Page 20 of Whiskey Splash

Desmond Pike is hard on my massage table!

“Yeah,” he says, nodding sheepishly. “Not my finest moment, but …”

“Wow, okay!” My heart races, trying to think of something to say.

The good news is he’s not pissed off that I’m turned on.

The bad news is that he’s just as turned on as I am, which causes mycore to jump into hyperdrive. Only, I’m desperate to make this less awkward!

“Okay, not a problem—” I mumble, forcing myself to talk despite my habit of foot-in-mouth disease. “Please, don’t feel embarrassed,” I start, but his eyebrows lift and it’s clear we’re already past that point. “No, this does happen.” I laugh nervously. “It’s natural and … normal.”

“Does this happen with your eighty-year-old clients?” Desmond jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and I bite my lip.

“Well, no,” I admit. “But it can happen. I mean, with younger clients. Um—! Okay, okay—” I try to refocus. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to keep my back turned.” I flip around to demonstrate, staring at the wall. “And if you could just, uh, flip over and assess how, uh—how—”

“Aroused I am?”

I swallow hard at the boldness in his tone.

“Um, yes,” I say sheepishly, trying to hold it together and take control. “If you could just flip over—keep the sheet on, of course! And uh—” I hear him moving on the table. “And well, whatever level of … uh … erectile, uh, I mean, erections.”

I shake my head. God! What am I supposed to call it? His stiffy? Cock rocket? Boner? I must be in the Twilight Zone. I’m not really talking about erections with Desmond Pike, am I?

“Look, whatever size—or, uh, condition—yes, condition!” I say. “Whateverconditionyou’re in, we can, uh, we can work with it.”

“Esme,” Desmond says dubiously. “Did you just offer to give me a happy ending?”

“No!” I squeak. “Oh God, no!”

I slap my hand against my forehead. Man! I really need to become the poster child for foot-in-mouth disease.

“I’m sorry, Desmond!” I blabber. “I didn’t mean it that way! No, of course, we don’t do happy, uh—that! This isn’tthatkind of a spa!” I think he might be laughing behind me, but I don’t dare turn around to check. “I was simply trying to say that whatever condition you’re in, we can accommodate—”

“Accommodate?” he interrupts, his tone high, insinuating that accommodating sounds a whole heck of a lot like a happy ending.

“No, Desmond!” I fluster. “I’m not going to jerk you off!”

He laughs loudly, the deepness of his chuckle filling the tiny room, and even though I want to evaporate into dust, something about it eases the tension.

“We can find a way to make you feel comfortable!” I say desperately.

“Okay, okay,” Desmond says, his tone agreeing and becoming less confrontational. “So, what exactly do we do if—hypothetically—I’m really fucking aroused?”

“Hypothetically?” I squeak, my whole body flushing.

“Yeah, definitely not hypothetically.”

“Right, um…” I swallow, trying to keep my head on straight. “Are we talking—?” I lift my arm up to different angles.

“Did you just ask me to describe my, uh—?” Desmond asks pointedly, and I look at my arm angled at half-mast and realize I’m clearly a mental patient!

“Right! Bad idea!”

“Why don’t you just turn around and take a look, okay?”

“What?!” My heart hammers.

“I’m still covered by the sheet,” Desmond clarifies. “And I think it’s going to be a lot less

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