“Turn...around,” he says slowly, sternly. 

He is seated, not far from her, watching with avid intent. She doesn’t move, just stands there staring back at him. Frozen. Intimidated.

With a downward angling index finger, he makes a swirling motion as if to provide a visual aid to his request.

“Tuuurn.” The single syllable draws out with fluid serenity.

She remains still, hands clasped, one over the top of the other and nestled in her waist. She is completely naked.

To her right, a warm Mediterranean breeze floats in through two opened french doors, billowing up their sheer curtains like see-through sails. She fills her lungs with the sea’s comforting briny breath and lets the look in his eyes soak in for just a moment longer.

Then, like a ballerina in slow motion, she commences her nude pirouette.

As her body turns—still glistening with a dull sheen of sunscreen from an earlier poolside lounge—her gaze remains locked on his face. 

He is slightly reclined in his seat, perpendicular to the villa’s desk. His pure-white, meticulously pressed dress shirt is untucked from his slacks, top two buttons undone. He has his shoes and socks off and is resting his right elbow on the desktop, stroking the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. Thumb and forefinger repeatedly combing over his jaw then pinching together on the patch just below his bottom lip. His baby-blues are soaking her in, top to bottom, not even bothering to make eye contact.

It’s perverted, putting on a display like this for a perfect stranger. But, the exhilaration is unlike any she’s experienced. Despite the hesitations, she is loving every second.

Once her back is to him and the twist finally pulls her gaze away, he speaks again.

“Stop.”

She stops, heart pounding.

“What made you come back to my room?” he asks.

“Made? Made is an interesting way to phra—”

“Shhh,” he interrupts her gently, takes a breath, then continues. “Why did you agree to come back to my room?”

His voice has a deep baritone intonation, balanced, right down to the pronunciation of each letter. The type of voice you might hear on late-night radio announcing the next classical piece. Every buttery syllable pulsating his vocal cords like the smooth draw of a resin bow seducing a standup bass.

Her eyes widen slightly. Not necessarily from the timbre of his inflection, but because of his amendment to the phrasing. She smiles. He cannot see it.

“You paid my poolside tab,” she says, a slight shrug of her left shoulder. “My drinks and lobster lunch weren’t cheap. And...you said please when you invited me.” She raises on her toes, then back down.

They are lame excuses and she knows it, but it’s too early for the truth.

Too early to tell him that it’s the way he carried himself that held her attention. Too soon to let on that his wit and provocative small talk were what furthered their earlier conversation. Or, how her heart flutters with thoughts back to that movie-like setting. A well-dressed man sitting at the end of the chaise lounge captivating her with his painfully blue eyes.

Far too early, so her inner good girl shields it all until she has more assurance. And while she tidies them away, the bad girl inside stirs fervently, eager to cry out, I just want to fuck!

“How old are you?” he asks to her back.

In a shallow way, she hopes his thoughts are prompted by her body. A taut frame with skin as pale as moonlight and celestial-like freckles, now fully exposed for this paramour of sorts.

“How old do you want me to be?” she says.  It's an edgy and immature reply even though she is anything but.

“You know, I'm probably old enough to be your father.”

“As if standing in front of you nude and facing this wall isn’t kinky enough?”

A drawn-out silence follows. She stares down toward her toes and figures that he is now the one smirking. She can picture it in her mind, the way his cheeks dimple in that ashen field of two-day stubble. He doesn’t strike her as the hipster type, too dashing and refined for that. He most likely keeps that face clean-shaven, except maybe, when he’s on vacation.

She wants to turn, but she doesn’t.

“What made you approach me?” she boldly asks, rolling her chin to the side. She expects a snarky reply. It doesn’t come.

“Gorgeous woman...lying alone by the pool...reading her book with no earbuds or external distractions, like she wants to get lost in whatever it is she is reading. You can learn a lot about a person in the briefest of moments.” He eases that resin bow slowly across his vocals.

“And how were you so sure I’d accept?”

“I didn’t get to where I am by sitting idly by. I see something I want, I go after it.”

“That explains your motive, not your assurance,” she says, looking back down to her feet, black poker-straight hair laying flat between her shoulder blades. She feels a few wayward strands playfully catch the breeze still billowing in.

