It was the kind of slow evening that moved like honey. The beach house held a hush that invited bare feet and slower breaths, the kind where the sound of a lover’s laugh could fill all the silence you’d ever need.
They drifted lazily through the space—bed to kitchen to couch—touching like it was muscle memory. She sliced ripe mangoes, the fruit sticky and decadent, and he licked the sweetness from her fingers without asking. She read aloud from a sun-warmed book in his lap, her voice lilting while his hands found the soft territory beneath her dress. It started with a glance, the kind that said everything. I want you. I have wanted you all day.
They’d been circling each other in flirtation and restraint, their day stitched together with stolen touches and shared sips of wine on the deck of their secluded beach cabin. No one saw. Just the trees, the ladybugs, and a few curious birds, and even they seemed to know not to interrupt.
The summer heat clung, but not as tightly as the ache between her thighs.
She stood barefoot at the lake’s edge, her toes curling into the damp earth. Her dress slipped from her shoulders with a familiar sigh — not silk on silk, but cotton on skin, worn and soft from summer after summer. It puddled at her feet in a quiet collapse.
She made no move to hide.
Her body was a landscape of memory. A faint scar curved like a question mark along her thigh. A stretch of silver whispered at her hips, kissed into being by time. Her belly was not flat, nor was it trying to be; it was the kind of softness that begged to be touched, kissed, and cherished. Her breasts shifted with the honesty of time. It wasn’t the wind that stirred her; it was the way he looked at her like a poem he hadn’t finished reading.
Her hair was wild and defiant, curling damply at her nape, clinging to her collarbone in uneven, beautiful tendrils. A stray curl fell across her cheek, and she let herself be seen, fully.
She stepped into the lake slowly. The water greeted her like a secret, rising along her calves, her thighs, until it reached her waist. She exhaled as though shedding something old and unnamed, as it reached her chest.
He followed without a word. His clothes came off in quiet, deliberate gestures. His body, no longer chiselled by youth but carved by life, made her chest swell with a familiar want. Broad and solid, muscles softening at the edges, a history written in tan lines, a healing nick, a mole she loved tracing with her lips.
She reached for him with an open palm, her fingers parting slightly. A gust of wind lifted a curl from her cheek, and she giggled brightly, like an unfiltered sound that bubbled out like joy, catching her by surprise.
He chuckled, too. Something about her laughter always unlocked a kind of mischief in him, a tenderness he rarely showed the world. It wasn’t seduction. It was intimacy so raw that it shimmered.
They laughed until they had to hold on to each other, foreheads nearly touching, the water around them rippling in time with their breath.
“I’m such an idiot,” she whispered, breathless and giddy.
“You look like summer,” he said, voice roughened by awe. And he meant it like a confession. At that moment, she was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she murmured, her legs curling around him beneath the surface, her heat slick against the rigid press of him.
“Try me,” he growled, low and frayed, fingers digging into her ass, pulling her in hard.
But she was already slipping from his grasp, her laughter trailing behind her as she swam toward the dock. Her body moved like temptation itself, hips teasing the moonlight, shoulders daring him to follow.
She pulled herself up onto the wooden planks with slow, sinuous grace, casting one wicked glance over her shoulder before vanishing into the cabin.
He followed, his body soaked and gleaming, hair clinging in wet coils to his temples. Silver threaded through black, curling down his neck like something feral and free. It had always undone her; that hair, those shoulders, and the way he looked when he let go.
She’d loved him in every version, but especially like this: untamed and wet from the lake, trailing her into the dark with hunger in his bones. He was built like comfort wrapped in power, not sculpted for admiration but forged for holding, grounding. His arms remembered the weight of her, the rituals of love in motion — her thighs, her entire goddamn world. His chest, dusted with soft hair, was where she always found her breath again. His belly was warm, the spot her hand always returned to without thinking.
And his ass? The kind that begged for teasing squeezes, earned them, and demanded them with every casual saunter across the room. And between his legs — the part of him that pulsed with its intent — wasn’t just about desire. It was a memory.
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