Page 28 of Whiskey Splash

My heart jumps at the low voice behind me, heat shooting to all my extremities and nullifying the cold water I just drenched myself in.

I spin around to see Desmond leaning casually against the wall next to the women’s bathroom, hair wet from his workout, yoga mat under his arm. He’s obviously been waiting.

“Are you stalking me?” I hiss, and he smiles like I just kissed him on the cheek and giggled instead of insulting him. He pushes off the wall and heads toward me, his tank top sticking to his chest, and his arms glistening.

“On the contrary,” he says smoothly. “I’m well aware of what stalking is, and trust me,thisisn’t even close.”

I roll my eyes and point to the beach. “Don’t you have a corral of fans waiting for you by the ocean? If you need a pen to sign autographs with, the concierge is near the front desk.” He pulls a pen out of his shorts and waves it at me like he always has one locked and loaded, still heading toward me undeterred. I flip around and head down the nearest corridor, not interested.

“Esme!” he calls after me, his bare feet smacking against the concrete path. Obviously he’s following, but I don’t care.

I jet up the nearest staircase, which leads to the second level and a concrete bridge with tiny alcove-like balconies on it. Each is overgrown with vegetation and overlooks the beach. I think the bridge leads to the third tower and the conference section of the resort, but I’m not really sure.

“Esme, hey!” Desmond catches my hand and pulls me into one of the small side balconies, tucking us up against an iron railing that’s covered in a twisted vine blooming with pink flowers.

“Desmond!” I hiss, yanking my hand out of his grip. “I’m going to kill you!”

“Why?” he laughs, taking all of this way too casually. I raise my eyebrows at him like it ought to be freaking obvious. “Oh right,” he laughs, remembering our last encounter. “Look, I’m the one who had to walk out the spa the other day clutching my gym bag awkwardly over my shorts! If anyone has the right to be pissed off it’s—”

“Why’d you give me that damn tip?” I interrupt, poking him in the chest for emphasis, trying to make a point.

He shrugs. “It was an apology!”

“Desmond! You can’t pay off the girl who got you hard—” I flinch at my own words and step back, cursing myself for being so crass. I lower my voice before addressing him again. “You can’t give money to the person that gave you the wrong kind of massage!” I say carefully this time. “Do you have any idea how that looks?”

The grin on his face drops. “Huh, I didn’t really think about it that way.”

“Yeah, well, younot thinking about it resulted in my boss becoming absolutely convincedI’m the type of girl who…” I motion to his lower region, trying to keep my face stoic so he understands the full weight of this.

“Shit, sorry,” he frowns, looking genuinely concerned. He turns back to the main building. “Should I talk to your boss?”

“No!” I grab his arm to stop him from bee-lining it straight to the spa and getting me fired. “You should definitely not talk to her.”

“It’s no sweat, I can explain—”

“Desmond!” I grip his bicep. “It doesn’t matter what you’d say, she’s pretty sure I—” I

let go of his thick muscle and make the universal hand motion for jacking off. I stop mid-stroke and shake my head—yup, I actually just did that, like an idiot. Desmond laughs and my face flushes to match the balcony flowers. I drop my hands sheepishly. “Please don’t talk to my boss. Ever! About anything! That apology tip of yours has her convinced that I already own you with my little pussy-trap.”

“Is that a thing?” Desmond cuts in, lifting an eyebrow. “Do you actually have one of those? A pussy trap?”

“Yeah,” I say sarcastically, nodding my head mockingly. “I do! It’s like a giant mouse trap that slices off your ten-inch cock when you get too close.”

“Wow!” he spars, completely amused. “You realize I’d have to be really close to you for you to get all ten inches.” He snags my waist and pulls me close, dropping his mouth near my ear. “We’re talking so close I’d probably have to be inside of—”

“Stop talking!” I lean away from his dizzying proximity. “It was a metaphor, numbskull. A joke to make a point.”

“Oh! A metaphor, I see.” He nods his head and pretends that he now understands, completely mocking me. “Got it. Well obviously, my comment wasn’t that sophisticated. For example, when I said ‘inside,’ I meant we’d actually have to be fuck—”

I slap a hand over his mouth to silence him and he smiles against my palm. “I know what you meant,” I hiss, dropping my hand.

“Good,” he agrees. “I mean you’re so fancy with your metaphors and things. I’m just an everybody Joe Shmoe over here. I didn’t want my low-brow conversation to—”

“What do you want, Desmond?” I interrupt, stepping away from him and walking to the edge of the balcony to look out at the ocean. “I was doing yoga, attempting to do something calming and meditative, to help me forget all this ridiculousness concerning you and your cock, that stupid three-hundred dollar tip, and the fact that my boss is sure I’m a whore worthy of burning at the stake.”

“Do you think yoga is really going to get you to stop thinking about my cock?” His sparkling amber eyes cut to me and I glower.

“Not really,” I grumble, to which he triumphantly smiles.

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