Page 29 of Whiskey Throttle
My body is on fire. My core drips into my damn shapewear. I feel more alive than I have in years, decades, even. My resolve is equally warring. Feeling myself surrender, piece by piece, to a young man who was never supposed to touch me, let alone kiss.
But none of that matters because this isn’t about who he is or who I am. Not about the name on the marble plaque inside. Not about being someone’s mother or an ex-husband’s first wife.
It’s about being a woman. Desired by a younger man. Making me feel things I desperately need and forgot about. It’s about feeling alive and unburied. He jumps back with a loud groan, breaking our steamy kiss and forcing my hands to fall away. He’s surprised, eyes wide and staring from his pants, to me, and back. I’m confused and weary.
My hand comes to my throat in search of the necklace I didn’t wear.
“Hollister?”
His name is a breathy question. Clouded in sensual lust that pulls his eyes back.
“I came.”
His hand palms the front of his pants. His cheeks tinge red, possibly from embarrassment if he’s saying what I think he’s saying. His confession sends more wetness out of me. I tilt my head in inquiry, trying to reconcile with the idea that he's so affected by me that he couldn’t control himself, which is intoxicating. I step closer, my voice low and sultry.
“You came just from that?”
He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt, despite the cool night. A sheepish grin appears on his face, relaxing his shock at the unexpected turn of events. His breath is ragged when he nods.
“I want you. Just the taste of you and the feel of your hand on me.” He shakes his head as if not understanding it himself, “I didn’t think we’d ever happen. I mean, I hoped, but yeah, I just came.”
I laugh.
Not polite, as society demands, but a gut-busting, belly laugh. The kind from years ago, when I was unencumbered.
His laughter joins mine. A richness to it that knots in my stomach. The tension between us shatters. What remains is an intimacy that's even more dangerous. His eyes sparkle with amusement and something darker, more intense.
“You're beautiful always, but even more beautiful when you laugh.”
I don’t miss the huskiness in his voice. The step he takes toward me despite the mess in his pants.
“I want to make you do that more often.”
I calm my laughter, but the smile stays plastered on my face.
“I haven't laughed like that in . . . I don't even remember,” I admit, my hand drifting toward the middle of my body to catch my breath and calm my composure. His hand is back at my chin, lifting it and holding it simultaneously.
“I’m glad my premature ejaculation makes you laugh.”
I chuckle again. The irony of his words is not lost on either of us. His hand moves to cup my cheek, and I lean into it.
“You make me feel things, Hollister,” I confess, suppressing the urge to reach for him as he keeps doing to me. “Things I haven't felt in a very long time.”
He lifts my hand, kissing the top, and places it against his chest. Needing the connection, I was denying both of us.
“I want to make you feel more, Barbara. I want to make you feel everything.”
My breath catches. Knowing we crossed the line with that kiss was one thing. The accident in his pants, more him than me. But what he wants next requires me to be an active participant. Something I’m still unsure of, even after committing and backing out.
Even after his countless attempts to bridge the gap between us. Meeting me far more than halfway. Isn’t this what I always wanted in a man and never got? Yet I keep getting hung up on his age and his association with my son. It’s two enormous points I struggle with.
“I know you’re scared. I see it on your face. I know the reasons. Same as mine. But I just can’t seem to stay away. I can’t seem to walk away from what I’m feeling. I think you struggle with that as well.”
I move my head away, feeling too visible in this moment. I need more time or a rational reason to continue this when I have so many real reasons to deny my feelings and walk away, like I always do and always have.
He’s still holding my hand against his chest, right over the beat that betrays him. Steady, strong, yet thrumming with want. It makes my pulse skip. Like it’s trying to match his rhythm. As if my body already knows how to fall in sync with his, even when my mind is still arguing.
I pull my hand from his and turn away. Put my back to him. Feeling too visible. Too vulnerable. I close my eyes, and his words echo through my mind.
