Page 87 of Whiskey Splash

“Don’t you dare!” His eyes widen.

“Afraid of the text-message storm that will pour down on you as a result?”

“Honestly, yes,” he admits, unlocking the changing room door, the dress carefully draped over his arms.

“She’ll probably give you a medal,” I throw at him, covering myself up with one of the dresses behind me. “The Pulitzer prize of orgasms.”

“They don’t give Pulitzer’s out for that.”

I smile sweetly. “Too bad.”

He shakes his head at me and slips out of the dressing room. If that woman is out there, then at least she’ll have to deal with the surprise of seeing him walk out of my dressing room. I close my eyes and sink back into the soft fabric of the dresses, lace and tulle brushing my heated skin, a too-soft cushion when my blood is already set to broil. My heart pounds. What am I going to do when Desmond goes back to Los Angeles and that wrap-party is my last night with him? How am I going to survive the withdrawal of it?

Chapter Twenty-Two

The dress box sits on my dining room table tied closed with a giant satin bow. I can see it through my open bedroom door that we didn’t bother to shut.

There’s an incriminating trail of discarded clothing leading to my bed that’s tucked in the bay window—shoes, socks, two sets of crumpled jeans, my grey blouse with the tiny pink flowers hanging from the edge of my desk, his t-shirt and boxers on the floor, my pinstripe bra and panties recklessly abandoned on opposite sides of the room, a torn open condom wrapper.

Cliché, maybe.

Completely worth it? You bet.

“Is your life sexier than this one now?” Desmond asks, as we tumble onto the bed naked, picking up one of my romance novels and running the spine up my leg. “How about this one?” I take the two books out of his hands and push the others off the bed.

“I can’t believe you’re jealous of a bunch of books,” I toss at him, rolling in his arms, into the sunlight that’s warmed my sheets all afternoon.

“I just want to make sure I meet expectations,” Desmond says, kissing down my front.

“The irony being that you don’t think you’ve already done that five times over.”

“Five times over, huh? Interesting.”

Desmond sits up on his knees and pulls me toward him, his hands running down my naked back as I straddle him, the two of us fused and upright in my bed, both of us kneeling in each other’s arms, worshiping. The layers of transparent princess sheers surrounding my bed create a gauzy cocoon of warm light, the sun streaming in through the drawn sheers of the bay window.

We are gold kissed with tenderness as I adjust his thickness and slide down his velvet length, stretching me as we move in each other’s arms. There’s no urgency. We are two sheets in a lazy wind, rolling and caressing in a sea of cotton.

I’ve never been so exposed, so bare and uncovered in sunlight, with anyone. I’ve always been intimate in dark rooms, switches down, midnight stars too far away to offer any color.

Jeremy taught me to hide in the darkness. To hide my desire. Hide my body. But in this bed with Desmond, in the blinding mid-day afternoon, I’m lit like a brilliant star.

The hair on my naked stomach glows, the softness of our navels brushing with the tide of our hips rolling. My soft nipples are pink and white flushed, bleached from so much sunlight, wet from Desmond’s mouth. His hands paint wings on my shoulder blades, his deepening breath weaving confidence into my starshine. His lips whisper over my shoulders, leaving an imaginary trail of jasmine flowers in his wake, the white stars blooming on each freckle he finds.

Our eyelashes tangle in a haze.

His stubble is a peppered almond shade.

The taste of his skin a sunburnt tang in all this bright.

His body requires all of me to cover him, my hands lost in his brilliance, the sun-burnished white of his skin light-soaked and making our individual edges hard to define, flooding us into one.

The fire in my core bleats hotter when I look down to see his cock glistening as I pull my hips back, the sun revealing the intimacy of how thoroughly I’ve taken him. The pump of our bodies feels too soft and slow for me to come, but the wicked ache of my clit brushing roll after roll against his pubic bone has me mewing as my pussy lights its own sun. Desmond follows my gaze, looking down to where we connect, the sunshine-covered slick of our bodies rolling and swelling.

He cups my face and kisses me, drowning me in sunshine, whispering something about how beautiful I am and how lucky he is. And in a moment of astonishing grace, I don’t feel the need to say anything, to wrap this in some awkward verbal display.

Instead, I melt into our luminosity.

I dissolve into the burn of our bodies.

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