She is smart, not just street smart, but intelligent and well-composed. Every pause before he answers serves as a small revelation to her that he knows this. Or, at the very least, he is figuring it out.

“Truth is, there are no assurances,” he finally says, “just risks, in everything we do.”

He is closer to her now. She can tell by the approaching sound of his voice and the slight hint of cologne mixing in with the humid waterfront air.

“I tend to take chances that most people won’t,” he continues, “chances that have a higher probability of failure. I guess you could say, I love the little glint of light shining within the vagaries of life where everyone else only sees shadows.”

His words linger. 

She feels his hands slide over her hips. They are firm and despite being warm, they cause a slight hitch in her breath. Anticipation raises gooseflesh in the field of little dark hairs that coat her slender arms and she feels her nipples harden into fleshy little pebbles.

“But,” he says brushing his lips against the side of her neck, whiskers prickling her skin, ”the glories of success far outweigh any fears of failure.”

He spins her with force and if not for the perversions of the scene, she’d have felt like she was being penned into a Bronte novel. She angles her face upward, parted mouths a hair’s breadth apart.

The air in the room stands still; a fraction of a beat that seems to last longer. Then, he gently inhales and presses passionately to kiss her.

It had all started rather impulsively while at the same time quite calculated. A whimsical poolside conversation leading to the invite back to his room. One she probably would not have accepted under any other circumstance. And it wasn’t just his debonair look that played into her decision; she’s no stranger to propositions from gorgeous men. It was the fruition of events that gave her the ‘what the fuck’ attitude in her acceptance.

After all, it's why she was there.

The trip is her escape from the banalities of her life. A societal respite with a sought-after chance for adventure. Not the type of adventure a five-star resort normally purports in its marketing campaigns. This type of seedy exploit would be the kind that erotic novelists ache to write about.

The problem she had had to this point was with that morally staunch good girl inside. She isn’t supposed to fuck a man she doesn’t intimately know. Certainly not moments after he sits down. Moments after he nonchalantly asks her to share in the majestic view from his overindulgent room. 

At least, that’s what mother always said. 

Good girls play the game, deny the first advance, perhaps even the second and third. Toy with him. Walk away but then flash furtive glances to keep him guessing. Eventually, build a connection. Go on dates, have dinner and drinks. Engage in conversations about common likes and dislikes…careers and futures...dysfunctional families...and how many kids to have...and what to name the fucking dog…

And even as she’d begun to gather her poolside belongings—accepting his offer and effectively tossing all mother’s rules aside—she knew it would be impossible to recreate the rationale of the situation for everyone back home.

They’ll call her crazy and maybe she was. 

But for once, she just wants to be the girl who throws caution to the wind, who dances in the rain while everyone else scurries for shelter. The one who goes away on vacation and comes home with a sordid story to tell. Justified, of course. 

She is at a high-end resort and he is, well, staying in the most expensive villa they have. The nightly rate alone is more than an entire month’s rent for her condo in San Diego. Not that his apparent affluence eliminates his likelihood of proving to be unsound, but it lessens it, in her mind.

Adventure. Intrigue. Fucking, danger. It tingles in her clit. Erotic energy flutters inside. Fulfillment coming in the form of this diversion from expectations. 

Chances others won’t take.

She pushes back into him and smiles into the kiss. The good-girl script begins to unravel. A kind of momentum that sets a pendulum in motion, skewing her fantasies. All of the romance she’s been spoon-fed since she was a teen, begins to pixelate with each pass of their tongues.

Heightened sexual visions replace her focus. She can almost feel the sting of his palm on her ass, the searing heat of a bite as he claims her. Restraints cinching her wrists and ankles as he ogles her, stroking his cock to her nudity. Like an object. 

That clitoral tingling from earlier now burgeons into a full-blown throb feeding on the promise of debauchery. 

He pulls back, breaking the kiss, and for a moment they are silent. Bodies still pressing together, eyes lost in a look of mutual lust. She swallows hard, blinks, and waits.

“Kneel.” 

