Page 42 of Whiskey Splash

My chest heaves.

His hair is wet, his shoulders drenched, that thin button up shirt sticking to his muscles in a suction of hard flesh. I swallow, my knees suddenly wobbly, a wave of ocean crashing against my behind. My dress slicks to my skin and I look up to the sky, into the starless bounds of water cascading, feeling hot and weightless.

I’m certain that every drop of water hitting my body is turning to steam, for I couldn’t be more turned on by the way he’s walking toward me.

“Esme,” I hear Desmond say, his voice close, and I look back to the shore, only he’s already in front of me.

He’s in the water, up to his knees, those sparkling eyes as vibrant as the flashing lightning. It takes two strides for him to squeeze all the air out from between us, and without stopping he threads a hand into my hair, fisting it.

“For the record,” he says roughly, water dripping from his lips, “this hair,” he tugs slightly, tilting my face to the rain, “is a hundred times sexier.”

His fingers widen and he steps forward, our bodies connecting for one hot second—rainwater, skin, fabric colliding—before his mouth hits mine.

It's a shock of heat and softness as his lips press into me, a pillow of tenderness combined with rain. The kiss heats my face and cheeks, it's so delicate for the storm that’s crashing round us. But then he eases in, tongue running the seam of my lips, his fingers wrapping my hair, pressing deeper as my mouth opens.

I grab his shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to, my fingers fumbling over his fabric-soaked muscles. He wraps his other hand around my back to hold me steady and our bodies fuse together like one. My tits strain behind the wet fabric, raking against his expansive chest, the tiny pearl buttons of my dress suddenly fragile. Desmond sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, and the delicate pulse of suction makes my fingers rake through his hair.

I want more of him.

I want all of him.

Iwanthim.

Reading my mind Desmond deepens the kiss, moaning into my gasp, and slipping his tongue inside mine. His slow and deliberate entrance make my nipples peak and my clit pound, and I’m ravenous to have his mouth and tongue on all the other parts of my body.

The rawness of the rain makes my blood sing, wet streams of water diving through our hair, down our faces, between our hungry feasting. Thunder crashes and lightning zaps around us—making me jolt in his arms at the closeness of the crashing bolt. I break the kiss to look up, the storm is ferocious, waves wild enough to be splashing against my hips and ribs.

“Come on,” Desmond says, turning back toward the beach. “We can’t be out in the water with this lightning.” The current of the ocean tugs at my legs as he pulls me by my waist toward the restaurant. The undertow is powerful, but Desmond is a lifeline pulling me to shore.

We race out of the water and up the sand. Only, he doesn’t head for the gate, instead he angles us off to the right, moving us past the fountain enclave where the umbrella and my tote bag sit. He leads me around the corner of the courtyard to what looks like a small alleyway. One side is the courtyard’s stucco wall, overgrown with bougainvillea, and the other is a ridge of cypress trees separating this property from the next. Dashing around the corner creates a wind shield, cutting the blasts of air that surround us, but the rain is still pounding.

Desmond’s hands push against my lower back and he swings me softly to the left, toward the hanging plants. My back presses into the bed of pink flowers and I've only a second to catch my breath before Desmond presses his full weight against me and his lips seal over mine again.

Drenched petals tickle the sides of my cheeks, a soft wet flutter like wings as Desmond cups the back of my neck, his thumb running the ridge of my windpipe and making me pant. His kiss is hungrier now and less innocent, and I can't help but angle my hips against him.

The weight of his body is intoxicating, releasing a soft moan from my panting mouth. He smiles against me and moves his hand from my back down over my ribs, lower to where the wet fabric is a second skin as he clutches my hip and grinds me deeper into him. I let out a real moan this time as my mouth opens in a wanton gasp.

He kisses me harder, deeper, my moan an invitation to slide his wide hot palm over my throat and collarbone, grazing the top of my breasts which are heavy and swollen. He heads lower, running his thumb along the drenched fabric, skimming my nipple and making me whimper. I clutch his neck and suck on his lip, eager and hungry, and he meets my intensity, taking control and devouring. His thumb draws circles on the underside of my breast, teasing my nipple but never fully stroking it. I arch into his hand, but he keeps his teasing thumb just out of reach, tormenting me.

His other hand is on my hip and it’s just as wicked, sliding down to my thigh and kneading my skin through the wet fabric. His mouth drags away from mine to burn up the side of my jaw and I pant, raindrops sizzling against my burning face.

Thunder booms and the vines shutter and tremble.

I tremble as his mouth sucks my earlobe in between his teeth and he nibbles playfully. I bite my lip and moan, feeling his fingers hit the skin of my knee. He lifts my skirt, pushing the sopping fabric up my thigh, his slick fingers skillfully kneading as he ignites a shameless heat between my legs.

Hooking my knee over his hip, Desmond adjusts the way we're pressed together and through the wet fabric of his jeans I feel his heat—it’s unmistakable and distinct—large, like when I saw him under the sheet.

He kisses me again, everything wet and throbbing, his bulge of denim pressing roughly against my soaked thong. I feel wild and untethered with the storm, unlike myself and yet completely alive. Desmond’s wide fingers slide up the underside of my thigh and I gasp when they reach the edge of my panties. Softly he teases, his fingers tight-rope walking along the elastic edge and threatening to dip under the fabric.

He pulls his mouth back and presses his forehead against mine, his fingers still running up and down the hem of my thong, his mouth open with panting.

“I want you right now,” he rasps, his fingers running the sensitive skin between my thigh and pussy. “I’ll have you right here in the rain, if you'll let me.”

He pumps his hips, pushing his hot bulge against my clit, and my fingers dig into his shoulders, which makes him smile something wicked.

“I’m not shy,” he reminds me, and I moan at how sexy that comment is. “Tell me you want me to wrap your legs around my waist, right here, and I’ll take you in the rain. With the thunder and the waves, no one will hear us.”

I turn my head to the side, panting; soaking up the delicious texture of his fingers stroking my thigh, the dirty promise of his words making my pussy throb.

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