll be on a flight. You’ll fit right in with the chaos.”
She smirked at me. “It’s kinda nice having a sugar daddy.”
On the heels of mentioning my own dead father, the word ‘daddy’ shouldn’t have had my cock perking up, but I’d be damned if it didn’t turn me on.
“Daddy?” I asked. “Our age gap isn’tthatbig.”
“You know,” she said slowly. “In my romance novels, older menlovebeing called ‘daddy’ in bed. It’s a major turn on for some.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she emphasized, studying me, eyes darting across my face as she gauged my reaction.
“And how do you feel about it?” I asked tentatively.
“I mean…you’re not old enough to bemyfather,” she said, “but I’ll admit you definitely give ‘daddy’ energy."
