Page 10 of Whiskey Throttle
Apparently, I’m into this older woman, or else I wouldn’t have sent that. Her reply is immediate. Fuck, it makes my cock run from half-staff to fully ready to send a flag up my pole. Stupid analogy. Whatever.
You’re trouble.
Two words.
Flirtatious.
Hinting at innuendos that shouldn’t be hinted at. Not that I haven’t heard this before. It’s two words I’ve heard spoken a hundred different ways. From scolding tutors and day nannies growing up, to horny chicks with toes digging into my chest as I’m about to ravish them. Fuck if they don’t hit differently from her.
An air of sophistication. As if her mouth caressed the words before they flowed from her fingers onto the screen. I’m fucked. As in seriously fucked in the head to keep this going. But I’d be a lying bastard if I didn’t say I didn’t wonder what was under her gown when I teased her creamy skin. Didn’t jerk off to her when I got home that night, half buzzed and more than horny.
I run my thumb across the screen like it might cool it down. It doesn’t. I swear the fucking thing heats up in my hand, like it knows where this is headed. Like it’s daring me to keep going. So I do.
Maybe
But you’re still texting me
Guilt jumps into my stomach.
I glance up. Dom still hasn’t moved. Just sits on his bike like a statue, visor down. Unaware that I’m having an internal meltdown ten feet away because his mother just implied, I’m the kind of man she should stay away from, but isn’t.
Em is trying to lasso Massimo with a candy necklace. Diego’s acting like the dad of the group, trying to corral them onto their bikes so we can get back to riding. Thank fuck, no one’s watching me. No one has a clue. I’m painfully hard in my pants. I can’t deny what this text chain is doing to me.
Hell, I’ve had far worse. Far more vulgar. More explicit. Nudes being sent back and forth. Yet, this tame exchange has me more boned up than any before.
I look back down.
Trouble.
Yeah, I am. Always have been. It’s my only way of rebelling in my carefully curated world. The only acceptable outlet for channeling my frustrations for having to live out the Morgan Harrington Legacy.
I’m debating whether to send my own double text, a first for me. Something like, only when you ask nicely or you haven’t seen anything yet. Shit, I’ve said it a hundred times to a hundred women, but this isn’t them.
This is her. She’s above all that. My phone vibrates in my hand. My heart races when I read it.
Maybe I like trouble in small doses.
It doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a confession. My jaw clenches.
Small doses.
Like I’m something she can portion out when it’s convenient for her. It should piss me off. It should feel condescending. Yet, I’ve done the exact same thing to other women, tons of them. Coming from her, it feels like a challenge. And I’ve never met a challenge I didn’t want to take to bed.
I stare at the screen, heart now pounding in my throat, my cock pressed painfully hard against my zipper in a gas station parking lot like a fucking teenager with his first crush. I type back, fingers flying faster than I can second guess myself.
And if you wanted more than a small dose?
There.
It’s out.
That’s the edge of the cliff. Prepared to plummet to my foreseeable death if I get involved with her. No innuendo, no plausible deniability. Just honesty, raw, stupid, and irreversible. The seconds tick by, turning into long minutes, until finally, after Diego gets the twins on their bikes, it comes through. Five full minutes later, and the longest of my life.
Then we’d have to be very discreet.
Very careful.
Very sure.
