Page 73 of Whiskey Splash

His words breathe against my ear and the ocean at my ankles isn’t nearly cold enough to douse the sizzle blooming through my chest. I turn around to face him, to find he’s in a ball cap and sunglasses—incognito mode as well. I can’t see his eyes, but that smile is enough to boil my insides to stew.

“It seems we’re both hiding from the world,” I say, nodding to his LA Dodgers cap and aviator glasses, an almost cliché movie star outfit.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says playfully. “Do you not know who I am?” He tears off the cap and sunglasses and wraps me in a kiss so hot and brazen I almost think he wants the whole beach to take notice.

I pull away and look around sheepishly. “Put those back on!” I hiss, tugging at the accessories in his fist. “You do realize this beach is full of people wielding cell phones.”

“Oh no! They’re all going to send pictures back to the resort, aren’t they?” he mocks, tearing an unamused smirk from my mouth.

“I’m sure they’re all far more interested in you,” I clip out.

He smiles wickedly, pulling me back in close and nipping at my ear. “That sounds like great news for me, cause then I get you all to myself.”

“Put it back on, Clark Kent, because you’re not going to get anything all to yourself when you’re surrounded by cell-phone harpies. Heck, I’ll be all the way back at the resort before you get through half of your take-a-selfie-with-Desmond-Pike line.”

“Fair point,” he obliges, putting his cap and glasses back on, then slipping a hand around my back to walk us toward a shady and decidedly less-crowded part of the beach.

“You do realize you can’ttalk to me when we’re at the resort,” I say. “You have to pretend you don’t know me. If you see me in the halls, or at the front desk at the spa, or—”

“Or if your ass is in the air in front of me at yoga,” he interjects, and I elbow him.

“That too!” I hiss. “Though now I’m resigned to avoid yoga while you’re still here in the resort, thank you very much.”

“Pity,” he says, sitting down on the sand and pulling me down into his lap. “You have no idea the naughty things I was thinking about while looking at your—”

“Get your one-track mind out of the gutter, Mr. Pike,” I scold. “Before you make me lose my appetite.”

“But it might increase a different appetite,” he says hotly, growling into my neck as he shifts me forward so I’m sitting between his legs with my back against his chest.

“You’re insatiable,” I say, as he pulls the pink sunhat from my head so it’s not smacking him in the face, releasing all my lavender hair to the wind. I’ve half a mind to gripe at him about it, except that mouth of his is nibbling on my earlobe and the slight breeze that grips my hair and slides over my skin is all too delicious.

“You’d think I’m on the menu,” I tease, nudging him away after letting him play for a minute.

“You’re not?” His hands grip my hips, and my neck heats remembering how thoroughly he feasted on me when that mouth was between my legs. “To be clear,” he whispers huskily, “I invited you back to my room first, you’re the one who chose the beach.”

I elbow him in the gut and he laughs, releasing me enough to lean over and grab the paper-bag lunch he’s put in the sand beside us. “If there are tacos in here, I’m getting up and leaving.”

He laughs even harder at the irony of that. “Oh man, I wish I’d ordered tacos, that would’ve been perfect.”

“Heathen!” I sass back at him, pulling out two sandwiches and handing one back to him.

“You bring out the best in me,” he chirps, finally letting go of me and unwrapping his lunch. He proceeds to tell me about his last few days shooting as we devour our sandwiches, and when we’re done eating, he leans me back against his chest again as he explains how he’s convinced the producers to book Flambé for their final wrap party.

“Once we’ve finished shooting,” he explains, “the head honchos like to throw a big shin-dig. It’s a thank you to the crew kind of thing.”

“Really? That’s awesome!” I adjust myself against him. “Arie must be doing back flips at getting a gig like that. Plus, one that’s so high-profile.”

“Well, I may owe her,” he says. “You’ve gotta admit, she may be the best damn wing-man a guy could hope for.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” I toss back. “I thought Tam was your wing man. He definitely bailed your ass out on set the other morning.”

His arm wraps around my stomach, his palm resting lightly on the thin gypsy-lace tunic I threw on when I changed out of my spa smocks.

“I’ll be sure to give him a raise.” His fingers dally at the top of my shorts, swirling on top of my tunic, making me dizzy with the sunshine and the dull hum of the shoreline crashing. I close my eyes and listen to the white noise of people and birds, all laughing and cawing and filling up the air around us.

“When’s this party?” I ask, realizing there’s an expiration date on this, on him with his arms wrapped around me, on lazy circles being drawn on my abdomen. There’s only so many days left for lunches and banter and those heated looks in his eyes promising that there are so many other parts of me he wants to devour.

“Two and a half weeks,” he says, his fingers still swirling over my navel like they haven’t realized that isn’t much time, as if his hands on my body is something he can always have.

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