Page 33 of Whiskey Throttle
“Good. I like a woman who makes good on her threats.”
“You’re a masochist.”
She smiles, the first one of the day. One of many more if I can help it.
“That makes you a sadist.”
My cock is blistering hard and uncomfortable. I make it a point to adjust him right before her eyes. Like fucking catnip to my black feral feline, she takes the bait and watches. Those red lips mash together, and I can’t wait to separate them with the head of my cock.
“What’s life without a little pain, Hollister?”
She leans back, sipping her drink and looking out the window as we ascend into the sky. As if she didn’t just leave me leaking in my underwear, once again.
“Holy mother of sin,” I mutter, adjusting my cock again and locking eyes with the attendant, seeing it. She quickly looks away in embarrassment.
The rest of the plane ride is quiet. Both of us are lost in our thoughts. Mine, of all the ways I’m going to fuck her. All the ways I’m going to sketch her naked. I can barely contain my excitement, and my knee bobs because of it. The forty minutes fly by with barely any movement from her until I realize that she’s dozing off. Perfectly still, head resting against the seat, eyes closed but otherwise poised in elegance even when sleeping.
This woman.
Everything about her is a testament to her beauty and wellness regimen. It’s enthralling and intriguing. I study her the whole time. Memorize the angles of her face and silhouette. Quickly becoming my muse.
It’s only upon our final descent and landing that her eyes flip open to stare into mine. A glimpse of surprise before recovering into her steely mask.
“The Hamptons?”
Her voice question is quiet against the noise of the crew securing the aircraft for our exit.
“Very discreet. Very careful.”
She smiles, hearing her words come back to her. Little does she know, I commit everything she says to memory. All artists strive to bring authenticity to their works.
“Your family home?”
“Yes.”
“And the staff?”
“Paid handsomely for their discretion.”
And non-disclosure agreements are signed before they set foot on any of our properties. I assume it’s the same at her estate, at least that’s what Dom said when he took me to Barrettmoor once, several years back. A place he hates yet escapes to. The paradox of that lost on me.
“And Barbara?”
She raises her eyes from her drink, not answering.
“Very sure.”
I repeat every line from her flirty texting. Heavy emphasis on ensuring this goes where I think it’s going. Very sure I’m going to fuck her against every surface possible this weekend. Her hand raises to tinker with the pearls at her throat. Something she does often, although I don’t think she realizes it.
It’s only a few minutes before we’re departing, the luggage already being loaded into the waiting car, ready to sweep us away to our own island retreat. Again, I refrain from touching her, which is proving more difficult with the sun shining on her dark hair, adding orange highlights to it. The car ride is quick, getting out even faster, until we’re walking through the front door of my family’s estate in Sagaponack.
It's an impressive compound, built decades ago with more bedrooms, square feet, and amenities than anyone could ever need or want.
“Wow, this is . . .”
Having Babs Barrett speechless is a rarity, something I want to make happen a lot more.
“It’s not the house that ate the Hamptons, but I think you’ll be satisfied here.”
