The kiss was not soft. It was not sweet. It was a crash. A fierce, desperate crashing together of lips and tongues that ignited a fire smoldering low in my stomach. He tasted of whiskey and Ethan, that unique, overwhelming combination that was both familiar and horribly addictive. His hands, large and commanding, encircled my waist and pulled me hard against the unyielding length of him nudging against his pants. My towel, already precarious, fell farther.
I met his intensity with mine. My fingers trembled with desire and adrenaline as they wrestled with the buttons of his suit jacket, pushing it roughly off his wide shoulders. It fell to the ground, discarded. My focus narrowed to the starched white shirt beneath. I tore at the buttons, my nails scraping gently over the burning skin of his chest as fabric parted. The hard planes of muscle, the sprinkling of black hairs, the rapid fall and rise of his chest, I mapped it greedily with my hands, the feel of him in my palms igniting a sp
