With wide eyes and an open mouth, Josh stares up at Donna as she knocks back her third shot of tequila. Already light-headed and already naked-his shorts cover her top beside the bed-he meets her eyes, speechless, torn between shock and admiration. He has seen Donna slam shots of rum, vodka, whiskey, but never tequila, and never without her clothes, and never poised over his lap, her thighs-warm, smooth, and so damn soft-pressed to his hips.

After dinner, he presented the bottle and stuttered over the proposal of a celebratory drink-"To, you know, us, after all the years we've, uh, you know." But his uncertainty melted when she pressed him to the wall and kissed him breathless. Senseless. Brainless. Kissed him like she wanted him beyond the limits of their entire escape-vacation. Frantic, wild butterflies fluttered in his stomach, but he followed her to the bedroom and let her steal the bottle. Let her strip off his clothes, ease him onto the bed, and toast their time alone with a round of dark aƱejo.

Now he rolls the bottle across the floor and out of her reach before he sweeps his hand into her hair and eases her closer. His nose brushes her collarbone as he inhales the faint scents of seawater and sunscreen. Donna's hum tickles his ear before she lifts his head and kisses his jaw. A moan drifts from the back of his throat, and he surrenders another-louder, deeper-when she peeks at him, her bottom lip between her teeth, and rubs herself on him. Another push-an easy, wet slide over his erection-and his mind screams, condenses to her-my God, her. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes, kisses her freckled shoulder as he whispers, "Donna. Please."

Then, drunk on tequila and desire, he moves with her until the sun sets in the pink Hawaiian sky.