Page 69 of Whiskey Splash

“I know that defining us right now would ruin it,” I whisper, leaning forward and dragging my lips against his.

It’s not a kiss, so much as a breath. The two of us caught together in this moment, breathing. He meets that softness, our mouths in sync, trying to give me—us—this space to be whatever it is.

We breathe in the silence, easing into the simplicity of this being only him and me without anything or anyone else around to define it. He waits, lingering on my mouth, his eyes closed as I trace my hands down to his throat, feeling the sensitive tendons at the front of his neck, the ball of his Adam’s apple, the thickness of his shoulders.

Almost unconsciously, my fingers dig into the muscles at the back of his neck, feeling the tension there, seeking it out and looking to unravel it. He moans, knowing my hands, allowing them to release the weight of his day into my fingertips. And in that soft surrender I kiss him, softly, tenderly, like a question. A tiny invitation to relax into my grasp.

His arms slide around my waist, but they aren’t crushing or incessant, instead they cup the small of my back softly, lingering with a certain weightlessness. Our mouths dance a lazy waltz of gentleness, a whispering brush as trust buds between us, as we learn each other’s language.

I hum into his soft exhale as my hands move from his neck to his shoulders, kneading into the thick muscle of his upper arms. The groan that escapes his lips is a thank you, a sigh of air that aches of his day, slipping out between the strokes of my fingers.

He lets my hands extract all his stress and hesitation, our mouths tasting of strawberries with their delicate fruit. The knots and tension held in his upper body turns limber and softens, my hands working the muscle like a ritual, a purification, as he dissolves under my fingertips.

After a while, I stop digging into his shoulders and pull back to look at him, brushing his hair out of his face. He gazes at me lazily, before saying, “You might be addicting.”

I tilt my head down, embarrassed, and he tangles his fingers with mine sweetly.

“Private massages are expensive,” I warn him, looking back up.

“Oh man.” He bites his lip, trying to keep something down. “I’m seriously trying not to make a happy ending joke right now, but—” he shrugs like the cat’s already out of the bag. “Too late. I said it.”

“Way to ruin a completely lovely moment,” I scold him.

“Speaking of,” Desmond starts, then raises his hands to correct himself. “I mean, the massage part, not the foresaid awkward moment-ruining comment. Have you ever thought about opening your own independent contractor massage business?”

“You mean going to people’s houses and giving massages?”

“Sure, or having your own place,” he says. “No obnoxious boss. No resort policies that totally throw a wrench in a would-be traveler’s personal vacation.”

“Oh, you’re on vacation, are you?” I quip.

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “I’m not talking about me. I’m at work. This—” He points around him to the trailer. “Is me working, working hard. I mean, you, in here. That would not be kosher for your resort policy. This is completely not a date.”

“Agreed.” I nod, and he lifts an eyebrow as if I was supposed to fight him on this. “Well, you did spend most of the day covered in exploding Jell-O and completely ignoring me. Crappy date if you ask me.”

“Not because I wanted to,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “I’d happily roll around in Jell-O with you.”

“Ha! I bet you would!”

His eyes light, like that’s a challenge, and he picks me up, making me yelp. “Of course, people would be filming us if I did, so I thought I’d wait it out till I got that lavender-haired beauty all on my own.”

The mention of filming us makes my stomach squirm, even though I know he meant it as a joke.

I try to let it pass as he slips one of his arms around my waist and the other to the back of my head, kissing me as he moves us into the bedroom. Desmond lifts me up over the high edge of the bed before laying me back against his sheets. Then, he crawls up onto the bed over me, laying the weight of his body on top of mine like a whisper, a perfect compression.

It’s my turn to moan into the soft force of him, heavy and draining the breath out of me, wringing my stress and fear away with the supple roll of his hips.

Nothing about him is hungry, he doesn’t reach under my clothes or graze the parts of me that would normally heat in anticipation. He touches my face gingerly, kissing me like it’s the first and last thing he might ever be allowed to breathe.

Fingers tangle into my hair, twists his whispering touch into my bones. The sway of his body is an ocean rocking nimbly against the shore and I am the sand beneath him slipping through the fingers of his tide.

“Desmond,” I say softly, a rock of fear in my gut that I can’t ignore. I twist so we’re laying on our sides, face to face, with our limbs still tangled. “I know you just made that filming comment as a joke, but I need to tell you something about the whole paparazzi photo incident.”

I feel his body stiffen, but he runs his hand through my purple hair to keep from separating the connection between us.

“Okay,” he says softly, waiting for me talk.

“Obviously, I was upset,” I start, taking a breath. “Anyone would be.” He nods, listening. “Having personal pictures taken of me, or your coworkers thinking I’m your—” He kisses me softly so I don’t say it.

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