Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
The innuendo receives a crooked grin and a polite extension of my tool.
“Thanks,” she whispers, body lingering around a moment more than needed. Afterward, she grabs one of my balls, places it on the tee, and intentionally wiggles her shorts bearing ass, desperate to draw my gaze to it. “You don’t play here often.”
My eyes cut away once a polite viewing has been given. “I do not.”
“Visiting?”
“On business.”
“Not pleasure?”
“Pleasure has certainly been had,” mindlessly leaves my lips, shocking me more than her.
What the hell is going on?!
Head in the bathroom while someone else finger fucks themselves should not have me just out here saying shit like this.
I know how to be better composed.
I should be.
Honestly, part of me doesn’t want to be.
And it’s that part that has the other half of me pushing to ask this young woman out.
Take her for drinks.
Expose her to a few of the finer things in life.
Rent a lux room, screw, and stay connected to what’s as familiar to me as the tequila my liver is pissy I’ve been drinking in excess.
Which I am not sold is because I’m on “out of the office mode” as opposed to feeling a bit ashamed by my societally salacious actions.
“Yachting? Surfing?” She pushes her shoulders back before tossing her face over one. “Skinny dipping?”
Memories of being in the pool, dick to dick, tearing Salay in two, while they both gave me all of them, everything they had, everything they could ever have, lead to me sliding a hand into my pants pocket to slyly adjust myself. “Two of the three.”
“Tell me skinny dipping is definitely one of them,” Vanessa suggestively insists on a brow waggle. “And that you wanna do it again.”
I do.
Just not with her.
Rather than lead the attendant on or towards a false impression I know I’m not actually interested in, I politely state, “You should take your shot.”
“What do you think I’m doing, Garcia?”
“Aiming at the wrong hole.”
Vanessa’s eyebrow quirks in intrigue. “Am I?”
Uncertainty prompts hesitation in my response.
Is she?
I mean…isn’t she?
I am the wrong person for her.
I know it.
I want to say it.
I want to be capable of saying it.
What’s the worst that could happen if I give it a trial run?
Experiment with the idea on people I’m unlikely to ever see again?
Consult with the notion as if it had true merit.
Investigate if I can actually stand the way it feels leaving my mouth.
How people’s view of me will change.
The disgust they may conjure or distance they may find the need to create.
Much like they do when they discover that I’m an attorney.
It’s just one of those careers people love or despise you for.
I have met very few who are in the middle ground ruling where its concerned.
Testing the idea, the possibility of people’s reactions, is no different than what we do with mock juries.
Except of course, this woman doesn’t know she’s being used in that nature.
I swallow the apprehension in my throat and do my best to nonchalantly retort, “This hole – figuratively speaking – already has a flag.” My mouth struggles to add, “Two to be exact.”
“Two?”
Afraid my vocal cords will betray me if I make an attempt to speak again is what pushes me into simply nodding.
“Lucky ladies,” Vanessa snickers prior to finally swinging at the object.
“She’s far from a lady,” I good naturedly inform, grabbing her full attention. “And while he may have a love affair with animal print like a middle-aged woman on a cruise going through her second divorce, he probably wouldn’t appreciate being called a lady, either.”
Another light laugh is expelled during her cross back over.
“Truth is…” the melting of my frame occurs without my consent, “I’m the lucky one.”
“Maybe you should let them know that every once in a while, Mr. Garcia.”
“Just Garcia.”
“If you weren’t a happily taken man, it would be.”
The indication that she not only respects the boundaries of our relationship – one we haven’t even officially established as anything more than a fling – but isn’t repulsed by it, has whatever weight I’ve been carrying on my shoulders effortlessly falling off.
Shit.
Was Salay right?
Do I give too much of a fuck what others think?
Would life really be so fucking awful if I cared about it less?
My own happiness more?
Because they definitely make me happy.
Even when they’re driving me to drink the whole bottle of tequila insane, they provide me with content no one else ever has.
That I get the inkling no one else ever will.
Maybe I should make them dinner tonight.
Tell them that.
Tell them…something.
Something that lets them know it’s not just about saving Zero’s life and convenient sex anymore.
It’s…deeper now.
That somewhere between the off-colored age jokes, the post dinner strip poker rounds, and dream vacation pillow talks, things got…out of temporary and are now seeking a longer possibility.
Movement out of the corner of my eye causes me to cut my focus back to the door Marshall-Green is re-entering through. Upon his complete return outside, I cautiously investigate, “Do we have a deal, Mr. Marshall-Green?”