Page 50 of Whiskey Splash

He bends over and unhooks his shorts from his ankles, tossing them onto the tile to his left—fully naked.

I look down.

I look at his impressive cock, thick and ready, and completely hard.

I bite my lip, my mouth watering again, wondering if I’m brave enough to crawl up to him on my knees and swallow him.

“Na-ah,” he warns, snickering softly like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. That feral heat is back in his gaze, the dominating lust that owned every scream I just gave him. “I’m going to give you a two second head start,” he says hotly. “If you can get to the bed before me, then you get what you want. But if I catch you before you get there—” That smile parts his lips. “Then I’m bending you over the nearest piece of furniture I can find, and—”

My pussy pulses, knowing he’s serious, maybe even hoping he’ll catch me.

“You promise,” I toss back at him, scrambling up to my feet. He growls, leaping toward me, and I howl, shooting toward the French doors, when—

Flash! Flash! Flash!

Three pops of light come from somewhere on the patio. I raise my arms to block my eyes, completely startled. When I realize, someone else is on the balcony with us!

And they have a camera!

Chapter Thirteen

Icover myself instinctively, slapping my hands over my naked body.

Flash! Flash!

Desmond’s naked too and the bulb keeps flashing, capturing us.

I’m a deer in headlights, frozen in place.

How the hell is someone taking pictures of us? We’re on the top floor! And by who? My eyes jet to the shadow behind the trellis on the patio section of the balcony—a shadow that’s a person—but I can’t make them out because the flashes keep blinding me. But they are holding a camera, and the only thing that makes sense is that they’re paparazzi trying to get pictures of Desmond while he’s—

“Who the fuck do you think you are!” Desmond roars. He’s out of the pool, naked and moving fast toward the shadow. “I’m going to kill you!”

The pool … Desmond naked … God, we were just in the pool together, with me on my back, and Desmond was—

Holy shit! Was that person taking pictures of us the whole time?!

Every fear and terror rakes through me and I run through the French doors into the dark living room, ramming my shin into a table in the process and smacking it!

“Ouch!” I shout, hearing Desmond yelling behind me at the photographer. He’s angry and it sounds like he’s going to tear the guy’s head off—rightfully so—but I don’t dare look back.

I can’t be out here in the open, not naked like this, not with someone taking photos! I hear a crash behind me like something smashed, his camera hopefully, followed by the sickening sound of fists smacking against bone.

Punches.

I look to the terrace, but it’s too dark and I can’t see anything.

I scramble through the shadows of the main room, trying doors until I find a bathroom, which I hide myself inside it, locking the door behind me. I flip on the light, but the image in the mirror startles me.

The girl looking back is naked, rain swollen, sex flushed, recently fucked.

I shake my head at how overt she is, how obvious. Haunting, cruel words echo through my head, the awful things Jeremy and his friends said to me, their dark laughs chanting:Whore! Whore!

The girl in the mirror is the same girl who will be in whatever image is plastered all over the tabloids tomorrow with the headline:Desmond Pike’s Latest Slut.

Anger and shame grips me, a black hole in the pit of my stomach covering me like a shroud. It took years for me to recover from what Jeremy said, to try and believe something like that would never happen again. But I’m the fool, I’m the one who walked into this trap. Because, yes, I barely know Desmond. And yes, who am I, other than some late-night hookup who gave in to her base desires? His fun-time slut while he’s shooting in Hawaii.

It must be a paparazzi photographer, I’m certain of it. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. Some paparazzi shithead must’ve been hiding up on his terrace, looking for the shot of the century—and boy, did he get it!

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