Whisper Privileges

by Dianne Venetta

  “Sixty-five feet?” She gaped at him. “You sail it all by yourself?”

  “Nah. I race with a crew.”

  “A crew?” She swept the unruly strands behind an ear and her voice drifted in the wind, “I don’t think I’d want to sail across the ocean like that, even with a crew there to help me.”

  “How about a quick trip around the bay?”

  “I don’t know.” She glanced out over the water, the offer hovering in her expression. Maybe.”

  “Well you just say the word, Ms. Flores. And I’ll show you a day like you’ve never experienced before.”

  She looked at him, his neck, and giggled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Your shell necklace is beginning to make sense.”

  Clay grinned. Thankful for the fact they were somewhat obscured to passersby behind the cluster of trees, he considered his next step. He wanted to reach over and pull the cotton band from her hair, allowing it to fall natural and loose. He would run his hands through it, grasp hold of the back of her neck and pull her to him. Her features tinged with wariness. He paused. Did she know how much he wanted to kiss her right now? Could she feel it? Did she want the same? She didn’t seem to mind the last time he kissed her...

  Would she do so this time? His insides shifted. And if he went further?

  The bay wind kicked up then, tossing the hair into his eyes, blew long strands of hers back across her face. The spray of water pressed the salt to his skin, fleshed out memories from his past. The sensation of sea and salt combined with waves and wind was familiar and welcome. It blended his past and her present—her home, her city—with the quiet promise of more. Nothing stood between them but the ebb and flow of the ocean, of desire. Clay slid sunglasses to the top of his head, then did the same with hers. She stilled. Her attention coiled tightly around him. He reached for her hands and pulled her close. When she didn’t resist, his excitement mounted. He closed the space between them to inches. Long wisps of her hair toyed with his cheeks. He moved his face toward hers and hovered close. The green in her eyes turned heated, anticipatory, like the emerald stones of a panther’s eyes on high alert. He gently placed his lips on hers, ever so slightly, the contact electrifying his mind and body.

  When she didn’t protest, his heart squeezed with excitement.

  Sydney’s loins fired hot and moist as Clay skimmed his lips over hers, nuzzled his nose back and forth against hers. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Clay raised a hand and moved the hair from her brow, his fingers lingering high upon her cheekbone. Her ears flushed hot as he pressed his mouth to hers. Clay kissed her gingerly, then parted her lips and slipped his tongue inside.

  Warm and silky smooth, his tongue swiped slow and wide, gradually coaxing her to open to him completely. She moaned. Her arms grew weak. Her legs dissolved into a sinewy mass of nerves. She moved to kiss him back and Clay took control. His hands pulled her face closer, his mouth opened wider. The kiss turned urgent, seeking. He was lips, mouth, tongue, hands, hair—she couldn’t do anything but feel him, as though suspended in time. Nipping at her mouth, Clay moved in and out with a sweeping nibble and kiss and slide of his tongue. He sucked in her lower lip, feasted on her mouth, her cheeks. He tasted and savored and took his time—which she allowed—every second surrendering further into his hold. The warm slickness of his mouth combined with the solid wall of his body was heady, sexual. She reached up and hooked her hands over his forearms. The round of his muscle, the fine comb of his hair, the soft skin...

  It reminded her that a hot-blooded male stood before her—a man with desires—needs. The thrill of his pelvis touching hers raced through her at once. She could feel the wall of his abdomen, his body hard and welcome against hers. Moisture formed between her inner thighs in a growing swell of want as his tongue plunged further, harder.

  Clay tore his mouth away from hers and groaned. “Oh my God...”

  At once light-headed, Sydney feared she may lose her balance.

  “You’re in very big trouble now...”

  Confusion sprinkled through her mind, still lost, still at the mercy of his mouth. Allowing her hands to fall, her arms a tangled mass of shaky nothing, she sought his face.

  His smile turned electric as he leaned forward and grazed her lips with his. “Talk about hot—I don’t think I can possibly do that again. Not out here in public.”

