Page 6 of Whispers on the Water

His response sends a shiver through me, his intent clear as his arousal grows stiffer against my stomach. His gaze locks onto mine, fiery and intense, and I’m captivated by the sheer strength in it. I break our staring and look down. But it’s not as helpful with quelling my urge to kiss him as I had hoped. The visible veins in his arms hint at the power beneath his skin. The man probably tosses bags of bricks around for fun.The thought of him, of what he could do with my body, sends my imagination into overdrive.

As he looks at me, desire written all over his face, I lick my lips, an invitation he seems hesitant to accept. Feeling bolder than ever before, I decide I’m done waiting for him to make a move.

Rising on my tiptoes, I crash my mouth against his. Greg’s reaction is immediate; his arms wrap around my back, and he squeezes us together. My mind is floating as his mouth opens against mine. It’s with a passion that leaves me reeling, his tongue exploring my mouth in a dance as intricate and intense as the one we’ve just shared on the floor. His hair, stiff with salt, twists under my fingers as I respond with equal fervor.

The kiss is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, a revelation of need and desire that words could never capture. Like one thousand angels have burst into chorus while fireworks blast in the sky behind them. It makes every other time I’ve touched lips with someone feel like a cheap imitation, like generic store brand frosted flakes while Greg is pure Kellogg’s.

His hands travel up my back, tangling into my hair. I tilt my head back, giving him better access, and he takes the hint, deepening the kiss. An ache is starting to build between my thighs as pure passion passes between us. When he finally pulls back, my heart is racing, and my body is alight with longing. With a final nibble on my lip, he smiles at me.

“Wanna get out of here?” he breaths out the question like he’s offering me the last chopper out of a war zone, and honestly, I’m ready to climb aboard. A flicker of nervousness passes through me at the thought. Am I really about to hook up with Mr. Sexy Dance Dude?

“My friends are…” I glance back at Tilly and Tommy, hoping for a grown-up decision from them, but they’re just grinning at me like two kids who’ve been given free reign at a candy store. Tilly’s wink and raised beer are all the encouragement I need. “Unconcerned it seems,” I say with a laugh, allowing Greg to lead me away from the dance floor, the promise of what lies ahead sending a thrill of excitement and nervous anticipation through me.

Chapter four

Greg

Stacy, if that is her real name, has a pair of adorably flush cheeks, a vivid shade of red blooming across her freckled skin. I can barely hold myself together as I navigate us through the crowd by her hand. Whistling for a cab, I marvel at the turn of the night. What had started out as another game of ‘drink till I forget my name’ routine to, surprisingly, remembering someone else’s name, Stacy. I don’t know what came over me, I never ask women to dance. But when I saw her down that shot, there was something in the movement that made me want to get closer. I cast another glance over my shoulder, half expecting her to vanish like she’s part of a magician’s act and I’m the one left holding a rabbit instead. She looks more uncomfortable outside of the club but gives me a sly grin. It’s all the reassurance I need.

When the taxi pulls up, I open the door like a gameshow host revealing the grand prize, ushering her into the backseat with a mix of eagerness and disbelief. How often am I lucky enough to have such gorgeous company? As often as I skydive. Which is never. Especially not while on a work assignment. Tonight is a break. A small time out from my investigation and I am taking full advantage of it to enjoy Stacy’s presence.

I climb in behind her and give the driver my address. The silence that envelops us as we drive off is unexpectedly heavy, laden with anticipation and, perhaps, hesitation. Wondering if she’s regretting her life choices, including leaving with me, I throw her a lifeline. “You want me to drop you at home?”

Her response, a determined shake of the head as she scoots closer, makes my heart thud faster in my chest. Her lips find my neck, and I’m suddenly an astronaut, space-bound on a one way trip to boner planet, the driver’s prying eyes forgotten. I have to keep my breathing calm, or we won’t make it back to my place. She’s undeniably the most captivating woman I’ve encountered in Costa Rica, and I silently beg myself not to mess this up. One wrong move and I’ll be dealing with a mess that no one wants to clean up. With a slight twist, I meet her mouth. The kiss is far less graceful than in the club and more ‘eager seal’. It’s all teeth and tongue and desperation. Almost like two starving frat brothers who’ve just found the last slice of pizza at a Sigma Ki party. My hands move to her face to slow things down, touching her cheeks with fingers that would much rather be elsewhere.

