Soon after we married, my sister-in-law and her husband invited us to share a cottage they had rented right on the beach in Martinique. It was so beautiful there! I had never been to the Caribbean before and it was like paradise.
One evening, after an exhausting day playing volleyball, swimming, and sunning, we all lay on the beach on our blankets and watched the sun as it slipped swiftly towards the horizon. We lay near the water’s edge by a clump of palms, fronds rustling contentedly in the gentle breeze above a crescent beach of moon-glow gold, they on their blankets and a little away, we on ours. Chris and I lay together, my head nestled securely on his shoulder, watching the shroud of evening fall and the first stars pop suddenly into the darkening sky. The riotous sea had settled for the night as little wavelets lap-lapped hypnotically on the shore. Puffball clouds scudding on the twilight breeze passed from deep purple to orange to brilliant red as they bathed in the glory of the swelling sun. From down the beach came the cries of the day’s last children, splashing in water tinted crimson by the fading light.
His fingers toyed idly with my hair, and I had never felt closer to him.
And the waves lap-lapped on the shore and palm fronds rustled.
He pulled me tight and hugged me one-armed, and when he relaxed and let me go his hand fell casually across my bikini-bound breast and gave it a gentle squeeze.
I pushed his hand away! What was he thinking? His sister was lying right there! And anyone could walk by and see us!
But nobody walked by. And when I stole a glance at his sister and her husband they were far too occupied with their own affairs to give notice to anything happening beyond the bounds of their blanket.
I relaxed again, and again his palm cupped my breast. And it felt so intimate to lie there like that, my breast in his hand, that I did not push him away. And he kneaded me through the taut nylon of my bikini.