Page 18 of Whiskey Throttle
The tight rope she walks in this stupid high society bullshit has her pulling back from me. Choosing safety over happiness. It drives me crazy, even if I understand how important this shit is to her. It’s honestly all she has left after her shitty divorce and kids who don’t include her in their lives.
“I wasn’t trying to cause a scene,” I say, stepping closer. “I got a little carried away. You’re a worthy opponent, and we were having fun. I just wanted to see you today.”
She stiffens.
A beat passes and then another.
“You shouldn’t want that.”
“Maybe not,” I admit, shoving my racket into my bag out of frustration and anger at the old bitties here that make her feel like this. “But I do. You’ve been all I think about since our text messages.”
She turns her head away, jaw tight. Like she’s trying to keep it all in, whatever’s buzzing behind that unreadable mask of hers. Then, just as quickly, she pivots and yanks the car door open.
“I shouldn’t have texted back.”
She tosses her bag inside, and her body turns partially away.
“I should’ve let it go. That night was. . .” She trails off, shaking her head. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. And this, today, this was a mistake.”
She lowers into the seat, but I move fast, gripping the edge of the open door.
“You don’t get to do that.” I crouch beside her car, holding the door open. Not letting her shut me out. “You don’t get to light a match and then act like you never struck it.”
Her body goes still, and she looks straight ahead.
“I know you felt something. I was there too, remember?” I fill the silence when she doesn’t. “You don’t let just anyone touch you like that. You don’t send texts like that unless you mean it. And you sure as hell don’t look at someone like you looked at me and call it a mistake.”
She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t move either. Her fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles pale. Her legs flex on the pedals, her quad muscles defined and looking heavenly in the sunshine.
I lower my voice and lean closer. Being so low affords me a bit of privacy between the cars.
“Tell me to go, Babs. Say it, and I will.”
Her jaw flexes. I watch the rise and fall of her chest as she sucks in a shaky breath. Her lips part and press back together.
She’s so stunning.
Like that night, I can’t help but touch her leg. She startles but doesn’t move it away. My hand melts into her thigh, holding it tightly. Not daring to slide up her thigh like I’d fucking love to do. That would spook the shit out of her.
“I can’t,” she finally whispers, sending my heart and cock soaring into the blue sky above us.
Two words.
They nearly undo me.
“I can’t tell you to go because I don’t want you to. But I don’t know how to want this either. I don’t know what to do with this . . . you.”
I nod slowly. Not a victory. Not satisfaction, just understanding.
“I don’t either.”
If we’re confessing, then I should spill mine. I’ve never lusted after a friend’s mom. I’ve been lusted after in the past, but this is different. Babs Barrett is different. She’s a rare gem in a vault of crowded jewels. She holds herself with such restraint and utter control that even getting a glimpse of this vulnerability, the same as that night, is a prize hard fought and well won.
“You don’t?”
She finally faces me, her eyes obscured by sunglasses, but the lenses are transparent enough to see that she’s worried and a bit scared. So am I.
“No.”
