Page 22 of Whiskey Splash

I slide my hand over his pec, hotly, and the electricity of my fingers shoots straight between my legs. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see his cock twitch.

“Oh, woah—!” Desmond grabs my wrist—hard—flattening my hand against his chest and not letting me get any closer to that sheet. His whole body is rigid and the gold in his eyes has gone dark, his pupils dilated. “If we choose option three,” he says gruffly, his heart racing under my wrist, “we’re going to have avery differentproblem in a second.”

His eyes flick to my mouth and my clit throbs knowing exactly what he means.

I’ve already got him on the edge, and if I keep touching him, he’s either going to come or fuck me in this tiny room with the buddha statues watching.

“Desmond,” I say carefully, pulling my hand away. My pussy growls at the loss of connection, but we’ve already crossed way too many lines in this session. “I think this has gotten a little awkward, for which I apologize. It’s entirely my fault. I think it would be best if we end this massage right now.” I inch toward the door. “I will happily refund payment for the session. You can stay in this room as long as you need to, and—” My eyes flick to his tented sheet, and I swear a corner of his mouth lifts in reaction. “And please,” I raise my voice, as if that will cover for the fact that I keep sneaking glances. “Please, feel free to use the rest of the spa facilities for as long as you need.”

I spin on my heels and speed out of there, shutting the door quickly behind me. My heart is racing as my body reacts immediately to the cooler air in the hallway, the chill caressing my sweating body. I take a deep breath. I take ten, counting my steps as I head back up to reception desk.

Naomi squints up at me as I walk up, my time isn’t up, which is her first clue, but it’s probably the flush on my face that makes her eyes narrow.

“What’s wrong?”

I hand her the keys to room ten. “I’m going to need a full refund for Des—” I catch myself. “For Mr. Clarke. Please, give him a free return pass with another masseuse. Not me. It has to be someone else.”

Naomi tilts her head in concern, pulling up Desmond’s reservation. “What happened? Was he not satisfied?”

I glance over my shoulder to see Mrs. Rose perusing the hall. This isn’t the right time to talk and explain the double entendre of the wordsatisfied. Instead, I look back at Naomi and raise an eyebrow. “Let’s just say he was perhaps a bit … too happy.” I stare at her, waiting for her to put two and two together.

“No!” Naomi's eyes widen. “Oh man, got it. Refund, new masseuse. No problem.” She confirms. “I've got it covered.” Then she stops and looks at me curiously. “Wait, was this the hot guy that came in this morning? Gorgeous? Over six feet? Fit as an Avenger?”

I nod. “Yes. Actually, he’s the star of that damn movie they’re filming.”

“Wait!” Naomi’s eyes light up, putting it all together. “No shit?” I glare at her to keep it down, looking over my shoulder at Mrs. Rose who’s fighting with the candle and incense display. “Okay! Okay,” Naomi lowers her voice, smiling deviously. “But you have to promise to tell me everything tonight over pizza.”

I nod my head, honestly, she’s not going to believe a word of it. “My house, seven thirty. And, I'm going to take a break.” I nod to Mrs. Rose, hoping Naomi will cover and provide my employer a distraction. “Can you call me after he leaves? I don't want to make this more uncomfortable for either of us.”

“Of course,” Naomi agrees, already adding complimentary services to Desmond’s reservation. “I'll explain to Mrs. Rose that you were feeling sick and you canceled, and we'll make a new appointment for Mr. Clarke. Whose real name is …?” She fishes, eyeing me for information. I know she’s going to spend the rest of her shift Googling him.

“Look upBillionaire Heat,” I say. “And you’ll find a familiar face.”

Naomi giggles and I shake my head, sneaking past her to go change in the locker room, my skin still flushed and aching.

Chapter Five

Naomi texts me later to let me know Desmond has left and I can head back to The Mandara to pick up the rest of my shift. But when I walk up to reception, Naomi isn’t manning the desk. Instead, Mrs. Rose is frowning in front of the bamboo display—and boy, she does not look happy!

Mrs. Rose looks like the Wicked Witch of the West’s disgruntled cousin. Her graying hair sits atop her head in a sever bun that’s so tight I swear it holds in her vital organs. I bet the woman would shed an entire layer of skin if she unraveled it. The crook in her nose is distinctly witch-y and the ice in her voice makes any need for one of our cool-remedies completely pointless. Five minutes with Mrs. Rose and any happy Zen place you just spent moocho-moola on goes right out the window. She’s the number one Zen-kill.

“Esme!” Mrs. Rose points to me as I walk up, her dark eyebrows knit in a tarantula leg of unpleasantness. “I need to speak to you in my office, right now!” Her ice-pick of a tone goes right for the jugular, and I look around quickly for Naomi.

Did Desmond complain? I did my best to leave as graciously as possible, and I know Naomi comped him a free massage and probably the kitchen sink to boot. So, what am I missing? But my Scandinavian friend is nowhere to be seen to clue me in.

“Of course,” I say softly, following the click of Mrs. Rose’s heels into her tiny dungeon.

The walls of Mrs. Rose’s office are lined with boxes of brochures, broken fountains, scented candles, and various spa equipment and oils. Her office feels like the hidden warehouse of out-of-date spa accessories. I remove a ten-year-old mud warmer from the chair across from Mrs. Rose’s desk and place it on the floor, taking a seat. My storybook villain of a boss is already frowning, and I’m ready for her to pull a magic wand out of the nearby stack of plastic lotus flowers and turn me into something small and slimy.

“What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Rose?” I ask, hoping the next words out of her mouth aren’t ‘Desmond Pike thinks you’re the most unethical masseuse this side of the Pacific and I’m firing you.’

Mrs. Rose rifles through a drawer in her desk, then tosses a wad of crumpled-up green papers on the center of the desk.

“What did you do?” Mrs. Rose growls, and I have to lean forward to get a better look at what she’s offering as evidence. I pick the papers up and start to uncrumple them, the grimy texture of the paper familiar, and it only takes a second to realize it’s money—and it’s not just a couple of dollars—oh no, multiple Ben Franklins are grimacing at me.

It’s three-hundred dollars.

I drop the money back on the table, confused. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rose. I don’t understand. I don’t know whose money this is.”

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