“Give me that dick right now,” she snaps.
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod, still grinning.
I lift her hips, and while she directs my cock to her opening, I lower her down slowly. Each inch of me that gets swallowed by her body makes my muscles lock up with pleasure. Betsy doesn’t give me time to fully enjoy it though. She takes control by lifting and rolling, her hands using my shoulders for leverage. Her little grunts and gasps fill the truck. She’s working me over like we’re on a time crunch.
“Oh God. Silas. Oh. Yes. Uhh…” Betsy freezes, her whole body shaking like a leaf. Her forehead clunks to my shoulder.
Maybe I should feel used, but considering how much I like it, I don’t complain. I can feel her muscles clamping rhythmically around me as she shakes and pants. I have to grit my teeth to keep still so she can ride out her orgasm. She lifts her head from my shoulder again and smiles at me wickedly. I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but then I feel it. She’s purposely flexing her muscles down there. She starts rocking her hips gently, her eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
“Come on, frat boy. What do you need?”
I roll my eyes. This woman.
“Just…shut up,” I manage to grunt.
Then I take her hips in mine and start thrusting up into her hard and fast, chasing my own orgasm. Betsy, being Betsy, can’t leave well enough alone and decides to help me. Except her asshits the steering wheel, setting off the horn right as I feel my entire body locking up with an orgasm to beat all orgasms.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I moan between clenched teeth, spilling into her. I couldn’t stop right now even if there was a gun to my head.
I’m spiraling somewhere in the heavens, oblivious to everything else for a few glorious moments. Then I feel Betsy shaking again and it takes me longer than I’d like to figure out what’s going on. She’s sprawled across my lap, her head ducked down and jammed between my ribs and the door. She’s laughing her ass off.
“We hit the horn!” she laugh-screams.
I look around, thankfully not seeing any neighbors or her nana. “Jesus, Betsy Mae.”
It’s always an adventure with her.
“Wait!” Betsy grabs my hand before I can click thebuybutton on the order we have pulled up with a fantastic wholesale place I found out of Alabama.
We loaded up the cart with all the rest of the clothes we’re stocking for the start of the season and the Battle of the Boutiques. I think the fact that I had to call my credit card company and find out how much space I still had left made her doubt her choices.
She shoves herself between me and the laptop, her hands gripping mine tightly. “Seriously. Let’s think about this.”
I dip my head and kiss the tip of her nose. “Betsy, we already went over this. Like, five times. We need more clothes and these fit all the things the women of this town have been saying they want to wear. Let’s give them what they adore and charge them a pretty penny for it.”
Her wide eyes search mine, back and forth, back and forth. Then she lets go of my hands and steps away from the computer. “Okay.”
I hit the buy button with far less concern than I had a few weeks ago before Betsy started working here. I trust her instincts, along with the research we did. I don’t know what it is, but I have a good feeling about things.
Might be because my father hasn’t called in a few days. He’s always quick to make me feel like I am teetering precariously on the edge of shaming the Winthrop name and causing us to have to leave town during the middle of the night.
Might also be because I feel like Betsy and I are a team. No one likes to go through life or business alone. Not that we’re a couple. No, she’s quick to remind me of our agreement every chance she gets, but since I offered her that bonus, she also dove in headfirst on getting this boutique in the black. And I can appreciate that kind of partnership.
“Two weeks ’til the fall season starts, storm cloud,” I remind her as she spins to open a box of new gift bags to store under the register. “All the mamas and their sorority daughters will be descending on the four boutiques.”
“Don’t forget twelve days ’til Battle of the Boutiques.” Betsy claps the dust off her hands and begins to twist her fingers together.
“We need to start finalizing what our models will wear.”
“Oh!” Betsy spins to her purse, taking out her phone and swiping until she turns the screen to me. “Last night while Nanaand I watched a movie, I screenshotted some things I saw on social media.”
She flicks through quite a few photos of nicely dressed women. It feels weird to call them middle-aged when they’re the same age as me, but I guess that mythical middle age has crept up on me without me noticing.
“South Carolina had some sort of inaugural golf thing over the weekend,” Betsy is explaining, though I already know. Deuce and I watched most of it while finishing off a six-pack of beer he brought over to my place. “Unlike most golf events, this one is a bit like the Derby. Everyone dresses to the nines.”
See, this is why I appreciate her help so much, and why I think my father might have a valid point. I watched the same tournament and didn’t think to look at what the women were wearing, but Betsy did.
“These are fantastic,” I murmur, flipping to several that showcase dresses and skirts that look a lot like what we just ordered, except these clothes aren’t coming from a luxury brand name.