  Emotion tumbled through her chest, but she relaxed, warmed by his reaction. Sydney reached up and touched her lips. She knew exactly what he meant. For a moment, she had forgotten they were in the park herself.

  Clay slid his eyes around their immediate surroundings and then settled on her. “It’s gonna be a hard ride back.” He grinned. “No pun intended.”

  Suddenly embarrassed, she hadn’t thought about that angle—no pun intended.

  “Ready?”

  To leave? Hell no, she wasn’t ready to leave—she wanted to stay and kiss some more but it was completely out of the question. Not one for public displays, Sydney was surprised she had gone this far with onlookers. Even if they were partially obscured by trees... “Your wish is my command,” she murmured wistfully. “I’m just the tour guide.”

  “Really?”

  Her cheeks flushed hot beneath his lurid gaze. “No, not really. It’s a figure of speech!”

  “Too bad.” He reached for her hand and twirled his fingers around hers, the coupling warm and nice, comforting. “My list of wishes is growing at an incredibly fast pace.” He lightly cupped her hand. “Hope you can keep up.”

  Her insides bubbled with delight.

  The ride back was distracting. Taking more liberty with his touch, Clay continually ran his hands along her thighs, her waist, and at one stoplight, even reached around and hugged her body to him. Which was glorious. Their bodies fit so well, the connection seemed so easy and natural she wondered if Sam wasn’t right. I’d reconsider a hot fling with that Clay of yours. Should she take her advice? If Clay made a move, should she take him up on it? Would there be any harm in a juicy fling?

  Reckless thoughts of sex collided with Clay’s words innocent comment. Are you worried about me harming you?

  Her heart pinched. Yes. That’s exactly what she was worried about. She was falling for him. To deny it now would be pointless. Even he could tell by her reaction—and that had only been a kiss!

  But what if Clay was only interested in fun? A fling, as Sam so aptly put it? Could she handle it?

  It felt as if he was falling for her, too, but she couldn’t be sure. It was hard to tell, really. Every man enjoyed the opportunity to get his lips on a woman, but did Clay want more? Did he really think they would make a good couple?

  The remainder of the drive proved a mix of tense doubt and warm pleasure. Rather than drop him off at Charlie’s, Clay asked her to take him back to the hotel. The Biltmore. As she pulled the bike around the enormous fountain out front, the Sabal palms lining the circular drive tall and proud, she wondered, wasn’t this the building he was asking about earlier? Slowing under the shade of awning outside the entrance, her muffler reverberated hot near her leg. “Your parents are staying here?”

  “They are.” As she set a boot to the ground, he pushed hands to her waist and slid off the back. “Feels weird being dropped off by a woman.”

  She laughed, amused by the dash of humility. “We’re living in enlightened times, young man.”

  “Sure we are.” Back on solid footing, he looked down at her. “Now what time shall I pick you up for dinner?”

  “Dinner?”

  He nodded. “I won’t make it twelve hours without seeing you again. Not after what you did to me in the park.”

  She chuckled at his version of the events. “What I did to you?”

  “Yes. You had your way with me—you enlightened woman—and I’ll forgive you on one condition,” he paused with a grin. “You let me take you to dinner.”

  She shook her head. “You have a way with words is what you
have.”

  Seemingly pleased with himself, he straightened, slid a glance in either direction and asked, “Now what do you say?”

  “Shall I pick you up again?”

  “Uh, uh.” Clay acknowledged a fellow guest with a polite smile. “I’ll be coming for you this time, seven o’clock sharp.”

  “And how do you expect to do that, may I ask?”

  “I have my ways.” He leaned over for a kiss, but rather than give her a simple peck, he pulled her face to him and kissed her deeply. Sydney tightened her grip on the handlebars and responded willingly. He pulled away and she gasped. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  She moaned inwardly and thought, very nice.

  “Seven o’clock?”