This time she does not hesitate. She kneels and tilts her head up as he begins to unbutton his shirt. Her fingers snake under the fabric and trail over his soft belly. A slight paunch that whiskey and age now cloak atop what she assumes was once a well-toned abdomen. He lets his shirt fall and she curls her fingers into the waistline of his pants, unbuttoning and pulling them down.

“Tell me what you want,” she says in a tone that seems to penetrate deeper than the moment.

He steps out of his slacks. She runs her palm over the outline of his hardon still pinned behind tight, grey cotton boxers. It twitches and she moves up slightly to capture the head with pursed lips. Her tongue pushes forward.

Waiting for his answer, she engulfs more of his clad bulge and stays there long enough to know that her saliva is soaking through to his skin. His response finally comes in the form of a deep groan.

Reaching down, he tangles his fingers in her hair and yanks her head back. She gasps with nervous excitement.

“You have me fuckin’ twisted in knots,” he growls staring down at her with those piercing eyes.

His glare has weight, like footfalls traipsing prints through her sexuality. She can see bewilderment swirling within his deep-blue pools and part of her is satisfied. Satisfied that it’s not just her feeling it.

“What I want is to fuck you,” he murmurs like it’s some sort of epiphanic declaration. “Christ, how I wanna fuck you...but there seems to be...I don’t know...something more to you than just a fuck.”

This time her smile is visible but his face remains stolid, eyes narrowing slightly. It’s like his mind is fighting desperately to counter the move his body wants to make next.

She chews her bottom lip and solves his dilemma for him. “There’s nothing that says you can’t fuck me and have me too,” she whimpers.

His reaction is subtle, but she catches it, something slightly more than a twitch. A tightening of the muscle in the right corner just above his lip. Perhaps an unconscious response to her words, like gears turning. Maybe he doesn't even realize it’s visible, but it screams to her. It goes beyond attraction, deeper than infatuation. His look bears a gleam of admiration.

With one hand, he keeps his grip firm on her head. With the other, he hastily jerks his shorts down, just enough to release his cock. He fumbles with the waistband letting it catch under his balls then fists his shaft. Precum is already glistening the tip.

“Open.”

She opens. Eyes staring up at him with forced innocence. The bad girl is now in full control. 

He slides the tip of his erection along her pillowy red lips, like some perverted application of lipgloss. She trails her tongue along behind. The hand gripping his shaft releases its hold to brush fingertips along her cheek. A conduit of communication fixates in their silent stare.

His hand slides along her jawline eventually slipping under, letting his thumb rest on her chin. Their eyes remain connected. He gently, but firmly, presses down to open her mouth wider. With a slight move of his hips, he eases the stiffened head of his cock onto her tongue.

As he pushes in, his hand moves back to the side of her head, tangling once again in her silky black hair. His cock is thick and warm in her mouth; throbbing just like the tenderness between her thighs. It slides until the spongy head bumps the back of her throat. She gags, eyes beginning to water. He snarls his lip and presses harder simultaneously pulling her face into his crotch.

With shortened strokes, he pulls back, then forward, over and over, the pace increasing. Air forces from her throat as he fucks it, emanating a noise she’s never heard before from anyone or anything.

She reaches down between her folds, fingers slide in without the slightest effort. She curls them forward and follows along with the cadence of his thrusts. Plunging, pulling, slapping her palm up into the wetness. It doesn’t take long before he bends slightly, pulling her hair with unconscious force, and erupts his orgasm into the back of her throat.

As he pulls back, she smiles, tears trickling down her cheeks, fingers still buried deep inside her swollen pussy. Swiftly, he pulls her up and their hungry lips lock once again. He cradles the base of her head, holding firmly.

After a moment, his hands fall to the curve of her ass and give a subtle bump. She hops into him and wraps her legs around his waist with a squeeze of her thighs.

Shuffling forward as they kiss, he carries her through to the villa’s make-shift living room. His shin smacks into a coffee table. He winces. She smiles. Their tongues never lose rhythm, snaking with fiery intent. He continues forward as her hands caress the back of his head; black painted fingernails weaving sensually through his wavy hair.

Eventually, her ass meets the edge of a dining table and he pulls away from the kiss to press her down. She scoots back bringing her legs up to rest her bare feet on the surface, knees bent. She angles her head in a sidelong gaze down toward him.

