Page 41 of Whiskey Splash

“Come inside,” the waiter shouts over the storm. “We’ll set you up another table. Make you a fresh meal.” He motions for us to walk under his umbrella as he escorts us, but I squeeze Desmond’s hand. It’s a soft tug to indicate I’m not quite ready yet. I want to stay here a moment longer and watch the rain, drink up the rush that’s pumping through my veins.

“We’ll be just a minute,” Desmond says, and the waiter nods, handing Desmond the umbrella and running back to the gate in the downpour, getting completely drenched.

“That man deserves a big tip,” I say, watching him go.

“You can say that again,” Desmond agrees. “Say, three-hundred dollars?” he quips, and I smile, shaking my head at his jab. “Oh, right,” Desmond jokes. “We’re not talking about that.”

The sky is indigo and so is the ocean, churning like a vicious animal, the wind roiling whitecaps that crash against the shore. Rain pounds against the stucco wall, the air humid and warm despite the fierce gales, which swirl into our little alcove kissing every inch of wet fabric that’s clinging to my skin.

I place my tote bag by the edge of the fountain and stand up, turning to Desmond. From this angle, he’s slightly below me as he sits on the fountain’s lip. The wind rakes at my back, wild and glorious, raindrops pounding between my shoulder blades, making me brave.

Desmond looks up at me, lightning flashing, and all I can think is—this is not my life, is it?—the hot smell of sand and ocean, tropical rain, and a gorgeous man looking at me like I’m a rare beauty.

Desmond’s hand grabs my hip, fingers blooming against the wet fabric, pulling me toward him, and inviting my hands to find their way into his hair.

“Okay, here's the deal,” I say, running a sandy foot up the back of my calf, the grit against my skin grounding. I stop massaging his head and lean back, pushing my own swamp of hair out of my face. “I know this outfit looks simple and effortless to you,” I joke, motioning to my dress and hair, which at the moment are a terror. “But little do you know, us ladies sometimes spend ridiculous amounts of time trying to look this good.”

The side of his mouth tugs up, his hand burning into my hip. The dress is thin on its own, but soaked, it feels like he’s touching my naked skin.

“So, take a moment to drink in the elegant waves of hair,” I say, making a show of running my hands through the purple locks that are now frizzy and water-logged. “And this flawless makeup,” I run a finger under my eyes, which are probably black with mascara lines. “And the way this dress catches the air.”

I twirl in front of him, letting the fabric slop against my legs, the wind blowing up my skirt to cool my steaming thighs. His hand glides across my stomach and back as I turn, thunder still crashing. He’s grinning when I return to my original position, completely smitten.

“Okay, have you got this image locked in your mind?” I ask.

Desmond’s eyes rake down my front, as if he’s imagining tearing this dress off. “It’s not something that’s easily forgotten.”

My mouth goes dry at the lust in that comment.

“Good,” I say, my own voice raspier than intended. I bend, taking ahold of my skirt at the knee, his eyes dilate watching me as I lift the fabric up slightly. “Because all this effortless sexy-girl fabulousness—”

I tilt my head so my hair slops off my shoulders and toward him, creating a shield of hair on either side of his face, his breath only inches from my collar bone. In the enclave, everything echoes, the rain pounding, his soft panting, my words lush and ricocheting.

“All this sexiness is about to go the way of the Dodo,” I tease. “And in a second, I’m going to look like a drowned rat.”

“I doubt that,” he says, and the wet skin between my thighs squeeze.

“Oh, yee of little faith,” I say playfully, tapping him on the nose. “Now remember, sexy and damp.” I motion to myself one more time, then step back, turn, and launch myself out onto the beach.

Water immediately covers me like the rush of a waterfall as I skip toward the ocean, opening my arms to the storm.

I twirl and spin, laughing at the sky, inviting the oncoming deluge. My hair sops down against my skull, the strands slapping against my face and neck as I dance. My nipples tighten at the chill of water covering my breasts, water pummeling my chin, my neck, my cleavage, this dress clinging to my hips.

But I keep swirling.

I swirl because the air is hot and the assault is refreshing. I lean my face back to the sky, open my mouth and take in the night’s baptism.

I reach the ocean and kick my feet against the tide, splashing into the storm, sand and seawater slapping at my calves. Thunder booms and for the second time today I feel wild and alive, dancing in the face of the elements, the loud rumble of clouds waking me.

I turn back around, ankle-deep in the water, and look at Desmond. Lightning flashes and I can see him grinning and standing at the edge of the alcove, framed in pink vines and—compared to me—completely dry. I whip my hair back and out of my face, the lavender strands heavy with rain.

“Are you coming?” I wave to him, motioning for him to follow me into the ocean, but he just stares at me with a goofy smile. “Come on!” I call out again. “It feels amazing.”

He looks up at the sky, then down over to the gate of the restaurant, then back to me. He doesn't budge, instead he watches me with an intensity that sets my core flaming.

I break his gaze and twirl, feeling water on my fingertips and elbows, on my cheeks and collar bone, all beating to the pattern of the tapping flurry. I twirl till I’m dizzy and I’ve waded far enough into the ocean to feel the splash of seawater at the back of my thighs.

I stop to catch my breath and regain my balance, and when I do I see Desmond is halfway between us on the beach, drenched in rainwater. He’s walking straight for me, barefoot, determined, no twirls or skipping.

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