The bus shuddered to a halt, exhaling stale air as Tracy hauled her duffel bag onto the cracked sidewalk. "Christ, that took forever," she muttered, wiping sweat from her temple with the back of her hand. Campus loomed a 20 minute bus ride east, but her gaze fixed on the peeling Victorian across the street.
Room for rent: Ensuite bathroom, utilities included. Quiet neighborhood. 5 min walk to bus stop.
Tracy reread the Craigslist ad on her cracked phone screen, then squinted at the structure tucked behind the main house. It wasn't part of the imposing Victorian she'd first noticed. Instead, it nestled discreetly behind a sleek, two-story modern box clad in pale grey siding and vast windows. The listing's grainy photo hadn't done it justice. The "pool house" – though the kidney-shaped pool beside it gleamed invitingly—looked more like a compact, self-contained studio. Its clean lines mirrored the main house's minimalist aesthetic: flat roof, large sliding glass doors, a small deck overlooking the water. Affordable? For this? Doubt warred with desperate hope. Campus housing was a nightmare, and her budget was threadbare.
She pressed the buzzer beside the modern house's frosted glass front door. Footsteps echoed inside, swift and light. The door swung open to reveal a woman in her late forties, wiping her hands on a paint-splattered apron. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands escaping around a face that held traces of fatigue but also a sharp, assessing intelligence. "Tracy?" she asked, her voice warm but brisk.
Tracy summoned her brightest, most responsible-college-student smile. "Mrs. Evans? Hi! Yes, I'm Tracy." She shifted her duffel bag strap higher on her shoulder, acutely aware of her rumpled travel clothes and the faint smell of bus diesel clinging to her. "Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice." Her palms felt damp. This place looked expensive. The gleaming chrome fixtures visible in the hallway behind Mrs. Evans screamed 'way over budget'.
Mrs. Evans stepped back, gesturing Tracy inside with a paint-speckled hand. "Call me Diane. Come on in, let's get out of this heat." The interior was cool, minimalist, and smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh coffee. A half-finished abstract canvas leaned against the wall. "Right, the pool house," Diane continued, leading her through the airy living room towards sliding glass doors that opened onto a shaded patio overlooking the pool. "It’s simple, really. All expenses are covered in the set price—electricity, water, internet, trash pickup. No hidden extras." She paused, unlocking a small gate separating the patio from the pool deck. "You’ve got your own kitchenette—microwave, small fridge, two-burner hob—tucked away neatly. And," she added, pulling a keyring from her apron pocket and unlocking the studio's sleek door, "your own washer and dryer combo unit is tucked into that closet." She pointed towards a discreet louvered door near the tiny bathroom entrance.
Tracy followed Diane into the studio, her worn sneakers sinking into plush grey carpeting. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows facing the pool. The space was compact but immaculate: a built-in desk beneath one window, a queen-sized platform bed against the far wall, and a surprisingly spacious closet. The kitchenette was indeed minimalist but functional, with gleaming stainless steel appliances. Her gaze lingered on the washer/dryer closet Diane had indicated. In-unit laundry? At this price? The Craigslist listing had mentioned utilities, but laundry was a luxury Tracy hadn't dared hope for. The ad’s stated rent felt impossibly low for this gleaming, private oasis tucked behind the sleek modern house. Doubt prickled her skin again. Was there mold? Bad plumbing? A serial killer landlord? She scanned the pristine surfaces for hidden flaws.
Diane watched her take it in, a faint smile touching her lips. "It's quiet back here," she offered, stepping onto the small deck overlooking the shimmering turquoise water. "Peaceful. Feel free to utilise the pool whenever you wish." Tracy’s eyes widened slightly. Private pool access? This was veering into fantasy territory. Before she could fully process it, Diane added, her tone casual but carrying a distinct note of maternal caution, "Just one thing. My son Ben will be around. He’s seventeen. Mostly keeps to himself upstairs in the main house." She gestured vaguely towards the larger building. "Doesn't bother anyone. But he might wander down here occasionally to swim, or grab something from the pool shed." She nodded towards a small, neat structure tucked beside the studio.
