Page 47 of Whiskey Splash

“You’re right,” I pant. “I should definitely wear this dress more often.”

He snarls, peeling the cups of my bra down in one hot motion, spilling my tits out. I moan as his hands cover my naked breasts, his rough callouses on my aching tips.

His soft seduction is over, his head plunging down and taking my nipple into his mouth. My fingers dig into his skull, which only makes him suck harder and ring my hot bud with his rough tongue.

“Oh, wow,” I shudder. “Wow—” I gasp, hardly breathing.

Every slash of his tongue slicks my pussy and makes my clit pound. It’s as if he’s working both at once, and if he isn’t careful, he’s going to make me fall apart.

He moves to the other breast and I can hardly take it anymore, my whole body inflamed and limber. My mind buzzes, half-aware of his hands sliding up my spine and wrestling with the elastic of my bra. After his fingers tangle for a while, I rasp out that the bra unhooks from the front, and suddenly the elastic is unleashed and he has full range of my tits, devouring them with his hands and mouth.

Delirium seethes through my head, unspooling and brazen. My bare leg hooks around the wet jean of his thigh, and his hands are all over my skin, my breasts, my shoulders, my navel. His teeth rake against my nipples as he sucks and ravishes, and I literally can’t stand up anymore.

“I need to—” I scrape out, my legs starting to wobble. “Sit or lay down, or—”

Desmond’s hands shoot around my waist as I start to lose my balance, and his mouth finds mine again. The warmth of our bodies slide together as I’m wrapped in his muscled arms.

“Bed? Couch?” he asks, turning us toward the door, and I reach out and grab the doorframe.

“No—” I shake my head, my lips dragging against his. His bed sounds too decadent, too soft and intimate, and I don't want pillows and cushions at my back right now. “Pool.” I point behind us, pulling my heat-drunk face up to look at him. “Your bed’s too soft,” I breathe. “I want to be fucked against something hard.”

His grip tightens, and I nip the bottom of his chin, grabbing his thick hands and untangling myself from him. I know he only lets me go because I’m walking toward the pool and picking out the exact spot I want him to have me. Tell a man what you want; isn’t that what Arie said? It seems to be working.

I force myself to walk on my wobbly legs toward the opening in the canopy, lightning still cracking across the sky beyond the pool. I crouch down at the edge and slip my legs into the pool, quickly pushing my whole body under the watery lip where I'm suddenly weightless. Water kisses every sensitive inch of me, its erotic glove slipping over my elbows and stomach, and deeper till it’s between my legs and caressing my core.

My dress floats around my waist like kelp, still wearing it by my arms with the capped sleeves over my shoulders. The drift of fabric is a sensual tease, licking like the fins of a mermaid against my body. Thunder rumbles and I turn back to him and smile, the ocean would have pulled us under into its wicked salt if we’d stayed seaside. But the pool, the pool has three walls and a ramp to contain me.

“Get in,” I command, locking my eyes on his, ready for him to fulfill all those naughty promises. I find the bottom of the pool and stand up, lifting my shoulders and swollen breasts out of the water to entice him.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, pulling his shirt open and back, tearing it off his shoulders as fast as he can. I bite my lip at how thrilling it is to watch him strip, unveiling all that muscle and skin, and reminding me of how hot it was to touch him on my massage table. My fingers itch, wanting that hard muscle under them again.

He reaches for his belt buckle and I moan softly, a tiny smile inching over his mouth at hearing it. He slows, staring at me as if he can read my mind. I remember those thick and powerful legs, how I touched them on my massage table, running my palms up and down his incredible flanks. And how now, all I want is to feel their powerful girth between my thighs, spreading me.

“Wet jeans are the worst,” I joke, as he struggles to pull the heavy fabric down over his ass.

“Not as easy as dropping my towel in your massage room,” he admits, smiling, deliberately reminding me of the first time I saw him naked. He peels the wet denim down his legs, kicking off his flipflops to wriggle the jeans over his ankles. My clit pounds, the bulge in his shorts substantial. In fact, it looks even larger than what I saw on the massage table, if that's even possible.

The second his jeans are off he's in the water, still in his shorts and swimming toward me.

There isn't time to swim away before his thick arms wrap me and I'm gasping into his mouth again. There's so much skin, tits and stomachs, muscles, his hips, his powerful thighs. I've touched it all before, but this time his mouth is on mine and I’m the one who’s ravenous.

I wrap my legs around his waist, the skirt swirling around us, the water making everything slippery and delicate. His mouth finds my nipples again and I arch back, my mind going hot and delirious. Thunder claps and a new pound of rain is released from above.

My legs scrape a tile seat behind us and I realize we’ve drifted into the shallower end. Instead of sitting back into the seat, I pull away from Desmond, which makes him snarl. Only, I turn our bodies, and push him up against the tile, so he's the one sitting. He’s up to his chest in water as I climb on top of his lap and straddle him.

His eyes scour my naked front as he sits back and lets me get situated, pulling the dress and my bra from my shoulders, and tossing them onto the tile patio behind him. His hands ring my waist, his amber eyes scanning my body that’s now naked except for my thong. It’s dark, which I prefer, with just enough light from the thunderstorm for him to make out my curves and shape.

A low animal noise rumbles from his throat and his hand drops to my knees. Gripping forcefully, he pulls me forward against him, angling my pussy so it’s on top of his bulging cock.

I hiss, my mouth dropping open as I clutch his shoulders to keep me steady.

“Ten inches, remember,” he says crassly, before sliding his hands up the back of my thighs to cup my ass. “I’m pretty sure you’re not about to forget.”

He drags me roughly—forward and back—sliding my pussy along his cotton-covered length. I gasp, wicked pulses lashing through my core and burning me so hot I’m hardly breathing.

“Tell me,” he continues in a naughty voice. “Since the day in the spa, when I flipped over and you saw me under the sheet”—my clit pounds—“How many nights have you gone to bed dreaming about my cock?” I bite my lip and don't answer, which makes him smile something wicked. “Well, I couldn't stop thinking about you climbing up on that table and—”

He rakes my body against his cock again and I topple forward, my mouth against his neck, my chest heaving.

---