In an instant, the whole experience becomes surreal, as if the scene is playing out by two people she knows very little about. Strangers to one another. Perhaps, strangers to themselves. She begins to question it, but why now? Is it because she is lying naked on a teak table in a foreign country about to be fucked by this man she’s just met?

Precisely.

The inner voice seduces her ear like a stiffened tongue. 

She slides a hand down her tummy, and once again over her puffy crimson lips. Soaked, to the point she is dripping. A heated moan pulls his attention. Her eyes roll as she dips her fingers into the mess then tumbles back into the moment she’s wanted all along.

Without waiting for her to remove the digits, he drags his tongue along where they disappear, lapping at the juices being gathered. A growl escapes him. She pauses and pulls them out to feed him her nectar. That seems to stoke his flame even higher.

He wraps his arms around her legs, then pulls her closer to the edge, straightening up and leaning over. They kiss. It’s delightfully pungent and she brings her sticky fingers up for more. Shifting his weight to brace himself with his left arm, he frees his right hand to reach down and guide his shaft to penetrate her.

“Fuck!” she yells as he slams into her with enough force to screech the table legs against the tile.

He retracts then pushes again until the base of his shaft meets her immaculate mound. This time pausing to hold it there.

“Fuck me!” she seethes.

“Wait. Just...wait one second,” he says, already breathless. And then she realizes the need for his hesitation. She snarls. He’s probably running sports scores in his head trying to make everything perfect and she just needs him to fuck her.

She reaches down, digs her nails sharply into the flesh of his ass, stares fiercely into his eyes, and commands him to pump. The sting widens his look and works to stave off his orgasm long enough to relentlessly plow into her.

Their momentum shifts the table, again screeching it across the floor. Numerous times. Not a care for the damage to the tile.

He cums hard inside her, each spurt of his hot ejaculate announced with a loud grunt. She matches it with screams of her own ecstasy. The muscles in her abdomen clenching as her climax rolls through.

Chills coat her skin as her body shudders in small post-orgasmic waves. She pulls him down to kiss tiny bursts all over his prickly face. He scoops her off the table, cock still firmly inside, and carries her to the bed where they collapse.

She rolls to one side, slipping him out. They spoon, catching their breath, every naked inch of him still touching her from behind. She hugs his hand to her chest and for a while, they lie still.

As her consciousness ebbs back to reality, she hears pops of faint laughter, distant voices from outside. Sounds of the resort’s life fluttering in on the breeze. She cannot help but wonder if any of them heard the action. 

She hopes they did.

Bringing his hand up to her lips, she speaks softly, “Was I really just another pretty face lying by the pool?”

He takes a long moment to reply. She doesn’t mind. The answer will probably be nothing, but then again, it may be everything.

“It was the book you were reading,” he finally whispers into her back. “You were smiling and chuckling, presumably at all the places I intended for the reader to be smiling and chuckling.”

She kisses his hand, grins, and does her best to pretend that his words are revealing. Even though they are not.

Ironically, they had been checking in at the same time that morning. He was next to her at the front desk and he was striking. Which, in itself, would have been enough given the nature and intent of her excursion. But when he confirmed his reservation, she began to recognize the face and the name. An alias. The same name as the main character from his first novel.

It had taken a search of four bookstores and one hell of an Uber fare. Eventually, she found a copy to read by the pool—in clear sight of where his alias hung from a reserved cabana. The rest of her plan relied on him approaching. She wasn’t sure he would be so bold.

There are no assurances.

As they lay there postcoital, she considers coming clean about the scheme, but it’s still too early. She’ll let him revel in his cleverness, it will make for a cute conversation at some point. Maybe over dinner and drinks. 

For now, she feels good about breaking away from the rules, setting herself free from those confines of life’s expectations. Impulse and seduction have shown her their shiny flicker in the shadows. Or maybe, he just helped her find it. 

Either way, she widens her nefarious grin and whispers, “What do you want to do now?” 

It is presumptuous. He probably wants her out so he can clean up, shower, and move on to his next conquest.

“I was thinking we could find some food,” he says, “maybe walk the shore.”

Not what she was expecting. 

“Sounds very pretty,” she says, “but I was sort of thinking...well...something more along the lines of anal.”