  Doubt swam through her chest. “Seven o’clock.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Standing before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, Sydney deliberated over the white denim skirt and black tank. Cut into a V across her chest, form-fitted along her waistline, she wondered if it might be too revealing. She turned and assessed her appearance. Everything changed after the kiss today. No longer could she pretend her feelings for him. The way she reacted to him in the park made it quite clear—to both of them. Uncertainty pulled at her ego. Clay had to know how she felt, at least assume it. A woman didn’t kiss a man like that if she didn’t like him—especially in public—unless she wanted more of the same.

  Was she sending the wrong signals? Would Clay take this dinner to mean he could take it to the next level? Did she want him to go to the next level? Inspecting the length of her skirt, the curve of her calves, her quads, she wondered if maybe she should change. She wanted to be sexy, to feel like the woman Clay made her to feel, but pivoting on the ball of her foot, she didn’t want to dress suggestive to the extent that would make him think she was asking to be seduced. She twisted her lower body to inspect the rear view then returned to study her body head on. Her hair was combed long and flat-ironed straight. The gel she used made it shinier, sleeker. Beneath the panama fan light above, she thought it really made a difference. It seemed glossy to her. It was far outside her normal ponytail. She wondered what Clay would think. Would he care? Would he even notice?

  She hoped so. Truth be known, she did want his attention. Actually, she wanted more than his attention. She enjoyed it when he held her hand as they walked. She wanted him to touch her, to kiss her... She wanted him to want her. She wanted Clay to want her as much as she wanted him. Pressure pushed in her chest.

  Did he? Or was he after an out of town fling? A hot fling, but a fling nonetheless. Would that be okay with her? Could she leave it at sex and bid him goodbye in a week? Her lungs balled into knots and she shook the thought away. She didn’t know what she wanted. She only knew that she liked Clay. A lot. Why couldn’t she just leave it at that? Did she have to have the whole evening planned? Did she have to know what was coming before it happened, what it meant? She turned from the mirror and cursed her instinct to plan and organize. Leave that to business. Her personal life didn’t have to be planned to the last detail, every facet of her existence organized and orchestrated by her.

  Escaping into the bathroom, she decided to leave the clothes be. Something told her that if she changed, she’d just find fault with the next outfit. She grabbed the bottle of perfume from the glass tray and sprayed it over her exposed chest, the mist clinging to her skin. Clay was a nice guy. He wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to do. Suspending the bottle in midair, she stared into the mirror. Which begged the question: what did she want him to do, exactly? Kiss her some more? Touch her? Anticipation shimmied through her nipples. All of the above?

  Nerves fired at the rap on her door. Was it seven already? Heart thumping, she spritzed the perfume onto her wrists then smacked the bottle down on the marble top vanity. She strode out the door and into her bedroom. The glowing red numbers on her bureau shouted that it was seven o’clock on the dot! Smoothing the silk top against her waistline and down her hips, she chastised herself for losing track of time. Some event planner—she should have been out in the living room, relaxed and ready to go with time to spare, not stretching time to the very last second. With a brisk stride to the door, she decided Clay received an A for punctuality. Her pulse skipped. Who was she kidding? Up to now, the man had scored straight A’s in everything!

  One quick calming breath, she swung the door open and froze. There he stood with a banquet-sized bouquet of brightly-colored flowers—a mix of white, purple and yellow flowers she couldn’t identify—with a Bird of Paradise shooting up from the center. The arrangement was decadent in both count and quality. Stunned by the extravagance, she gaped at him. “Those are for me?”

  “Absolutely.” He extended them toward her. “How could I not bring flowers for Ms. Flores?”

  His disarming smile nearly unraveled her. Carefully taking the flowers from him, she realized they were heavy, but reflexively drew them to her nose. She inhaled, immersing her senses in the delicate, velvety smooth petals. Unlike the rich fragrance of roses, these were lightly scented, almost odorless. “Thank you,” she replied and reluctantly withdrew the bouquet. “They’re beautiful.”

  “They’re nothing compared to you.”

  She paused at the comment. She had to hand it to him. The man never met a compliment he didn’t like. “Would you like to come in?” she asked, a touch embarrassed he was still standing on her doorstep. “I’ll put these in water.”

