Down on the Beach

Glancing over her shoulder, Chloe studied the distant cluster of bodies before unknotting her sarong. She could see them, silhouetted by the fire, but doubted they could see her. She held the soft wrap by its corners—above her head—and allowed the breeze to catch it, laughing at her whimsical impulse before letting go to watch it float softly inland and come to rest on the dry sand. Peeling off her swimsuit, she balled it up and flung it so that it landed alongside the other garment.

Arms wide, Chloe walked into the sea, submersing herself when its warm waters reached her waist. It embraced her, not dousing her fire but instead stoking it through a symphony of sensation. It penetrated her body and her mind, and she floated on waves of want—buoyed by the desire for Jack's touch. She felt its fingers caressing, probing, drawing forth her own fluids.

When the enveloping touch of the liquid touch began to coalesce into a pulse between her legs, she worked her way toward the shore: prolonging the need until it became integral to her existence—one with her spirit. Whole. Raw. Pure.

Although it wasn't chilly by anyone's standards, the air was cooler than the water, and Chloe's skin reacted to the change in temperature as she emerged from the water. She ran both hands through her hair, wringing as much moisture from it as possible, and then shook her head in an attempt to dry it further.

The act—coupled with the effects of the beer and the pervasive arousal—made her dizzy, and she stood knee-deep in the surf with her eyes closed until the vertigo passed. Upon opening her eyes, she discovered Jack standing on the shore, grinning at her. At first, she thought him a figment of her imagination—an apparition of desire—but then he spoke.

"You're a sight for sore eyes."