Page 74 of Whiskey Throttle
Barbara is nestled against me, her head on my chest, our legs entwined beneath the blanket. The observatory is quiet, save for the soft hum of the telescope and the distant rumble of the retreating storm. The stars above us shine brightly, filtering through the glass dome. We lay on the oversized lounge in this small space at the end of the house.
There’s so much I want to say, but it all comes out wrong in my head. When you’re with a woman full of power and grace, that brings you to your knees, nothing sounds adequate.
I stroke her hair. The strands are soft and silky against my fingers. She sighs contentedly, making me feel like I’m whipped or a sucker for being with this beautiful woman. But now that my cock is drained, my balls empty, and probably not able to produce anything for days after so much sex, my mind is throbbing.
I exhale slowly, pressing a kiss into her hair. She stirs, dark eyes looking at me now.
“That sounded heavy.”
“Yeah. I guess it did.”
It has to be talked about. Needs to be brought up after we spilled our guts in the range about our truths.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Dom.”
“Oh.”
She sits up, stealing the blanket to cover more of herself, despite my knowing every inch of her. I sigh again. My dread reflects on her face. I sit up too, my arm wrapping around her shoulders. The warmth from our bodies hasn’t left the blanket, but suddenly the air feels colder.
“He’s going to find out. Eventually..”
She doesn’t respond, just looks up at the stars. As if they have answers. I really take her in. That classic beauty, the poise, even in her vulnerability. Here at my estate, cocooned in the discretion and privacy she wanted, she’s just Barbara. And all mine. But back home in Boston, she’s someone else. Someone aloof and untouchable.
Definitely off limits.
She’s Dominic’s mom.
It suddenly feels like a ticking clock in the back of my mind.
“I’ve thought about that.”
That elegant chin of hers, the one I love to hold, tips downward. Like she’s bracing for the inevitable fallout with me. For the firestorm we both know is coming. Her hand drifts up to her neck, twisting the worn leather necklace around her index finger.
“About what it’ll mean. For him. For you. For me.”
She looks over at me with a blank expression.
“And I still didn’t stop. I still came here to be with you. I knew exactly what I was doing the moment I stepped into the car you sent. Still did everything we did, despite you expressing your worries at different times.”
“I don’t regret a second of it.”
My voice is rough but sure. I don’t want this to end. I want her, and I want my best friend.
“I don’t want to blindside him. Or lie, Babs.”
“I know.”
Her eyes drop to someplace where the blanket still covers us. Where our bodies are pressed together, naked. In a way only lovers know.
“He’s been lied to so much by his father . . .”
She doesn’t tell me, but I suspect it’s there. Somewhere in all the crap between them, lies are a part of their problem.
“I don’t want my son to hate me.”
She lifts tear-filled eyes to me. I pull her closer and rest my chin on the top of her head. The reality of what we’ve done. What we’re doing is weighing on both of us.
