Page 91 of Whiskey Splash

“What’s wrong?” he asks, kissing my throat, and I give him a tight smile at how obvious I am, and how easily he can read me.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, putting the glass down and turning back to face him. “I’m just—” I laugh nervously, trying to think of a way to say this. “I’m working up the courage to—”

“Tell me you love me?” he asks, raising a teasing eyebrow.

A string of tension pulls directly in my gut, straight through my umbilical cord—a visceral punch that leaves me unbalanced. My face heats, flushing neon, that’snotwhat I was going to say. A smile spreads across his face at whatever reaction I’m making, and it knocks the fucking breath out of me. Suddenly, we’re kissing, and he’s taking my mouth and licking me open, our breath filling up my lungs with the terrifying possibility that it wasn’t a joke at all.

“Des,” I push him away, untangling our lips. “I need to tell you about the sun.”

His eyes glitter, and his neck and hair are back-lit in gold, a halo of softness radiating behind him—the smile that slips over his face is practically giddy.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to say,” I nudge him, and that smile spreads even wider, making him look sun-drunk and beautiful. “What the heck is that smile!”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugs, and I poke him in the side, making him squirm. He snags my finger, pulling me closer to him. “Okay, maybe it’s not nothing. Maybe it’s the fact that whatever crazy, ridiculous, awkward, beautiful thing you’re about to say—about the sun,” his eyes fall to my lips, to my neck, then back up to my eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it’s just going to make me fall in love with you more than I already have.”

My stomach flips.

His grin crinkles all the way to his eyes, watching my reaction—my silent, shocked, speechless—

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Nope, maybe not so speechless.

He laughs as the blood drains from my face, and for a second I swear he actually blushes.Desmondblushes.

“I think you heard me,” he says, leaning in and brushing his lips and breath and starlight between us. “Now tell me about the sun.”

My throat is closed, my head buzzing, his lips a delicate butterfly at the edge of my mouth. I force myself to swallow as he moves up my chin, my chest blossoming. Did he just say what I think he said? He just—

“Stop overthinking!” Desmond says, nipping my ear. “Tell me what happened with the sun?”

I look past him to where the giant gilded orb kisses the horizon, turning the entire world to gold. “Desmond,” I manage to get out, my chest pounding. “I’ve never been in the sunlight with anyone. Naked in the sun with anyone.” I clarify. “The other day at my house, in my bed, when we—”

The words seem hard to say, weighted after his confession. Desmond pulls back and looks at me, searching my expression. He was there. He knows.

“When we made love?” he says, and I’m not sure which word spooks me more—weorlove. Desmond brushes the hair back from my cheeks, filling me with his encompassing smile, not letting me turn away from what he’s saying.

“Yes.” I nod, breathlessly. “When we made love in the window. We were in the sun.” I don’t know if any of this makes sense, but his eyes are so soft and tender I want to drown in them. “I’ve never let anyone see me before, Des. I’ve always been in the dark, or low light, never somewhere so open and exposed. You make me want the sun. You make me want to show you all of me.”

His arms wrap all around my back and I’m consumed by him. Scalded. Burned. His lips white-hot with my confession.

“See,” he says finally, between kisses. “Everything you say just makes me fall harder and harder.”

“You’re such a cliché,” I breathe against his lips.

“Guilty.” His warm hands slide under my shirt and over my ribs, pushing my shirt up. “There isn’t much sun left,” he whispers in my ear. “Can I see you in what’s left of it?” His request is reverent, not hot and demanding, instead it’s like a tiny prayer, and it makes me bold and courageous.

I nod against his mouth and push him back softly, untangling myself from him and the chair. He leans back on the lounge pillows as I kick off my flip flops and walk to the edge of the balcony near his feet. The tile is cold, but the sky is flushed orange. Everything glows with golden hour, the chairs, the terrace, the windows of the penthouse blazed in pink Aurelian.

I slip my flowing skirt down over my hips and peel my t-shirt up over my head. I unhook my bra and panties, dropping them softly on the tile by my ankles, then I stand in front of Desmond, naked, my body coated in gold and wind. He gazes at me like I’m a work of art, a thing of beauty, emotion and reverence wetting his stare. My lavender hair is yellow in the sunset, becoming tawny-saffron flames that waft down my shoulders. I feel full and wild and invincible. My own, and his.

I nod to the cell phone on the table next to him, a flutter of fear in my gut, but knowing this is important. Being seen is step one. Facing my fear is the other.

“Take a picture,” I say softly, giving him permission.

His eyes widen as he stares at me, not convinced. I nod again, and he scoots forward toward the phone. I close my eyes and repeat it. “Take a picture. Just you. For you.” I lick my lips and enjoy the feel of the wind and sun on my skin, the night descending as the sunset starts to seep the light from my bareness.

I feel hands on my stomach, soft and erotic as they brush across my ribs to my sun-drenched skin. I open my eyes as Desmond cups my shoulder blades—the echo of his fingers drawing wings on my back when we were sun-bleached in my bed.

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