Page 43 of Whiskey Throttle
“I just wanted to see you like this. Free and happy.”
She doesn’t answer with words. She kisses me instead, tasting of saltwater and something real. Something that makes my cock hard and my chest soft, and I don’t know how to handle it.
CHAPTER 12
BABS
His linen shirt is far too big for me. It swallows my frame, hangs loose off one shoulder, and still carries the faint scent of his cologne. He’s reclined beside me, tanned skin glowing in the now blistering sun. Sunglasses hide half his face. His legs are stretched lazily on a lounge chair. His naked cock is half hard and lying against his stomach. He’s well-endowed. Great looks, wealth, and a family legacy for generations to come.
Pretty Boy.
More like Golden Boy.
I’m tucked under an enormous striped umbrella, curled like a cat on the chair next to his, with damp hair wrapped in a towel.
Everything about this feels illicit.
Not just because of what we did in his studio or what he tried to start in the ocean, if freezing water didn’t prevent a hard cock, but because I don’t do this. I don’t lounge. I don’t drape myself in men’s shirts like a Rom Com movie.
I don’t chase boys to the Hamptons, and yet, here I am. Running naked on the beach, being tackled, and swept into the sea. It is the thing Hollywood movies are known for, not the nudity, but the feeling of being young again.
That’s one of many things he makes me feel. Young. Desired. Wanted and seen. A very dangerous combination.
The breeze brushes ripples across the pool’s surface. The scent of soft, fragrant hydrangeas drifts by. My world is tranquil for once. No burdensome social calendar. No assistant chasing after me with calls to return, appointments to keep. No staff or house manager to interrupt me with problems and decisions. None of that.
Just time.
And Hollister.
I stretch my toes toward the edge of the chair, desiring a bit of sun on my legs.
“You draw caricatures.”
I break the silence, casual, like it’s just now occurred to me, when in truth I’ve been holding onto the question since I saw them. He doesn’t flinch or look at me. Just let out a long breath.
“Yup.”
I glance at him, his eyes closed behind his sunglasses.
“But you also work with charcoals and oil paintings in your studio.”
He smiles, slow and lazy, but his eyes don’t open.
“Yeah, well, even tortured artists need a side hustle.”
I shift to face him more directly, wanting to know more about him than the surface-level stuff I already know.
“But why caricatures?”
I tip my head, genuinely curious. It’s an odd choice for a talented person. Not low-level art, exactly, though to the purists, it sits somewhere near street graffiti. Certainly not the kind that fetches millions at the exhibits I bankroll.
“You’re talented. Like museum-level talented. Why exaggerate noses and teeth for tourists when you could be at the MoMA?”
He finally opens his eyes, then turns to look at me. Jaw tight, tongue pressing into his cheek for a moment like he’s deciding how much to tell me.
“I like people,” he says with a shrug, almost flippant.
I tamp down my annoyance.
