An urgently tense Mrs. Gorbachev was waiting for me in the lobby when I got back to the hotel. It didn't seem appropriate to lead her to my room, so we found a quiet corner in the cozy restaurant. I loosened my tie as she spoke, as the blood vessels in my head throbbed, with what she was saying, because I was and should not have been so deeply involved so soon. She said Day had become distraught to find I was gone, and, after the next thing she told me, I advised....

        I often step out of myself, "watch" myself in situations; in this one, I kept smoothing my expensive, imported silk tie, over and over, as if keeping it ordered; it already was, as Mrs. G stated frankly that I was "good medicine" for her frantic charge. A flattering statement, from a woman, who probably never flatters.

        I advised that she or Mr. Hopkins "should call professional mental assistance for Day." I could give them several names of worthy people I'd definitely highly recommend, and whenever they got her calm, Mrs. G could please send my mother's locket back to me. I abruptly excused myself, turning my back on her obvious disappointment.

        "Mr. Gillespie, he's not her father. 'Not by blood or by law.' That's an unfortunate affectation of his. Ms. Day wanted me to be certain you knew that."

        She fell impatiently silent, her reflection in the wall mirror showed plainly that she wasn't certain what else to say to me; to my backside; to convince me. I looked back at her, while still tie smoothing, assessing her motives — like I would know what a stranger's feelings and thoughts might truly be in all this.

        It was a critical time for her, and she clearly didn't like me making her wait, so, I'm sure she had many interesting words, in English and Scottish Gaelic flashing across her mind; but, she merely watched me, and waited. Waited for pearls, rubies, and diamonds to drop from my lips.

        "I'll follow in a few minutes."

        I left a voicemail for my sister, on her private number, of where I'd be and that I'd contact her soon.

        Day was sitting on the sofa, quiet as that proverbial, little church mouse, as long as no one else approached her. Hopkins sat across the room, smoking, glaring at her, as if he despised her-in his inability to control her, in his inability to take his fatigued eyes off her. I sat beside Day, who had a serrated breadknife in her hands and was holding the deadly sharp point at her throat. Her hands were steady.

        "Day, if you don't mind, I don't want blood on my mother's locket."

        She held the blade, handle end out, and allowed Mrs. Gorbachev to retrieve it. The poor woman had left it alone a few seconds, while cutting bread, to answer the phone, then turned to find Day had it. It turns out that "Ms. Day's not allowed to handle sharp knives."

        I didn't ask about pointy forks. Or hard, plastic sporks.

        Hopkins sighed deeply, then retreated to his bedroom. I tended Day's inflamed ankles, and she wasn't happy that I was being wholly professional, emotionally distant, and a bit sullen — I don't like being manipulated, without my permission.

                    [Edit]

        Day was only a few yards from me, having gone from her bedroom through the connecting bath and out through the empty adjoining room. She was wet and shivering in a large towel. Taking a few steps to me, she faltered, her towel fell, and I caught her. She smelled of peaches and apple soap or shampoo and was enticingly naked ... closer scrutiny of her body telling me that it was athletic but slightly gone to softness for lack of activity.

        Did I mention she was naked, shamelessly, casually naked, which, of course, caught my attention; but, she seemed to take no particular notice of it, while in my arms.

        Part of me was thinking of what Hopkins did with her, which was soon flushed from my mind, when she brushed her electrifying hand down my bare chest. She placed one of my very warm hands on her gooseflesh cold, round breast, warming the plump flesh of it, as I ran my thumb tip around its dark brown, hard nipple. She took my other hand and swept it across her soft, damp bush of gentle curls.

        Then, I slipped my probing fingers deep into the inviting, warm cleft between her thighs; she was dry there, having just bathed and evidently assiduously douched, until my touch was rewarded by generating liquid heat.

        People with heightened, excited minds, like hers, are often unerringly prescient; she preempted my better judgement of stepping back from her, by grabbing me "below the belt," through my boxer briefs, causing me to swell and harden faster in her hand, than I already was. And, like most men, grabbed by a desirable, naked woman, who's every look and touch most clearly states she greatly wants him, I kissed her. A moment of stray logic halted it, until she smokily spoke.

        "Benn, I only want you." That's an ego booster.

        I glanced back at the closed door between Hopkins and us, and unlike how so many of us swear — "one thing" did not just uncontrollably "lead to another," as we quite plainly chose to be seduced by each other.

        I carried her back through the short hallway, past the intimate ... small dining room to my "bed" for the night, the sofa in the front room. Her ankles were cold and uncovered and I asked if the wrappings had come off in the shower. She nodded and said they felt fine. I got a pinprick twinge in my gut, which made me suspect she was probably fibbing a little ... to be with me, which I let go because ... I wanted her ... badly and because she still had that look for me, you know that look.

        I kept my fingers swimming in the carpeted, hot pool between her legs, as I kissed her deeply for a long while, because she has an incredible mouth and because her whole body partakes in her kisses. Then, I asked what she wanted me to do to please her; she graciously said whatever I wanted. "Yippee!," was my first mental response, followed by, "Yeah, but does she really mean it, and what exactly does she mean when she says it?"

        It's amazing how much miscellaneous ... crap and white noise goes through a person's brain ... at a time and in a situation like that. And how enjoyably and/or annoyingly aware one's senses can get ... ears hearing her quietly tense responses and my hungry responses ... whether or not he's making a response from the back of the house to our not completely silent responses, which he thankfully wasn't, as he snorted then snored on.

