Chapter 1: Saturday

I felt the mood start to build as I was finishing up the last of the paperwork in my trig little office in the Livestock Exchange Building. It was around 6 on a Saturday evening in the Stockyards and I had that familiar sense of freedom, like school was letting out and a wondrous weekend lay in front of me. I had done a ton of catching up on my workload, and was now ready for some fun. Vanessa Henderson, the love of my life, had just left for Oaxaca, on the Pacific coast, staying in a cabana at a boutique spa on the beach. She was attending a week-long culinary conference — read: tax write-off boondoggle.

Which meant that the other love of my life — 16-year-old Walker Jennings — and I were on our own, just the two of us. Now did that have anything to do with my aforementioned bouncy mood? Perhaps.

It wasn’t horniness — well, a certain dawning tingle well might have been a mood-contributor. But not a mood-definer. No, my emerging disposition was one of ... oh, anticipation.

Sexual anticipation? Oh, maybe some. Probably some. But that growing sense of fun was more nuanced than mere arousal. No, what I was feeling was a sense of letting go, of freeing myself from the usual responsibilities that a mature 30-um, something woman carries with her.

I breezed into our glorious penthouse (6th-floor) loft and looked haughtily at my son, “Feed me, slave boy.”

Walk eyed me evenly. He wasn’t assessing me, wasn’t evaluating my mood. No, he was merely taking me in. He knew me so well. And was becoming remarkably perceptive for a walking hormone. He placed his hands on my shoulders, and looked down at me. How the fuck did he grow to be 6’ 2-1/2-inches?

He shook his head, “No, you’re my date tonight, Winter. Unicorn Club. Take your shower.” His date? Usually, I’m his ‘sister’ when we’re out and about.

A night on the town. Just exactly what I was ready for. “Well, if you insist.”

“Shave your legs too.”

“Your wish, milord...”

I also shampooed my hair. This summer I was wearing it shorter than usual — an asymmetric cut with a pageboy bob that curled up under the right side of my chin. Très chic.

No surprise, the lad was waiting, towel in hand, when I emerged from the bathroom. Now, was it a common practice for me to be naked in front of him? No. Was it normal? Absolutely not. Was he trying to pull off being Mr. Cool? Of course. But I knew him so well. He was doing his best to mask just a hint of uncertainty. One word from me, and he’d skeddadle.

Yet, the mood I was in...

I glanced at the bed — he had laid out a summer dress and ballet slippers for me. I said, “Flats?”

“Flats.” His tone wasn’t bossy, just matter-of-fact. When I had come home, he had read me at a glance, and had deciphered my mood — somewhere between laissez-faire and a tad subservient. I’d learned not to ignore to my own moods, and he was learning to pay attention to them as well.

I checked him out. Looked good, gotta admit. He was wearing his new Lucchese cowboy boots, gifted by Vanessa. That brought him up to around five inches over six feet tall. Since I was 5’ 7-1/2-inches that meant he was towering over me by ... well, who’s counting?

That explained the ballet slippers — tonight, he was the Alpha. And I was the Alpha’s date. The kid was looking pretty sporty. Ivory slacks, not tucked in. A navy blazer over an open-collared, pink dress shirt.

Walk stood me in front of my full-length, three-sided mirror and finished toweling me off. We both smiled at my image — a blue-eyed blonde, slender with terrific, up-tilted boobs. A deep, golden, all-over tan, except for three strategic white triangles.

I keep my little-girl pussy bare because ... because I like it that way. So did Vanessa. As did a certain lad who momentarily lost his practiced coolness, “God, Winter, just ... God.”

Then he blinked and re-assumed his seniority role. He nodded at my erect nipples — pink and perky, “Feeling it, are we, hen?”

I ignored his terrible, simply atrocious, British accent and looked up into his sparkling eyes. I bit back a smartass response, “Yeah,” I had to clear my throat, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Why was I turned on? Truth be told, I loved looking at myself. Especially au naturale. Now did some of my enjoyment come from anticipation? Sure. From sharing the view with my date? Perhaps. Okay, probably.

Walk nodded to himself, “Showtime,” and sat me on the end of the bed. I leaned back on my elbows, and held out my left foot, then the right, as he eased the black slippers on. I smiled at him, “You’d like to take me out just like this, n’est-ce pas?”

He devoured me with his eye, the Mr. Cool facade faded for a moment. He swallowed, “God, Winter.”

I stood and he helped me into the yellow little number he’d picked out. I slithered into it and did another mirror-check as he tied the bow at the back of my neck. The dress showed off my tan quite smartly and came down to about mid-thigh. It was backless, but Walker’s no-bra policy was obvious from the front as well. As the Boobs God intended, my nipples were on obvious display.

I batted my eyelashes, “I don’t think anyone will suspect that you have me going commando tonight.”

The boy snorted — we both knew what I looked like. And what I liked looking like.

Nature Boy, erect this evening, gave us a ride down to the lobby in the Wrigley freight elevator. He looked me up and down, started to comment on my wispy attire, glanced at Walker, decided not to. Ms. Uber was waiting, and we were off.

In the boisterous Saturday-night Unicorn Club, Lucy Cuthbert, the manager, led us, weaving through tables to the corner booth-for-two that had banquettes running out from it along perpendicular walls. My date had reserved the best seat in the house.

Without looking, I was aware of the male scrutiny directed at me. Aware, and pleased. But I was also alert to the attention that Walk was attracting from women of various ages. And, why not? He was not only the tallest one in the joint, but was ever so handsome these days. He was wearing his thick blond hair shorter this summer. And his blue eyes were as vivid as mine.

We almost always ate in the more casual bar area, so this was a special move on his part. We sat hip-to-hip, legs touching, and I placed a palm on his thigh, “Think this is gonna get you into my bed tonight, sport?”

He just smiled; Mr. Sophisticate.

Walk and I enjoyed okra soup and bone-in catfish. He signed the tab — he had his own membership card now. Very grownup. We wended our way through the dining room tables into the bar area. Again, that delicious scrutiny from the other patrons.

Bess, Lucy’s daughter, bar manager, outrageous flirt, eyeballed me up and down. “Walker, can’t you do anything about her? We do have some standards, you know.”

He patted my ass — cheeky git — and said, “I could, but I like her this way.”

I looked down my nose at her, “Could we have another server, please? Someone without all the sass.”

“Did you say ass?” Bess stood on tiptoes, cupped her hands and whispered in Walk’s ear. He looked at me and grinned. Heathens.

It was a whirlwind night. Walker and I didn’t dance together, but we did dance with the other golden boys and girls who asked us to. The joint was jam-packed, so ‘dancing’ was mostly hugging and swaying, laughing and teasing.

Around one in the morning, my date again signed the tab and we Ubered home. Exercising the restraint for which I am justifiably celebrated, I refrained from stroking his obvious bulge. I had felt a few pressing against my tummy while I danced. But it pleased me more knowing that several women had been fully aware of Walker’s boner against them.