Page 71 of Whiskey Splash

Desmond’s eyes walk over my skin, over the embroidered flowers of my shirt, over the straps of my sandals wrapping my calves.

“I want to hold you,” he says. “But I don’t know if I should touch you.”

“I’m not broken, Desmond,” I assert, taking his hand and placing it on my cheek. “I want you to touch me. I wanted you to touch me the other night, when your hands were on fire and your tongue—” Our eyes connect and my body wakes with that connection between us, zipping and intimate, his hand is a brand, perfectly soft as he cups my chin. “I still want you,” I brave. “I just need you to know that we—” The word feels charged, speaking for all the webs of trust trying to reach out their fingers and find something real and solid. “We,” I repeat, “have to be private. It’s non-negotiable. I realize that might normally go without saying, but that’s not been the track record of my life.”

He inches forward and captures my mouth, filling me with the softest, kindest kiss I can imagine. It isn’t a pity kiss, or one laced with desire. It’s a thank you, an unspoken contract, a promise.

He wraps me in his strong arms and my hands find the muscles of his back, kneading into the tension that’s returned there and searching to once again unravel it. I do it to distract myself, or maybe I do it to allow myself to lie here in this vulnerability with him, secrets laid bare in my skin, while I unearth the stress in his.

Desmond slowly rolls on top of me and the compression of his body is a release. Weight wrings me completely, the bubble of fear in my breast flushing out. It’s like I’ve been carrying this weight and he’s so heavy and consuming that all I can do is unravel my fingers and drop it.

He kisses me till my lips are swollen and my fingers have unlocked every knot in his spine. He kisses me till the bulge in his pants is thick and the ache between my legs is throbbing. He gently rocks against my heat but he doesn’t undress me, doesn’t slide my hands against his desire. He devours me with the soft undulating weight of him, with his lips asking for my every gasp and trembling. Thanking me for being brave enough to allow him to have it.

This is a quiet other side of Desmond, without the dirty heat or flirtation, but a peeled back simpler version, something more raw and exposed. Or maybe that’s me? Under him, meeting him, toes curled and fingers in line with every breath-filled exchange. Is it possible to say things with our hands? With our mouths? With our bodies? Can we speak without words and find a language in how his hands find my own, in our fingers’ delicate unraveling?

This feels deeper and more intimate than when his tongue was on my core. I’m aroused, of course, but nowhere close to coming, because this isn’t about some back-arching animalistic pleasure. It’s about us, together, breathing and burning and finding space between the flirting and innuendo to simply be in each other’s arms, learning to trust each other.

I drag myself away from his mouth, panting, and trace the shape of his cheekbones with my thumbs. I trace the curve of his lips and the round of his chin. I memorize the feel of his earlobes under my fingertips.

Those amber eyes of his are so intense and soft and searching. They look deep into me and unearth something that’s scared and bold and vulnerable. And I know if we were naked right now and he was inside me, rocking into me with those soft balmy thrusts, we wouldn’t be fucking, we’d be making love.

I pull him back into a kiss, pushing all my unease away so I can drown in his lips, not ready to look at that reality. Desmond meets my intensity as if he saw it too and felt that same pulse of blistering rawness in me, the part that’s scared to trust him but wants to anyway. Each of his kisses hooks deeper into my skin, talons in my breath, my heart a tangled web of fears and dreams laid out beneath him, his arms and weight and heat tightening.

We kiss for so long that the light through the tiny tinted windows on the side of the trailer grow dark. We kiss for so long that I’m sure Tam and anyone else who cares to butt into our business will think we’ve been in here braying like animals. Heck, we’ve probably been in here long enough to have flipped each other over three times round and gotten kinky with our bad selves. But I love that we haven’t. I hate that they will talk and gossip, but they won’t know the truth. They’ll have no clue about what has really happened.

Only me and Desmond will know that something completely different, and beautiful, and silent has blossomed between our lips and our breath. Something so tender and brilliant and alive, that it scares me to my center. And yet, I’m not ready to unwrap myself from him yet. In fact, I’m not sure I ever want to slip out from underneath him.

Chapter Eighteen

My schedule at work is brutal. Disappearing for several days has Mrs. Rose in Godzilla mode and she’s gone out of her way to keep my hands busy. I have non-stop massages for the next four days straight, and even Naomi apologies when I see my upcoming slate.

“It feels like she’s trying to catch me doing something suspicious,” I say to Naomi in the locker room, collecting my oils and towels for the day. “But at the same time, she’s overloading me with work. Is she trying to exhaust me and get me to slip up?”

“Just do what you normally do. Nothing fancy. Nothing different,” Naomi suggests, loading up her own massage cart. “Don’t go overboard. Do exactly what you know you’re supposed to. She can’t fire you when you do everything correctly.”

“I know. You’re right,” I say, lining up the oils on my cart by size so they’re in perfect symmetrical balance. “Do my job. Keep my head down.”

“The last thing you need to do is sweat this job, Esme.” Naomi pulls her long blond hair up into a bun. “You may have your awkward moments—”

“Understatement of the year!”

Naomi nods in agreement. “But you do your job well and you do it impeccably.” She points to my cart where the bottles and towels are stacked by the millimeter and color coded. I see her point. “You’re going to be fine,” she insists. “Well, unless Mr. Clarke comes in again.” Her eyebrows wiggle suggestively and my panic button flares again. “Don’t worry!” Naomi laughs. “I’ll snag him all for myself and you won’t even know he was here!”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Ooooh, getting possessive, now are we?” Naomi teases. “Don’t want another girl’s hands on your man, eh?”

“He isn’t my man,” I say too quickly, even though I told Arie and Naomi about Desmond and me, about the kissing and that tightrope of connection we’ve been walking. “He wouldn’t come the spa anyway,” I hiss, shutting my locker and pushing my cart toward the door. “I’ve already lectured him on Mrs. Rose and not getting me fired.”

“Which is why I wouldn’t tell you if he came in. I’d just service him myself,” Naomi says mock-innocently. Her head falls back with laughter at the glare I shoot her. “Oh man, you’ve got it bad.”

“You realize this is exactly the type of thing Mrs. Rose is looking for?”

Naomi shrugs, pushing her cart up next to mine and leaning in as she lowers her voice. “You do realize this is Desmond Pike, right?” she says, lighting her elven-blue eyes on me. “There are a hundred other spas in this city. It’s not like he isn’t worth getting fired over.”

“Um, you soundexactly like my sister right now.”

Naomi laughs. “Is that so? Well, I must be hanging out with your sister too much.”

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