        I was kneeling on the floor beside his sofa, making my pleasant dining journey downward; from her responsive lips and tongue, her tantalizing, plump breasts, the little softness of her belly, and ... below, where I was dawdling, before devouring. One hand kneaded a breast-all natural, the best kind-while the other was still happy to be knuckle deep in the oven between her softly peachfuzzed thighs, as I watched her react to me, writhing seductively as a serpent, until she looked at me oddly — impatiently, breathlessly pouted actually.

        When you're with a woman, especially a new-to-you woman, in such a vulnerable position for you both, it's always best to ask and not imagine exactly what she might be thinking. Then, take what she says with a big grain of salt; depending on the lady and whether you think she says precisely what she means or whether she couches her phrases. I asked her if I were doing something wrong, and her answer....

        "You don't like me?"

        It was a strangely pleading question and because of the way she said it and the way her face appeared made me reconsider the entire situation, as I removed my hands from her and sat back on my heels.

        "How old are you, Day?"

        It was her turn for another perplexed look. Then she smiled, as she sat up, and I half realized that even the simple thing of her hand sliding gently up my arm made me want to be hers.

        "Old enough for what you want of me." She saw by my expression of suspicion, that that wasn't the best answer to give me. "I'm legal, in every state of the Union. I wouldn't lie about that, not to you."

        I chose to believe her.

        We choose everything we do, somewhere along the line — the stuff we swear we don't want to do, even the stuff we're terrified of, probably even the stuff that kills us, too. Day'd been a strange girl since I'd met her; but, she hadn't lied to me, not seriously anyway, I was certain of that. Conversely, I didn't ask about the other ... thing hanging about in my mind. I harnessed it, bound and gagged it, and temporarily buried it somewhere — the ... relationship between her and ... him.

        "I'm old enough, Benn. My people just look young. Really." She peevishly frowned. "I'm not lying ... or is there something else you don't like about me?"

        "What makes you thi—?"

        "You're not inside me, yet. You're avoiding and stopping, so you don't have to. You even still have your underwear on."

        I decided then that even after living, working, and dating in some very large metropolitan cities and traveling the world, rural and otherwise, quite a lot, I hadn't yet heard everything, after all.

        "You want me to rush?" She didn't seem to understand; yet, she wanted to answer my somewhat teasing question.

        "I.... You.... Isn't that what...? It's the way he does it, and the way the—." She stopped, abruptly, censoring herself. Odd girl ... woman. I also took note that I didn't seem to want to face the fact that her mind was....

        "Day, do you like me touching and kissing you ... licking you? If you don't, I'll stop."

        "No. I mean.... Yes. Yes, I do like it ... a lot. It's ... it's just ... not...."

        "What you're used to?" She eventually nodded, uncertainly, as if fearing I might not like her answer. "I very, very much like and want you; but, if you'll let me take care of you, Day, let me please you, before I take care of me, I'd really love that."

        She didn't acknowledge what I'd said at first. It was my impression that no one had ever said such a thing to her before.

        No. I didn't ask. About him.

        Sometimes asking questions gets you in too much trouble, or at least adds to the searingly hot H2O you're already parboiling your head in. And, yes, I was feeling a little ... a lot selfish ... I really, really wanted this woman — her body ... her. I "predewed" my pants then, as a certain smartass cardiologist I know calls it, and Day put her palm on the warm, wet spot. I liked her hand there; but, I sighed deeply and moved it.

        "Stop overstimulating me."

        I made certain that both my tone and facial expression were playful and light. The innocent tone she gave me back almost spilled me over the edge.

        "But, I wasn't doing anything."

        I hugged her to me, because I needed to and because I wanted to slow my desire for her down. Although, holding her naked flesh to mine wasn't the best idea, but I didn't want to get up and go way across the room — not away from her. I know, I could've just taken her, I achingly wanted to; or one of us could take me manually, to take the edge off; I achingly wanted that too; but, the self-inflicted, excruciating wait for her seemed right, particularly after what she'd just said about him. I'd seen his selfish impatience first hand and I didn't want to be like that, like him, with her.

        I wanted to wait for her, so to speak.

        I felt her relax against me, then I started over, a little quicker this time, to get back to where I'd stopped. I put my lips and tongue to her natural fruit scented and flavored body and strove to delight her however I could, which plainly was a great deal. She'd been a bit tense before; evidently waiting for me to strip and hurriedly dive in like good ole Hopkins would've. Without there being any joy in it for her. But, this was my game, and when I play it, the way I play it, nobody's better at it.

        All modesty aside, of course.

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"Hobble is a story of lust and obsessive sex ... I was so moved ... I went back to my (Franklin) dictionary ... hobble means to limp along ... to impede ... to tie-up, shackle or leash ... all of [which] were used in this steamy story, of sex, incest and betrayal!"

—Delores Thornton, www.BlackRefer.com Reviews

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        Yippee and huzzah!!  My baby, HOBBLE [An Adult Novel], won the award:  

BEST  OF  YEAR  IN  ROMANTIC  EROTICA,  ROMANTIC  NOVELS.

        What a surprise!  Thank you so much. The award certificate looks "mahhhvelous," don't you think?  

        Thank you, Dolores Thornton; thank you, BlackRefer.com, for this sehr tres cool honor.

—Neale