Page 45 of Whiskey Splash

“You mean, you can’t believe how turned on you were,” he says, grabbing my hips from his position behind me and grinding my ass into his wet jeans, his bulge significant.

“Maybe,” I admit breathlessly, as those greedy hands of his slide all over my body—hips, navel, up my front to cup my straining breasts. I lean back into him hotly, and he thrums my nipples, releasing a vile moan deep from my gut.

“Oh God, there she is!” he praises, doing it again and making me grind against his jeans.

“How many damn floors is it to the top,” I complain, and he flips me around, crushing me between himself and the elevator door. My hands grab his ass, clutching the wet denim hungrily.

“If you’re too impatient,” Desmond teases, “I can fuck you in the elevator.”

I buck my hips and try to throw him off at the crassness of his comment, only it makes him grind the bulge of his cock harder against my core. My mouth drops open and I pump against him, my skirt open to my belly button, baring my legs and my tiny white thong as I scrape it hedonistically against his zipper.

“God, that’s hot,” he growls, hooking my leg over his hip to allow me better access, and I roll my hips, dragging my pussy back and forth against him. “Now, let me get this straight,” Desmond’s hands wring my waist. “It’s too public in the car or out in the rain, but in an elevator where the doors could open at any moment—” His fingers slide down to my hips. “That’s where you dare me to tear your panties off?”

I buck against him and manage to scramble out from under his delicious weight. My legs are wobbly beneath me, but I step to the far side of the elevator, panting.

“I didn’t dare you to do anything,” I counter, and he turns around and smiles, drinking me in.

“Of course, you didn’t,” he taunts, looking just as incredible all wet, to the point that it's almost infuriating.

I can see his pecs and abs through the fabric of his button up shirt, and he looks at me with the same veracious need, starting to pull his shirt out from his pants and untucking it. The action reveals a hot slice of his abdomen and my eyes zero in on it like a hunter ready to pounce. Slowly he begins unbuttoning the shirt, from the bottom working up, my chest heaving.

“I see. You didn’t dare me to tear off your panties,” he says hotly, every floor we pass becoming another button, a striptease of his abs, the v of his hips, his pecs, each button revealing more of him. “In the same way I’m not daring you to—” He pries his shirt open, showing me his glorious skin. “Pull my cock out of these pants and wrap your mouth around it.”

My eyes fly to his belt buckle and the bulge below, my mouth suddenly watering. My pussy slicks with the idea of first my mouth, then my cunt, sucking him all the way to the hilt. He chuckles like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and I clutch the metal railing behind me to keep from launching myself at him.

The elevator dings—thank God!—and we’ve finally reached the top. To my memory, the elevator opens directly into the penthouse suite and I take a feral step toward him, trying to decide if we’ll have enough willpower to make it to the bedroom, or if we should just start rolling around on the floor in whatever room these doors open to.

My pussy votes for the floor.

“Good evening, Desmond,” a male voice—not Desmond’s—rings out from behind him.

Somebody is there!

My body jolts and I drop down to grab the towel on the floor. Desmond swings around quickly, not bothering for modesty and uses his body to stand in the doorway and block whoever it is from seeing me.

“You got caught in the rain, sir. Would you like me to set out some towels or—?” The voice asks, but I can't see who it is. He sounds young and male.

“That won't be necessary,” Desmond growls in a dark tone that means get lost.

There's a pause and Desmond shifts in the doorway, and it distinctly feels like he’s trying to hide me, before the voice says. “Of course, sir.”

I don’t know why, but it pisses me off that I’m hidden, like I'm something he's ashamed of, even though I know he’s doing it out of modesty. I secure the towel and nudge Desmond forward. He tenses as I sneak under his arm and step out, running a hand through my mussed-up hair.

“Evening,” I say, my gaze falling on a nice young man, maybe twenty, even though he dresses like a fifty-year-old golfer in khakis and a polo. His eyes widen at the sight of me. “Are you Desmond's little brother?” I ask, holding out a hand to shake his.

“No ma'am.”

“Esme,” I say. “Please don't ma'am me. This isn't aFifty Shades of Graynovel.”

He blushes awkwardly at that comment, which endears me to him. All too often, I’m the one in his shoes, turning hot pink.

“This—uh, is Tam,” Desmond says, as the boy lifts his hand to me and I shake it firmly. His fingers are thin and delicate, completely the opposite of Desmond’s.

“So, are you his personal assistant?” I ask, and Tam nods uncomfortably as I tread deeper into the room.

The suite is incredible. A gold chandelier hangs from the ceiling, illuminating the large entry way. It hangs above large abstract paintings of geometric shapes and plush cream-colored sofas that flank each wall. It’s a fusion of old-school Victorian elegance (chandeliers and gold trims) combined with modern bravado (sleek lines and bold accents). It’s cozier than I’d anticipated, but something about it fits Desmond.

“Personal assistant, huh?” I say to Tam, running a finger along the white marble entrance table at the center of the foyer, deciding to tease him a little. “Tell me, am I the first girl Desmond’s brought up here on this trip, or do you normally look so confused when he brings someone back to this hot little—well, not so little—” I gesture to the room. “Bachelor pad?”

---