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  Sydney stepped aside and closed the door behind him. “I’ll only be a minute,” she said, but with Clay standing firmly in place, she was forced to move around him, their proximity very close.

  “You smell good,” he said, lifting his nose in her direction as she passed.

  “Thank you,” she replied automatically.

  Clay moseyed further inside and took in the surroundings. With little to no interior design talent, her décor was simple. She gravitated toward clean lines, keeping her furnishings sparse yet elegant, appointments neutral, save for the slew of floral pillows across her couch. Picture frames dotted her tabletops, sleek steel finished in blues and greens, oranges and reds. As she rounded the corner to her kitchen, she glanced at him through the pass-through. What did he think of her home? What was his like? Was it larger, smaller? Modern or traditional?

  “You like to keep things simple,” he noted.

  “Usually,” she called back, assuming he meant the décor.

  He picked up the one picture of her parents. Encased in a square frame, its matted border scraped to a lustrous steel blue, he asked, “This your mom and dad?”

  “It is.”

  “You look a lot like your father.”

  “So they say,” she replied, a mix of pride and consternation as she grabbed a vase from a bottom cabinet. Pulling it free, she hoped they fit. It was the only vase she owned, a remnant leftover from flowers she received three Valentines ago.

  “But your skin is lighter.” He set the frame down on the table. “Are both your parents Spanish?”

  She shook her head and stuffed the thick wad of stems into the vase. It was going to be snug. “Just my father.” She glanced at Clay. “He’s Cuban, actually. My mother’s family is originally from Nebraska.”

  “Midwestern girl. Makes sense.”

  After running water through the center of them, she walked back into the living room and placed the bouquet in a prominent spot on her dining room table. “How so?”

  “They grow them big out there.”

  She raised a brow. “You might want to get back to those compliments of yours.”

  He laughed. “You’re not sensitive about your size, are you?”

  “I assure you, no woman wants to be called big.”

  Clay met her tableside and slipped his hands around her waist. “I like your size. You exude power in every step.”

  “Not a bad comeback,” she said, controlling the tattered quality to her voice at being wrapped
within his arms so soon. The flimsy material of her top nothing against the hot palms of his hands.

  “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and pushed his forearms down and away from her body. She wasn’t ready for this—a squiggle of anticipation zipped up her spine—yet. “Now, how about that dinner?”

  “Hungry?”

  “Ready for dinner,” she corrected, proud of the fact it rolled off her tongue without hiccup.

  Deciding it was best to stay close, Sydney chose a Latin American café in Coral Gables. Casual but good, she wanted to give Clay a sample of the variety Miami had to offer. He was a tourist in this town—visiting—something she felt compelled to remember. And while the restaurant offered many of the same Spanish dishes he’d sampled before, they specialized in chimichurri, a parsley-garlic sauce served over succulent grilled flank steak known as Churrasco.

  Opting for the outdoors, she and Clay sat at a small round table tucked away beneath a cluster of palms. The patio was bordered by a short brick wall, the stones aged to an earthy red hue, openings to the sidewalk trimmed in decorative wrought iron. With the intricate attention to detail, she imagined it was a craftsman’s dream. The ground was covered with more brick, their grout lines almost black, scored by time and foot traffic.

  “I like this place already,” he said, gazing up at the trees around them. “Nice and private.”

  As though they needed privacy. Clay didn’t know anyone here and she wasn’t worried about running into Javier. He kept mostly to the city and beaches. “The food is wonderful.”

  “Smells good.”

  “You have to try the steak. It’s the specialty of the house.”

  “Done.” He centered on her, his gaze intent, the light from the centerpiece candle flickering in the deep blue of his eyes. The light blond strands of his hair glimmered, his skin appeared clear and smooth, his features even and perfect in the soft lighting. Looking at him in the calm patio ambiance as he stared at her, she found him all the more handsome. “So tell me about your family. You’ve met Q. You know my history. What about you? Do your folks still live in Miami?”