Page 41 of Whiskey Throttle
“Ocean it is.”
I decide for us. My cock is already softening inside her. Her body in my hands shifts with my declaration, pushing to get down. I oblige, removing my face from her neck, easing her off my cock, and onto her feet. Keeping my hands around her waist until she’s steady.
“Holli—”
“Don’t you dare call me Holli. Babe, baby, or hot stuff, but not that.”
She avoids my eyes, looking around for what I’m not sure about. But there’s no way I’m letting us go back to how it was. No retreating from what we just did or what I have planned. I capture her chin, forcing her attention on me.
“I didn’t mean for it to come out that harsh. It’s just that everyone calls me variations of my name. I don’t want that from you, Barbara.”
She exhales, staring at me. For a second, I’m unsure if that was the right move until her chin raises.
A defiant little act.
“You interrupted. I wasn’t going to call you that. But I guess I’ll call you, pretty boy.”
She pauses. Looks me up and down as I grab the used condom from my cock and throw it in the trash. Her lips are wet, her hair is a mess, and her skin is flushed and pink. A smug, satisfied look sits on my face as I stare at the beautiful wreck I made of her.
“Unless you’d prefer loverboy.”
Her gaze lingers. Seconds pass, and then she walks past me, calm and collected like she didn’t just come undone five minutes ago. My brain short-circuits trying to decide if I want to correct her or kiss her senseless again. My smirk falters. Having been bested by Babs as she throws open the door, completely naked, and making her intentions known.
“Grab some towels, pretty boy.”
Pretty Boy or loverboy.
I’ll settle for both.
I’m just happy she’s nicknaming me at all. I sprint into the bathroom, give my cock and hands a quick wash. Then grab a bunch of towels. If she chooses the beach, we’ll need more of them to avoid sand in our crevices. Right before dashing out the door, I scan the studio for anything else that might make this spontaneous post-sex beach jaunt even more perfect. No way I’m showing up with just linens and a soft dick.
Spotting the black-and-white leather football tucked on the shelf, a leftover from last summer’s drunken cousins-versus-cousins scrimmage, I snatch it up. If she laughs, great. If she throws it, even better. I want to see her play again. Move again. Laugh again with me. She has a competitive side. I want to challenge her again.
The breeze bites a little as I step out. It’s warm by East Coast spring standards, but the Atlantic is still more punishment than pleasure this time of year.
By the time I catch up, she’s already out on the sand, the wind tangling her dark hair into chaotic ribbons away from her face. Her toned body glistens gold in the sun. My cock jumps, not quite ready for another round, but my balls are quickly filling back up. Her arms lift to tame her hair, elongating her body. Creating more lines for me to draw. I’ve memorized her in a hundred different ways already.
What I wouldn’t give to have a photo of this. I would snap it without her knowing. I’ve done it to many girls in the past. But that would certainly be a massive fuck up. An invasion of privacy. An enormous betrayal of her trust in me. In us.
I can’t risk it.
I won’t.
She’s facing the ocean, feet planted, toes covered in sand. I sneak up behind her. Pressing my body against her back, wrapping the towels around both of us. My cock fits perfectly into the top of her ass. It couldn’t be more perfect.
She shivers against me. My arms tighten, sharing my warmth.
“I brought back up,” I murmur, raising the football for her to see.
She laughs softly, tilting her head back.
“Let me guess. You want me to teach you how to throw?”
There’s that competitive spirit. As if she could teach me anything about sports. I grew up playing everything. Coming from a larger family, it’s a basic Hamptons summer to play if we’re all on the front lawn of the compound. Not to mention being the star quarterback in prep school.
“Only if you promise to go easy on me, Coach.”
She hums, thoughtful.