Tracy nodded quickly. "Oh, absolutely! No problem at all." A teenager seemed like the least alarming possibility compared to the scenarios her budget-paranoid mind had conjured. "He sounds... unobtrusive." Diane chuckled softly, a warm, low sound. "That’s one word for it." She turned, her gaze sharpening slightly as she studied Tracy. "You seem sensible. The price is firm, but I do require first and last month’s rent upfront. Non-negotiable." Tracy’s heart sank a fraction. That was steep. She’d hoped to negotiate. She swallowed, forcing another smile. "Understood. That’s... standard." Her mind raced, calculating the dent this would make in her meagre savings.
But Tracy knew she wasn’t going to find anything better for the same price. This wasn't just a room; it was a sanctuary. Private entrance, ensuite bathroom, laundry, pool access, and nestled in a neighbourhood where the houses screamed affluence, yet the rent screamed bargain-bin miracle. The silence Diane promised was worth its weight in gold compared to the chaotic dorms or the dubious basement apartments she'd toured. The gleaming appliances, the plush carpet, the sheer privacy – it felt like stepping into a glossy magazine spread designed specifically to mock her thrift-store wardrobe. Finding anything remotely comparable near campus, especially with laundry included, was pure fantasy. This was it. Her only shot.
She dug into her worn backpack, fingers trembling slightly as she pulled out the thick envelope she'd prepared that morning. "I have it right here," Tracy said, trying to keep her voice steady as she handed over the cashier's checks – her entire summer savings plus the emergency fund she’d painstakingly built flipping textbooks online. The paper felt flimsy against the solid reality of the key Diane pressed into her palm moments later. It was cool and heavy, stamped with a simple ‘PH’. "Welcome home, Tracy," Diane said, her brisk tone softening slightly. "Rules are simple: no loud parties, keep the pool area tidy, and please use the side gate near the shed for guests. Ben has a key to the shed for pool chemicals and floats, but he may get to know you." She paused, her gaze lingering on Tracy’s relieved expression. "Any questions?"
Tracy scanned the pristine studio, her mind racing through a hundred practicalities – trash pickup days, Wi-Fi password, whether the ancient oak tree would block the morning light. But Diane’s expectant look reminded her of the fragile nature of this miracle. "Not at this time," Tracy replied, forcing a calm she didn’t feel into her voice. She tucked the key deep into her jeans pocket, its weight a grounding anchor. "But if anything comes up, I’ll let you know immediately." The promise felt vital, a lifeline thrown to secure this impossible haven.
Diane gave a brisk nod, her paint-speckled apron rustling as she turned. "Good. Kitchenette basics are stocked – coffee filters, dish soap. Rest is up to you." She paused at the studio door, glancing at her watch. "I’ve got a gallery meeting downtown. Make yourself at home." With that, she was gone, her quick footsteps fading across the pool deck towards the sleek grey house. The sudden silence pressed in, thick and humming with possibility. Tracy stood motionless in the center of the room, breathing in the scent of new carpet and faint chlorine drifting through the open slider. Hers. For now.
She dropped her duffel bag onto the plush carpet with a soft thud, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet. Unzipping it felt like cracking open a tomb of her old life – crumpled band tees, worn jeans, textbooks smelling of stale coffee shops. She began transferring clothes to the spacious closet, her fingers brushing against the cool metal of the washer/dryer unit tucked inside. In-unit laundry. A disbelieving laugh escaped her lips. She hung her thrift-store blazer beside a row of empty hangers, its frayed cuff looking absurdly out of place against the pristine white shelves.
The California sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the grey carpet as she unpacked her meagre kitchen supplies: a single chipped mug, a dented kettle, instant coffee packets. The gleaming stainless steel appliances seemed to mock her meagre offerings. She filled the kettle at the spotless sink, the water running cold and clear. Outside, the turquoise pool shimmered under the afternoon light, palm fronds rustling softly in the breeze. The sheer luxury of the silence, broken only by distant birdsong and the gentle hum of the refrigerator, was almost unnerving after months of dormitory chaos. She touched the cool quartz countertop. Hers. For a year, at least.
