Page 34 of Whiskey Splash

Arie:I don’t know why you bother to text me.

Esme:Because I love you.

Arie:I know.

Esme:And I need someone to tell me to stop being a chicken shit.

Arie:Go on the date. Have fun. Seriously, have fun. Fun = fuck his brains out.

Esme:Message received.

Arie:You’re going to masturbate with that battery operated thingy instead, aren’t you?

Esme:I dunno … you’ll just have to wait and find out.

Arie:At some point you have to take off the training wheels.

Esme:Good night, Arie.

Arie:Okay, but wait. One last tip—don’t actually masturbate. Enjoy all that pent up tension. It’s gonna make the sex so much better when you actually get together.

Esme:If that happens.

Arie:Well, that’s up to you now isn’t it.

A gif pops up on the screen. It’s a picture of a man in bed orgasming. The image and sound bite are on a loop, the point of release on repeat.

Classic Arie.

Arie:He’s acting in this, but it would be real with you.

I zoom in on the picture, and hot damn, it’s actually Desmond—his hips thrusting, his mouth falling open. It must be from the show. He does play a billionaire sex god after all. Acting or not, my nipples peak at the image of him thrusting and coming, again and again and again.

Arie:You’re welcome. Sweet dreams, Esme.

Sweet dreams indeed!

Chapter Nine

It’s Friday, and I’m standing at the south entrance of the resort in a t-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. My hand clutches the tote that carries my heels and dress. Was he serious about skydiving? Probably not. That was probably some big euphemism for adventure and sweeping me off my feet, or some such nonsense. At least, I hope it is.

It’s three-fifteen, which means he’s late.

Arie always tells me being “on time” is the new way of being super early. But frankly, if you want to meet at three-thirty,saythree-thirty! I’m just nervous, of course, because every other interaction with Desmond has been an education on how tonotact around other humans. And worse, what if this turns into a late-night sleepover? Do I even want that? Arie’s been texting me GIFs fromBillionaire Heatas if my pussy needs some pre-date tenderizing. If Desmond ever looks at my stream of text-messages, he’s going to think I’m some horny viper of a fan girl after all.

“Miss Noel?” I turn to see a black sedan pulled up to the curb and a middle-aged driver in a suit with his hand up, flagging me down. I’m not used to being addressed by my last name. It feels so official. I’m the one who usually calls people by their last names and says sir and madam, not the other way around.

I smile graciously. “You can call me Esme.”

The driver nods and walks around the car to open the door. I peek inside to make sure Desmond’s in the back seat and this isn’t some elaborate drug-me-and-steal-my-organs operation. He’s leaning against the far window in a t-shirt and jeans looking gorgeous with a spray of wild hair in his face and typing something into his phone. He smiles and gestures for me to take a seat, reminding me of just how easily he can turn my insides to jelly. I slide in next to him, thanking the driver, as I tuck my tote on the floor behind my shins.

“For the record,” I say, before we’ve even pulled off the curb, “I’m not jumping out of an airplane.”

Desmond laughs, still typing on his phone. “Of course not. They push you out. No one in their right mind jumps into what looks like certain death of their own volition.”

My stomach drops. “Wait. We’re not really going—?”

He waves his phone at me. “Just finalized our reservation,” he says, before tucking the device away and turning his attention on me completely. “What? You’re not ready to live on the edge with me?”

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