Page 46 of Whiskey Throttle
“Huh?”
He twirls his finger in the air, a lazy smile hanging on his face.
“Turn around, please.”
Hesitantly, I do.
His fingers brush my neck, warm and sure. I feel the delicate shift of my pearl necklace before I even realize what he’s doing. I try to catch them. Hand flying up, breath stuck in my throat, but it’s too late.
They don’t fall. He catches them, of course. Slides them free like he’s done it before, like he knows exactly what they mean and exactly why they need to come off. I stand there, frozen. Spine stiff, chin up, back to him. Without them, I feel bare, not in the way his linen shirt covers me. But stripped and disarmed.
Those pearls are more than just pearls.
They’ve been with me through every gala, every committee meeting, every court appearance, and public debut since the divorce. My shield. My disguise. The one thing I’ve never taken off, and now they’re in his hands.
“Hollister?”
“Stay just like that,” he murmurs behind me. “Don’t turn around yet.”
I don’t turn, speak, or breathe. His footsteps fade down the pool deck as he veers toward the house or maybe the studio. I don’t know. I can’t think. I just stand here.
A breeze catches the hem of his shirt, lifting it around my thighs. The sea air chills the sweat at the back of my knees, tickles the strands of hair sticking to my nape that escaped my toweled head. I should move. I should laugh it off, reclaim my armor, and demand my necklace back.
When he returns, I feel it before I hear him. That quiet heat, that impossible calm. He doesn’t speak. Just walks behind me and lifts something over my head. The cord is soft and worn, like old leather. The pendant rests warm against my chest, just above the swell of my breasts. My fingers reach for it instinctively.
Sea glass.
Pale blue.
Like his eyes when he’s not hiding behind mirrored sunglasses.
“This is yours?” I whisper, not even a question.
His hands rest lightly on my shoulders.
“It was. Now it’s yours.”
I hold the glass in my hand and glance over my shoulder at him. His gaze dips, but not in the way men usually look at me. There’s reverence in it. Ownership, maybe. But not of my body. Of the moment. Of the meaning. I press my palm to the sea glass at my chest. I don’t know what to say. Maybe I don’t have to because the pearls are gone. In their place, something new yet old.
His.
Now mine.
His back presses into mine, unbuttoning his shirt. Letting the sides fall open while I’m still processing the gift he gave me so easily and freely. He has no idea that years of turmoil and pain are tumbling away. Caught in the same ocean that once tossed me around like a buoy. His hands are everywhere, roaming my body and tugging at the fabric off my shoulders to trail kisses up my neck.
“This isn’t ownership.”
I already got a necklace from a man and hopelessly clung to it. I won’t let this act as a new anchor.
“Certainly not.”
His words sink into my skin as my hand falls away from the blue glass. The sleeves of his shirt skim down my arms until it fall to my feet. Naked, with a towel around my hair and a new necklace around my neck, I’m lost and feeling out of place. Adrift in a new ocean. Unknown and full of possibilities.
“It’s a symbol of your newfound freedom.”
It’s terrifying and exhilarating. My mind burst open with possibilities of who I can become. His hands settle on my breasts, cupping, massaging, and stroking at my nipples until they are as hard as the blue glass shaped by the sea.
“Barbara.”
