Page 51 of Whiskey Throttle
I should have waited for him. Should have taken longer but honestly, I’m a bit tired and more than sore between my legs. A little bruise is forming at the top of my thigh. A clear indentation caused his digging fingertips. There’s something wild about the way he touches me. Like he’s not just worshipping my body but discovering it. Almost revering it.
My smile grows wider as I pad back into his studio. The queen bed shoved in the corner under the eaves calls to me. The fluffy, pristine white bedding stands out of place in the chaos of color.
It’s evident that he has excellent staff.
I collapse sideways on the bed. My towel provides enough coverage without disturbing the bedding. I’m not tired, not really, but my eyes drift shut anyway. Before I can talk myself out of it, before I can turn over thoughts of galleries and exhibitions and where this all leads, I fall asleep.
I hear it.
The soft scrape of pencil on paper.
My eyes blink open to darkness. Not complete. A halo of stark light pools from a lamp clamped to the edge of a workbench, illuminating only a stool beside the bed. His head is bent, a sketchpad in his lap. The rest of the room, his sanctuary, is buried in shadows.
He looks lonely. Not sad exactly, but stripped away. Real and raw.
“Hollister?”
He doesn’t startle. Just looks up, a soft smile curving one side of his mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes like it did earlier today.
“Hey,” he murmurs, a heaviness in his tone. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
I sit up slowly, holding the towel around me, suddenly too aware of everything. The intimacy, the vulnerability, the soft ache between my legs from sex.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
“You needed the rest. I put you through the paces.”
He did and he didn’t. A fleeting thought about him thinking we’re making love. Causing me to wonder what straight-up fucking is like with him.
“What time is it?”
“Almost 8 o’clock.”
I stare at him, trying to calculate how many hours I’ve been asleep. It’s impossible since the plane ride, beach, and cabana made time disappear. Maybe that’s the effect of him or the Hamptons. I can’t decide.
“I brought food, but . . .” His eyes move to a breakfast tray with sterling silver cloche dishes on it. Obviously prepared for him. “We can go up to the house and get something fresh.”
My gaze returns to his. Knowing I need to eat, but unsure about going to the main house. Which should be an obvious choice. Yet, I’m endeared to this little studio of his, comfortable and opposite to the grandeur of his estate.
“Whichever you prefer.”
He turns the sketchpad around for a beat, then flips it back before I can get a full look.
“Is that me?”
He nods once.
“Sleeping beauty. With towel armor.”
I chuckle.
“How flattering.”
“It’s meant to be honest. Like we talked about poolside.”
Ah, yes. The thing he said before he broke me open and dug around in my consciousness, making me all too aware of how perceptive he is. He sets the pad down gently on the table and stands, stretching like he’s been holding tension in his body for hours. Maybe he has.
