Lowering myself onto a large flat rock overhanging the water’s edge, I dangle my legs into the crystal-clear pool. A sigh of bliss escapes as I trace swirling figures of eight with my feet. Placing the room key beside me, I gather up my hair, using the band kept around my wrist to secure it in a loose knot at the back of my head.
The air hitting the damp skin of my nape makes it prickle and itch as it begins to dry. I dip a hand in the water and raise it to smear the area with soothing moisture, repeating the action until the drips accumulate and run down my neck and shoulders to sneak into the top of my T-shirt. Like a teasing lover’s touch, the rivulets trickle down my back and chest, working their way south via meandering paths that leave me shivering in their wake.
After the next dip, I let my hand hover above my legs, first one and then the other, enjoying the sensation of the droplets splattering onto my skin and drizzling down over the ultra-sensitive zone of my inner thighs. Inside, I feel an echoing ooze, warm and sweet and slow as honey. So much for cooling things down.
By now my shorts are well and truly wet through, and with a flash of recklessness and a careful scan of the area to check I’m still alone, I tug the soggy things down over my thighs, lifting one leg at a time to pull them off. It’s naughty and liberating to feel the warm stone against the bare flesh of my rump and I dare to spread my thighs, letting the night air brush its breath onto the humid cleft of my nether lips.
The sensation is delightful but nowhere near enough. Dipping a hand into the water again, I use the other to bunch my T-shirt up against my stomach before bracing it behind me. Leaning my torso back, I employ the hover technique again, letting water drip from my fingers down through the trimmed triangle of my pubic hair, feeling the skin beneath twitch at the sensation.
Drip, drip, drip; the droplets gather together and snake their way down into the slick ridges and valleys of my folds, searching out tickling paths of least resistance. It’s not long before I’m breathing hard and my arse is squirming against the rock. I need more.
Lowering my hand, I have to bite back a moan at the touch of my water-cooled fingertip brushing against the tender pearl of my clit. Spreading my legs wide, I tilt my pelvis up and trace my middle finger down to the opening of my vagina. Circling around the entrance, I coat it with my own slickness before returning it to stroke over the swollen nub in a satiny glide. Back and forth, round and round, I touch myself as fizzing streamers of delight unfurl from that one spot, shooting tremors out to my nerve endings.
A sound of movement from the pool terrace sends my heart leaping into my throat. Whipping my head around, I’m horrified to find a uniformed security guard patrolling into view. The beam of his torch sweeps within metres of my location, and splayed and vulnerable as my position is, I dare not move. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I sit frozen and wait for the inevitable to happen.
I can hardly believe my luck as, with a swing of his torch, the guard veers off in another direction, the bobbing light disappearing down one of the paths winding through the lush gardens. I don’t realise I’ve been holding my breath until it escapes in an explosive rush. In the aftermath of all the adrenaline flooding my bloodstream, my fingertips and toes begin to tingle.
That had been close! Not to mention frustrating. I’m more ramped up and in need of relief than ever. Perhaps the option of the hot, dark bathroom isn’t so bad after all. At least it’s private.
Grabbing hold of my shorts and room key, I push to my feet, standing in the knee-deep shallows of the inlet and giving my wobbly legs a moment to steady before turning to step up onto the ledge.
‘No, don’t go.’ The low appeal sounds from somewhere close by, startling a yelp from my throat and spinning me around so fast I’m on the verge of losing my balance and toppling into the water. Throwing my weight in the opposite direction, I end up planting my arse back on the rock with a loud stinging slap. Clapping both hands over the juncture of my thighs, I use the screwed up bundle of my shorts to hide my nakedness.
‘It’s OK. Don’t panic, I work here.’ The voice sounds again as my wild-eyed search picks out a dark shape detaching itself from the shadows beneath the bridge opposite and gliding through the water out into the moonlight. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Is the jerk kidding? He nearly killed me! My poor heart is bursting inside my chest. It can’t take much more of this kind of treatment, I’m sure. Shaking with shock and all but hyperventilating, I sit there and stare dumbly at him, wondering what – if anything – he’s seen, yet dreading to even contemplate the answer. I hope the semi-darkness disguises the telltale burn of guilt blossoming across my cheeks.
‘The guard’s gone,’ the pool-lurker observes in what I begin to register as a west coast American accent. With a wary eye, I check him out as he wades closer through the chest-deep water. From the sun-streaked, shaggy tousle of hair brushing the bronzed width of his shoulders, to the carved talisman hanging from the leather thong around his neck, and the swirling wave tattoo banding the biceps of one arm, he certainly has more than a whiff of LA surfer dude about him. Not least the laid-back smile he flashes as he adds: ‘Stay, please … at least until you get to finish what you started.’
Horrified, I gasp, remembering just in time not to throw my hands up to cover my flaming face in shame. A rush of denials, excuses and accusations tumble over each other to be the first off my tongue. ‘You were watching me?’ is all I manage to blurt.
‘I was,’ he admits in an appreciative tone, moving slowly but steadily nearer. ‘Watching …’ His teeth flash white as his smile stretches wider. ‘Wanting …’
I didn’t think I could blush any harder, but I’m wrong. ‘I’m, ah …’ Well, I’m at a total loss for words, actually. Easiest to go with the facts. ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then don’t say anything,’ he says with playful simplicity. His open uninhibited approach and relaxed manner are a million miles away from the gauche, nervous wreck of an impression I’m making of myself. ‘And don’t look so ashamed. You looked amazing touching yourself like that. So hot all I can think about is touching you too.’
My overworked heart tries to jump out of my chest again, but this time every thud is amplified by an echoing beat in my groin. I don’t know what my body’s getting so excited about; as attractive as the prospect might seem, it’s not like I’m going to let anything happen with a total stranger, even one I do sort of recognise as a hottie instructor from the watersports shack on the beach. ‘Um, I’d really better be going.’ Easier said than done, I realise, as I’m still clutching my shorts in my hands instead of wearing them.
The stranger continues his gliding advance.
‘You got someone waiting for you somewhere?’
Of course! Sara the Snorer is the perfect excuse to get me out of here. So why do I sabotage myself by saying ‘Ah, no. Not really’?
‘Me neither.’ He grins and, reaching the shallows, surges to his full height.
I gasp at the sudden rush of movement that leaves him standing only shin-deep, water sluicing down the lines of a body that is sculpted, lean … and totally naked. Not an arm’s length from my face, an admirable erection juts, hard and thick and long. My pop-eyed stare is captivated by the elegant up-curve of the shaft and the flared definition of the broad head.
Dripping rivulets of water run down the proud column, heading for the pair of tight, round balls framed by the sopping nest of curls between his thighs. Behind my teeth, my tongue tingles, thirsty to lap up every last drop.
It’s only when I hear a chuckle that I realise I’m gawping shamelessly. My gaze snaps up to see that smile beaming down at me. ‘So you’ll stay and play?’
Hormones raging, brain spinning, I can’t seem to form a single rational thought. What should be a case of clear-cut refusal is instead clouded and confused by lust.
‘Unhf …’ is all I manage to articulate.
The laughing, wet dream of a vision in front of me comes closer and hunkers down to level his face with mine. ‘You British are so cryptic. I’m hoping that translates to yes?’