Page 28 of Whiskey Throttle
I nod once, but I don’t let her leave. Not without having the last word.
“Because you remember. Not in spite of it.”
She neither argues nor agrees. Just watches me like she’s waiting for me to do the decent thing and stand down. But when have I ever done the decent thing when it comes to women?
“I get it. You’ve thought about it. You’ve probably outlined every consequence. Every risk. Every headline and whisper. It’s why my phone has been dry for two days.”
Her eyes flash.
She hates that I’m not wrong.
I take a step closer. Not enough to be a threat. Just enough to remind her this thing between us isn’t something I dreamed up alone. That she feels it too. Wants it too, despite knowing me when I was a kid. But I’m a man now. Capable of knowing precisely what and who I want.
“But while you were busy thinking through all the reasons we shouldn’t,” I lean in, my breath against her face. “Did you once think about what it would feel like if we did?”
My fingers close around her hand, grabbing it and forcing it against my cock. The hard throbbing shaft to remind her that I’m not that kid on the stairs anymore. That’s what I want, what we want is not wrong, illegal, or immoral. Plenty of men and women at her club and mine have affairs with younger people. We’d be no different.
Her lips part slightly. Her eyes are wide. Her palm remains trapped against the front of my pants. Time stops, waiting for her to slap me across my face for what I’m doing. To call me a rogue or some garish term that suits me to a tee right now. She does nothing. Doesn’t pull her hand away and doesn’t say a word.
My heart thuds in my chest like it’s trying to knock its way out. I swallow the lump in my throat. All the things I want to say. All the ways I want to touch her. To show her this isn’t just some stupid rebellious phase. It’s not lust. It’s not novelty.
It’s her.
And I’ve never been this fucking sure of anything in my life. If I’m going to fuck this shit up, then I might as well push her even further. My hand stays cupped over hers, the other captures her chin, and raises it to my lips.
Our eyes lock. Our breath intertwines. Her soft scent fills me as I allow my intentions to be known. Prepare her for what’s next. If she doesn’t want this, she has to make her body say no. Not just her words.
Right there under the moonlit sky, I kiss her.
Kiss my best friend’s mom.
CHAPTER 8
BABS
My brain short-circuits with lust. Wanting him in such unholy ways, my body heats up. The rigid discipline I live by is slipping away. For one suspended moment, I brace for the shame, the guilt, and the disgust to overtake me. Overtake him. But when his tongue slides over my lips, insisting on more, none of those things happen.
My fingers move, but not to push him away like they should, to curl into the front of his trousers, bunching the fine fabric to grab ahold of his very hard cock. He groans with a hunger that I feel in my core, into the very place where his cock belongs.
His fingers on my chin tighten a fraction, angling my face to plunge his tongue deeper. Seeking mine to tangle and dance with. He tastes sweet. Sticky champagne and fruit.
The hand covering mine at his crotch encourages me to move, to stroke him through the fabric. To take things further than a simple kiss in the dark with a roomful of art patrons and press that would die if they knew where I was and what I was doing.
This is not discrete.
Not careful.
It’s tempting and dangerous to feel desirable to someone who’s seen me at my best and worst. Who’s heard all the rumors, seen the evidence firsthand of my failed marriage, and still wants me like a starving man wants food. It’s heady and addictive. Calling to parts of me that have long since been dead.
Awakening a desire for me and within me that can’t be tampered with any longer. A sound escapes me, unbidden. A quiet, desperate moan that betrays just how long I’ve gone without being kissed like this. Touched and wanted like this.
My other hand winds around his neck, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. It’s damp with heat and exertion. My nails drag just slightly, needing something to anchor myself to ensure this is real and happening while my world spins off its axis.
His hand leaves my chin, cups my cheek instead. His thumb traces along my jaw, reminding me of his sketch. He drew me with such softness, almost reverent. Not at all how I see myself, but a better version to him, I assume. Seeing myself through his looking glass shifts things. Where I see someone too young, he sees a romanticized version.
A lie unto itself, as I am not her. Physically, yes. Mentally and emotionally, no. She’s unencumbered and vulnerable. Open and fragile. I’m none of those things. Or haven’t been in a long time.
I want to be what he sees. Want to return to the woman who used to look and feel like that. I press into him. Not out of seduction. Out of need for what I’m feeling now and what I want to feel from then. His hand falls away from mine. The rhythm to his liking as more groans pour out of him and into me. It’s erotic and taboo.
