Page 78 of Whiskey Splash

Desmond:I’ll survive. Now, tell me about how I can get you to sign up for some*private*lessons.

Esme:Well, at least you’re catching on to the language.

I hear Mrs. Rose’s footsteps stomping down the hall and I peek out of the alcove to see her headed in my direction. I quickly dash off one more text.

Esme:See you Friday. Gotta go. Boss is coming.

I tuck my phone away and sneak through the hallway to the locker room, pulling my supplies out for my next session. Mrs. Rose swings in and looks at me suspiciously, but I’m busy organizing my supplies. I wave at her with a small smile and she frowns, walking out without a word.

After my final session and I’ve cleaned up my station, I pull out my phone as I’m changing in the locker room, getting ready to hang out with Naomi and the girls in the steam room. Act normal, right? Do what everyone else is doing and avoid suspicion.

I see Desmond’s reply and my legs go weak.

Desmond:I’ve signed you up for a private lesson at 5pm on Friday. Two-person pushups require a lot of stamina. You might want to carb-up so you’re ready.

I must flush, because Naomi gives me a suggestive look as she walks in and tosses me a robe and towel.

“Strip down, girl, and meet us in the steam room,” she says. “Then you’re going to tell me everything Mr. Clarke just texted you, because damn!”

My face heats even more and I turn away from her when she tries to peek over my shoulder to see what we’ve been texting. “I’ll be a second,” I say, dashing off a final text:

Esme:Did you just tell me to pig out on waffles? You’ve stolen my heart already.

My phone beeps one more time as I slip on my robe.

Desmond:Pick your fancy, but waffles isn’t what I’ll be eating.

Naomi is right: damn. I’m not going to survive Hurricane Desmond.

Chapter Twenty

I’ve made it to Thursday without any incident with Mrs. Rose, which is a blessing. Especially since I’ve had butterflies in my stomach all week, which have turned into a tornado because tomorrow Desmond comes back. It’s a godsend that I haven’t tripped over my own feet or knocked a client face-first into a mud bath.

I’m the first to arrive in the spa’s salt-infused steam room, the other girls still packing up their carts before joining me like they’ve done all week.

The small room reminds me of a Roman bath house. It isn’t a big courtyard with pillars, but the ceiling is arched like a tunnel and the benches and walls are made of a warm yellow stone. It gives the illusion of being ancient and old, and the salt in the air creates an earthy tang reminding me of a hidden tomb in a giant temple, a private sanctuary. There’s room for six of us on the flat planks of granite, the benches wide enough to lie down on. And the seats face each other as if you’re supposed to ruminate for hours with your friends, soaking up the steam as you philosophize on life’s meaning.

The temperature in the chamber is immediate, pebbling my skin with sweat as the vapors kiss my exposed shoulders, turning the towel wrapped around my mid-section damp. A pyramid of rolled towels lies near the entrance next to a bowl of rosewater and I snag an extra towel before moving to the back of the room. I walk to the slab near the flat wall in the back that’s hung with Moroccan-style lanterns. The candlelit glow through the metal sheets cast intricate shadows over the granite and steam, and when I walk close to the wall the light tattoos my arms and legs in elaborate patterns.

I’m the first to arrive and this corner has become my go-to location all week, and now that it’s Thursday, the habit has become routine. I place the rolled towel in the corner to act as a pillow, then unwrap the damp one that clings to my skin.

I’m alone and nobody’s here yet, so I take a moment to let the steam glide over all of me. It’s a consuming humid blanket and I tilt my head back to bask in the feeling of the sweltering exhale of heat as it soaks my naked body. The thick haze of moisture slips over my breasts and stomach, up my arms and down my spine, cupping my backside. It’s a sensual blaze of invisible hands limbering up my muscles and stealing the stress buried at the back of my neck. Whoever’s idea it was to start using the steam rooms after hours is a freaking genius.

I allow myself one more delicious moment exposed to the room’s elements before I lie down on the bench and flatten my spine against the wet stone. I place the damp towel over my hips, torso, and chest, so I’m decently covered, with only my legs and shoulders unveiled. My friends will be in here in a minute and even though some of the girls don’t mind lounging around naked in each other’s presence, I’m not one of them.

I’d be lying if the hard stone against my shoulder blades doesn’t make me think of Desmond. My mind is already buzzing between what might happen tomorrow when he gets back from his shoot and the memory of my body arched against the hard tile of his pool. Naomi’s been teasing me about him all week, and Arie’s been on her text messaging vendetta, thinking ridiculous phrases like “go batter dip his corn dog” and “why aren’t you pounding the punani pavement” as if that’s the equivalent of an inspirational speech.

I stare at the ceiling and try to melt into the steam, lying in corpse pose and relaxing my gaze. Thankful for this quiet moment before Naomi and the girls come in whistling and giggling.

I fill up my lungs with hot wet air, centering my thoughts on being in the moment, on being present. I walk my mind through the sensations around me, the brine of salt on my lips, the silent echo of my breathing. Steam drifts through the lacy patterns of light on the ceiling, candlelight flickering, and I’m in a dreamland, a cloud-filled bath of humidity. The wet-gold stones are grounding, making me aware of my legs stretched out long and flat against the smooth rock, my body sweating. Moisture wilts along my cheeks and neck, a soft drizzle pooling along the underside of my breasts. I close my eyes as a low vibration hums in my stomach, like a singing bowl strumming me with sound, opening me up to a state of internal revelry. This is what bliss is, a calm openness, sweating out all the bad and allowing the good back in.

I hear the door to the chamber click open and one of the girls comes in. She’s quiet, easing the door shut like she knows I’m in the middle of some euphoric mental sanctuary. She pads in softly and maybe grabs a towel. I ease my mind back to that blissful state where my body is light and my mind is steam, not hearing her sit or lie down, thankful she also wants to bask in this simple ecstasy. After a while, I reach my arms up, elongating my body and stretching, pressing my fingers into the wall behind me as I wring my muscles out like a cat arching.

“Mmmmm,” I let out a soft tone so she knows it’s okay to start talking if she wants to. “You have no clue how badly I needed this this week,” I say in a low whisper that dissipates through the brume.

“You can say that again,” comes a dark growl, and my nipples peak.

I know that voice, that intonation, a pang between my legs suddenly aching.

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