Page 85 of Rather: The Therapist

I parted, just as he’d imagined. He angled his head at a mere thirty degrees. His eyes bounced from mine to my pussy.

“She’s pretty.”

Slow blinks ensued. With each word Priest spoke, consciousness became harder to manage. He was intoxicating.

“So fucking fat.”

He lowered his head, planting it between my legs.

Comfortable? I shuddered as contact was initiated.

“Tell me something good, Rose.”

He circled my clit with his tongue. My spine curved, lifting my back from the bed.

“I– I m– ohhhhhh.”

“And don’t stop talking or I will.”

He spoke to my pussy, never taking his lips off me.

“I missed thiiiiiisss.”

“You missed this or you missed me?”

“Bothhhhhh.”

SIX

“Mmmm.”

My son’s voice pulled me from the trenches. It had been exactly nine days since I’d been between the thighs underneath the white tennis skirt and I was struggling to understand why. Four of those days, I’d been away on business, but the other five couldn’t be justified. No matter what Rose’s excuse was.

I nodded toward Kleigh, who was returning with the water Princeton had requested by tapping his finger against the empty cup repeatedly.

“Here it comes. Your aunt has it, dude.”

Nodding up and down, rapidly with his finger lodged between his teeth, he turned and found Kleigh standing a few feet away, beckoning for him. He took off running in her direction, happily obliging her request.

The country club my family visited, in unison, once a quarter was equipped with a number of activities for us to indulge. Golf, tennis, swimming, pickleball, soccer, and volleyball were the few we were most interested in during visits.

Today, because the weather was too cool for swimming, the wind was too high for golf, no one was interested in volleyball, and the pickleball court was being painted, tennis was our sport of choice.

“Fuck!” Killian huffed, plopping down on the chair next to me.

He leaned forward, wiping his face with the end of his shirt. Sweat was pouring from his skin. With a shake of the head, he looked over his shoulder at the woman we were all awe of.

She was impressive. In general. Literally. Physically. And, on the court.

“She hasn’t broken a fucking sweat!” He complained, “The fuck type of training that nigga have them in. She’s a beast.”

With a nod, I concurred.

Indeed, she is.

The words I was preparing to speak became lodged in my throat as she approached. As if she hadn’t just kicked Killian’s ass for nearly an hour and a half straight, she planted her hand on her hip without a trace of exhaustion in sight. I watched as her chest rose and fell calmly.

She surveyed the area, purposely avoiding my gaze. A small chuckle freed itself from my lips. Her theatrics were cute. They were tempting, too.

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