As if reading my mind, her palm ventures daringly, her touch electric against the growing tension in my pants. I catch her wrist gently, whispering, “Not yet,” before diving back into the kiss. The taste of rum and cherry Chapstick on her lips is a perfect combination of sweet and naughty. Apparently, that’s my Kryptonite because I’m moaning into her mouth like a teenage girl at a boyband concert.

The cab comes to a halt, but I’m reluctant to break away.

Just as I’m debating why I’ve never invested in Chapstick stock—serious, this shit is literally an aphrodisiac that the world needs to know about-- the cab driver turns around. “Unless you two are moving in, we’re here.” He’s obviously not impressed with my backseat moves.

The driver’s reminder pulls me back to reality, and I hastily pay him before leading her out, practically jogging to my apartment. I try to find the keyhole, but the keys have decided to do a special sort of annoying tap-dance in my shaking hands. It’s totally killing the vibe as I can feel her shrinking away from me.

“You live here?” she asks, eyeing the building like it has eight legs and is about to attack.

“Yeah, it’s better inside,” I assure her, hoping my charm offsets the building’s obvious lack of it. The apartment complex isn’t anything special, but it’s at least standing and well-kempt.

“Oh, it’s not… sorry, I just thought you were a tourist.”

“Nope. Temporary expat,” I say, as if that explains why I live in a place that looks like it doubles as a set for ‘intimate films’. Yeah. I live in the Costa Rican equivalent to a ‘70s porn studio. Low, yellow lights that flicker when there’s too much walking around, and carpet stained with things that are best not to think about. Trying not to let her dwell on it, I usher her into the dimly lit space.

She seems contemplative, scanning the room, and I’m struck by a sudden concern for her comfort. “Hey, no pressure, okay?” I say. “Serious I can call a cab faster than you can say ‘escape plan’.” My attempt at humor is genuine, though I am half expecting her to take me up on the offer. But I can’t honestly get it up if she’s not into it.

Her timid smile is an invitation, but I don’t want anything if she’s not completely comfortable with it. She needs to make the next move.

And this sexy woman, that’s exactly what she does. With a single finger, she slips one of the straps of her dress down, revealing the sun-kissed, freckled skin of her shoulder. It ignites a new wave of desire in me. My restraint wavers as my finger traces her newly exposed skin involuntarily, her reaction—a shiver—fueling my boldness.

Her relaxed posture and the soft sound of her moaning approval emboldens me further. I pull her over to the old yellow couch that came with the temporary apartment. Say what you want about the United States government, but they do at least try to make my space livable, even if the couch is as old and uncomfortable as my lumpy grandfather.

After sitting, my lips follow my fingers, tracing a line on her shoulder of tender kisses. The taste of salt and a hint of coconut on her skin is intoxicating, driving me to the edge of restraint. My other hand, in a desperate attempt to quell the ache, grips my cock through my shorts, a silent plea for my own control. Greg Junior isn’t usually so eager, but damn, this woman is ten times hotter than any I’ve been with before.

In this moment, with her leaning into my touch, all reservations dissolve, replaced by a raw, pulsing need. But still, I keep my touches slow. If there’s even a hint of any more resistance, I will insist that she goes home. I’m not about to be someone’s drunken regret.

Just as I’m about to admit defeat, Stacy turns on the couch. Her chin dips as she smiles. “That feels nice.”

“Just nice?” I ask as I kiss down her arm. One hand goes to her inner thigh. “Does feeling nice mean you want me to stop?”

“Please don’t.” Her voice is breathy as if forming the words is taking all her strength. It’s like a catalyst to my body. With a careful touch, my hand slides up her dress, not slowing until I meet the thin fabric of her silky panties. They’re soaked through, and a grin broadens on my face.

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