Beyond the patio, stretched out beside the shimmering turquoise rectangle of the pool, were my daughter Dana and her best friend Jen. Sprawled on bright loungers, just… gleaming. Jen's flicking through a glossy magazine. Dana stares up at the cloudless sky.
Holding that pitcher of lemonade, the condensation slick on my palm, I just… stop. They look… different. Eighteen. Driving. Working. Dana, seeing that boy, Mark. That boy. The thought, still a small, cold stone in my gut, impossible to dislodge.
Jen glances up as the patio door slides open. She grins, dropping the magazine—her cute beige bikini clashes cheerfully with the chair.
Dana stirs, barely acknowledging my approach.
But Jen, her gaze sharpens. Lands on me, standing there, holding the pitcher.
Her eyes don't slide away. They hold mine. A slow blink. The distant gaze shifts, warms into something else. Not appreciative, like Dana's look. Deeper. Measured. A faint curve touches the corner of her mouth, a subtle tilt of her head as she slowly pushes herself up on her elbows. The movement makes the bikini fabric pull taut across her ribs, highlighting the dip of her waist, the lean strength in her arms. Her hair, loose and tangled by the lounger, falls over one shoulder. Sunlight gilds the curve of her neck.
The stone in my gut turns warm, unnervingly so. I step closer to the small table between their loungers, the glasses ready. I can feel her eyes tracking me, a distinct weight.
Dana is already grabbing a glass.
Jen doesn't bat an eyelid, doesn't react to Dana at all. Her attention remains entirely focused on me, unwavering. That look… It's like staring into summer sunlight after hours in the shade. Intense. Calculating almost. Not the gaze one usually gets for fetching drinks. Something older. Hungrier. The kind of look that starts something. The confidence in her posture, the easy way she inhabits her body – the body which radiates heat almost as tangible as the sun's.
She pushes her hair back, a simple gesture that draws attention to the delicate bones of her wrist, the smooth line of her forearm. Still watching me. Her eyes travel deliberately down my arm to where my hand grips the heavy pitcher. Then slowly back up to my face. That half-smile deepens a fraction, hinting at knowledge.
She simply nods, her lips meeting the rim of the glass. She takes a long, slow sip. Her eyes never leave mine over the glass's edge. There's friction in the still, hot air, a current I've never felt here before.
Evening
The screen door slams shut behind Dana's departing figure, off to her boyfriend. Almost instantly, Jen's lounger scrapes backward on the patio stones as she stands. No words. Just that unwavering gaze, trapping me by the empty pitcher. Sunlight slants low and hot, painting her skin molten gold. She steps closer, the humid air thickening between us like sap. Her fingertip ghosts over the condensation still clinging to my forearm, tracing a cold path to my wrist.
That slight tilt of her head. A silent command: Come get me!
When I reach her mouth, she's already open for me. The first press is a shock – wet silk warmth and the tart reminder of lemonade. Her tongue meets mine, insistent, untrained, but oh so good. She leans back slightly, tugging my shirt over my head; her gaze runs hotter.
A sharp inhale ghosts across my temple. I lower my lips just above the delicate hollow where her shoulder meets her collarbone. Salt and coconut oil fill my senses. She tastes like heat given form. Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling my mouth harder against the pulse pounding its frantic rhythm beneath her skin.
My hands move to her waist. I feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her bikini top before my fingers find the knot resting just above the small of her back. The wet string bleeds cool water onto my knuckles. A slow tug. The knot surrenders, the triangles of fabric slithering down her sides. Her breath hitches as the material falls away. The spill of pale skin. Tiny, perfect breasts, the nipples already hardened dark rose against the golden brown. Noticed, not hidden. Claimed by the sun. My palm cups the curve of her ribs, just beneath. The fine shiver ripples across my skin.
Her head falls back, a low hum vibrating against my lips. I follow the offered column of her throat downward, tasting the slick valley between her breasts. My tongue circles one taut nipple slowly, deliberately. Her moan cracks open the humid dusk. Fingers twist painfully tight in my hair, urging me down. I obey, sinking lower. Knees find cool flagstone still warm from the day. My thumbs hook into the sides of her bikini bottoms. The thin fabric slides down over the flare of her hips, catching for a breathless second on the crest of each bone before whispering down her thighs. She steps free, naked before me now in the draining light.
My palms smooth the trembling skin of her thighs, inward. Perfectly shaven, soft skin, damp from her arousal. My lips press against the tight plane of her lower belly, dipping into the subtle rise of her navel. She locks her stance, opening herself to the descent. My fingers tenderly part her wet warmth.
My gaze reveals her soft and impossibly smooth. A tiny, hard pearl of flesh pulses at the apex, demanding attention. She is flawless.
My first tentative kiss presses against her innermost folds. Soft. Hot. Tangible saline. She gasps, a sound sharp enough to pierce skin. Her hands clamp onto my shoulders. I focus, dipping lower.
An involuntary buck. Like unexpected waves crashing against the shore. I look up. Just a tilt of my chin. Her face is telling a story on its own. Her stomach muscles shiver like plucked wires in the coppery light pouring down on us.
Time to give her what only I can…