Around 3 PM, a sudden clatter shattered the stillness – sharp, metallic, and startlingly close. It came from the direction of the pool shed, a small structure tucked beside her studio. Tracy froze mid-sip of her instant coffee, the mug halfway to her lips. It wasn't the sound of a door closing or something falling; it was more purposeful, like tools being dropped or equipment knocked over. A prickle of unease travelled down her spine. Diane was downtown. The main house looked silent. Ben. Diane's seventeen-year-old son, who "mostly keeps to himself upstairs". Was he down here already? She hadn't even moved in properly.
She hesitated, listening intently. More shuffling sounds followed, muffled grunts, then the distinct scrape of something heavy being dragged across concrete. Curiosity warred fiercely with the ingrained instinct to avoid awkward encounters. This space was hers now, but the commotion felt invasive, a jarring intrusion into her hard-won sanctuary. She peered cautiously through the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door facing the pool deck. She could just make out a figure wrestling with a large, rolled-up blue vinyl pool cover near the shed entrance – definitely Ben. His back was turned, dark hair messy, wearing faded swim trunks and an old band t-shirt. He seemed focused, oblivious to her presence.
Tracy focused on him properly as he straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. She saw him, tall—easily six feet — broad-shouldered with a athlete’s build evident even under the worn cotton shirt. The late afternoon sun caught the sharp angle of his jawline as he turned slightly, revealing a profile that was unexpectedly striking: high cheekbones, a straight nose, and lips set in a line of concentration. He was extremely handsome in an effortless, athletic way that seemed almost unreal for a seventeen-year-old. He looked more like a college athlete than a high school junior. The sheer incongruity of it—this impossibly good-looking kid wrestling pool covers behind her bargain-basement studio – momentarily froze her.
His head lifted then, scanning the deck towards the studio as if sensing her presence. Their eyes caught across the shimmering turquoise water—his were a startlingly clear, deep blue, like fragments of a tropical sea. Tracy felt an immediate, visceral jolt of awareness. It wasn't attraction, exactly—he was seventeen, barely more than a boy – but the sheer intensity of his gaze, framed by dark lashes, was disconcertingly direct. It felt like being pinned under a spotlight. Instinctively, she jerked back from the blinds, heart hammering against her ribs. She averted her gaze sharply, staring down at the cold instant coffee swirling in her chipped mug, desperate not to be caught staring into those unsettlingly dreamy blue eyes. Get a grip, she scolded herself silently. He's Diane's kid. Your landlord's teenage son. Off-limits and awkward.
Ben went about his business, unfazed. He hauled the heavy pool cover towards a large reel mounted beside the shed, muscles straining, corded beneath his tanned skin. Tracy watched through the slats, mesmerized despite herself. He moved with a fluid, economical grace – dipping a long-handled net into the water to skim away fallen palm fronds, his shoulders rolling with practiced ease. The scent of chlorine sharpened noticeably as he crouched by the filter intake, checking valves with quick, competent twists of his wrists. He pulled a plastic bucket from the shed, measured precise scoops of white powder — shock treatment, Tracy guessed—and broadcast it evenly across the surface. The granules hissed faintly as they dissolved, swirling into the blue depths. His movements were methodical, almost ritualistic, radiating a quiet focus that seemed incongruous with his age and startlingly handsome face. He worked with the absorbed detachment of someone performing a familiar chore, completely ignoring the studio's new occupant.
Tracy forced herself to turn away, busying herself with arranging her textbooks on the built-in desk. The spines felt flimsy and cheap against the sleek wood grain. She tried to focus on the syllabus for her Intro to biology class, but the sounds drifted through the slider – the scrape of the bucket handle, the splash of water, the soft clang of the shed door closing. Each noise felt amplified in the quiet. She kept her back resolutely turned, determined not to glance outside again. He’s just doing chores, she reminded herself firmly. Ignore him.
