Page 44 of Whiskey Splash

I must have moaned softly, because Desmond snaps a look at me like I practically cried out, his gaze hot and curious, wanting to know every detail of what I just thought. I blush, and shoot my eyes toward the oscillating palm trees, wringing out my hair and avoiding his torrid look.

Heat covers my kneecap—his hand—and my eyes flutter shut at the advance, savoring the delicious brand of his fingers against my muggy skin. When I dare to look back at him, that crooked smile is sinfully naughty as he starts to draw lazy circles on the inside of my knee.

My eyes flick to the driver who isright there. This isn’t one of those limos with tinted windows and privacy screens. If the driver looks back in that rear view mirror enough times, he’ll see what’s happening. Desmond doesn’t seem to care, inching his silky fingertips further up the inside of my thigh.

I grab his wrist, my breath shallowing. I’m completely torn, this is still public, even if it’s only one possible voyeur. But Desmond’s supple fingers are recklessly delicious, and this day has been all about crossing borders.

If I do this, what kind of person does it make me? Am I starting to fulfill all the awful rumors they said about me in college? I wasn’t that girl then, but if I do this now, does that make their words a manifestation, as if they knew this is who I’d become?

I take a deep breath, pissed I’m even thinking about Jeremy and what he did. How is it even possible that now, years later, he still has some kind of hold over me? That he can make me feel bad for my desire and wanting.

I pull a hot breath into my lungs.

I do want this.

I want it so much my heart is hammering.

So what if the driver is there? So what if people talk? I’m my own woman. I’m supposed to take control of my desire.

What would Arie do—right?

She wouldn’t care! Not in the slightest.

I bite my lip and close my eyes, letting go of Desmond’s wrist and giving him permission, opening my legs a hint wider. I hear him suck in a breath and his fingers increase their pace.

I focus on the swirling motion, the tickle of skin, and the way my clit aches with each delicate caress. His fingers tease both sides of my legs, knuckles running the ridge of one, fingers the other.

I look down when he’s halfway up my thigh to notice his pinky toying with the pearl button on my dress. He’s reached the V in my skirt where he needs to dip under the fabric, or unbutton it. But he takes his time, swirling his pinky over the pearl, softly teasing and flicking it, thrumming it and making it wobble. My clit pounds and I realize he’s pretending that pearl is my hot bundle of nerves and he’s showing me exactly how he wants to touch me. I stifle a moan at how hot that is, and watching him savor the button makes my panties slick.

After toying with the nub of the pearl, he pops the button through the loop, releasing a new inch of fabric; all the while his fingers still tease my opening thighs as he moves to the next pearl and repeats the motion.

Each swirl makes my clit hard, aching, waiting for its turn to be under those masterful fingers, inflamed and thrummed.

I roll my head back and look at the ceiling, breathing deeply with long controlled breaths, inflating my lungs—in and out, years of yoga practice.

The flush of air moves through my body, increasing the pound between legs and stoking the fire with oxygen. When I look down, he’s unbuttoned me all the way to my navel, the dress open and showing the triangle of my lacy thong.

I’m so shamelessly exposed it turns me on, his fingers playing with the soft peach-fuzz of skin below my belly button. Lewdly, I open my legs and Desmond practically growls, lashing a finger across the strip of wet fabric.

I stifle a cry in my throat, snapping my legs together and catching his hand like a Venus fly trap. It’s too damn hot! Too wicked and perfect. If he pulls that fabric aside like I want him to, if he touches my bare pussy—I’ll be out of control.

Grabbing his shirt, I pull Desmond over to me and bury my head in his neck, panting. His hand is still caught, but his fingers are mobile enough that he’s dragging them dangerously up and down the tiny piece of lace that barely covers what he wants.

“I’m not going to be able to stay quiet,” I hiss in his ear, warning him to stop, else I’ll be coming in front of the driver. He pulls his hand out from between my thighs and rakes those same naughty fingers into my hair, pulling my head back just enough to lean in and kiss me. His mouth is wicked and demanding, all the sweet pretenses gone.

“Good,” he says gruffly, nodding toward the window. “Cause we’re here.”

I turn and see the resort come into view, the pavement sparkling, and all the golden globes of light distorted from the rain into large glittering suns. It’s a feast of shimmering prisms and puddles reflecting, the rain still splashing and setting my heart alight.

The driver is kind enough to drive us to the side entrance of the main tower. When he stops, I grab my tote and towel, not waiting for the driver to open the door.

I run toward the building, the rain still pummeling, and soaking me again, my feet smacking against the cement that leads to the entrance. The skirt of my dress blows open and it’s a complete rush, despite the indecency, and for a moment I savor the rain against my navel, cool water lapping at my lace. I swing the towel around my torso, like when you get out of the shower, and dig into my tote for my employee key.

Once inside the building, I walk to the nearest elevator and click theupbutton, still in view of the windows, where I see Desmond paying the driver. The silver doors open and I step inside, pressing thedoor-openbutton as I scan the floors to make sure you can get to the Penthouse in this one. Not all of them go to the top. But there it is—GPH1—thank goodness.

I press the button and it illuminates, just as Desmond walks in, soaked and dripping. He slides in behind me, knocking my hand off of thedoor-openbutton and pressing thedoor-closeinstead. He waves his keycard before the sensor, giving it permission to go to the Penthouse before dipping his head into the back of my neck and kissing me through my wet hair, just as the silver doors start to close.

“I can’t believe you did that in front of the driver!” I scold him, not stopping his assault as he pulls the towel from my hands and lets it fall to my ankles.

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