But the image of him burst into her mind, sharp and unbidden. The way his damp t-shirt clung to the defined muscles of his back as he hauled the cover. The unexpected grace in his movements, the startling clarity of those blue eyes locking onto hers. She was powerless to stop it. It had been months—long, frustrating months — since she’d last had sex. Campus life offered plenty of opportunity, but nothing had clicked. Nothing had felt worth the hassle, the awkward morning-after shuffles. The memory of touch, of skin against skin, of that deep, satisfying release, surged through her with sudden, embarrassing intensity. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palms flat against the cool desktop. Stop it. He’s seventeen. Diane’s son. Off-limits.
The forbidden fruit was all too tempting. The thought sent a tingle straight to her core, a low thrum beneath her ribs that felt dangerously like arousal. It was stupid, reckless, utterly inappropriate. Yet, the sheer physicality of him, combined with the intimacy of sharing this secluded space, ignited something primal she hadn't felt in ages. She imagined those strong hands gripping her waist instead of the pool net, the heat radiating off his skin as he pressed her against the cool glass door… A flush crept up her neck, hot and undeniable. She gulped her cold coffee, the bitterness a harsh anchor to reality. No. Absolutely not.
She managed to push the thoughts away, but they lingered on the edge of her mind like persistent shadows. The vivid images—the flex of his forearm, the intensity of his gaze—flickered just beneath the surface of her concentration. Every splash from the pool, every muffled scrape near the shed, felt amplified, pulling her attention back towards the deck. She focused fiercely on her biology textbook, tracing the diagram of a cell membrane with a fingertip, forcing her eyes to absorb the words. Phospholipid bilayer. Hydrophilic heads. The terms felt dry and lifeless compared to the charged silence outside.
Another sharp clang—metal hitting concrete — jolted her. Tracy sighed, setting down her highlighter. Enough hiding. Avoiding him would only make their inevitable encounters more awkward. She smoothed her rumpled t-shirt, took a steadying breath, and slid open the glass door. The afternoon heat washed over her, thick with chlorine and the scent of sun-warmed concrete. Ben stood near the shed, wrestling a tangled garden hose back onto its reel. His back was still turned, muscles shifting beneath his damp t-shirt.
"Hey," Tracy called out, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet. She kept her tone casual, friendly. "Need a hand?"
Ben spun around, startled. His eyes—that impossible blue — widened slightly before settling into a guarded neutrality. Up close, the effect was almost disorienting. His features were sharply defined, almost sculpted: high cheekbones, a strong jaw dusted with faint stubble, lips fuller than she'd expected. Sweat glistened on his temple, darkening strands of his messy dark hair. He looked older than seventeen, radiating a raw physicality that made Tracy acutely aware of her own state: the worn cotton of her thin white t-shirt clinging slightly to her ribs, riding up just enough to expose her navel. Her denim shorts, faded and frayed, sat high on her hips, the hem cutting cleanly across the halfway point of her thighs. She felt exposed, suddenly conscious of the contrast between her thrift-store comfort and his effortless, sun-touched vitality.
He offered a slight smile, polite but distant. "Nah, I'm good. Almost done." His gaze flickered over her briefly, taking in the duffel bag visible through the open slider, the sparse belongings. "So you're our guest?" The question was neutral, but his eyes held a flicker of curiosity—or was it assessment?
Tracy shifted her weight, acutely aware of the sun warming her bare legs. "Tracy," she supplied, forcing a casual smile. "Just moved in today." She gestured vaguely towards the studio. "Your mom seems great. Place is amazing." The words felt inadequate against the turquoise water shimmering beside them.
Ben gave a noncommittal grunt, coiling the last loop of hose onto the reel with practiced efficiency. "Yeah, she likes her projects." He wiped his palms on his faded swim trunks, leaving faint damp streaks. His gaze drifted past her shoulder into the studio, lingering on the sparse textbooks stacked haphazardly on the desk. "Hope it works out for you. It's... quiet back here." His tone suggested quiet wasn't necessarily a virtue.
Tracy shifted, the sun warm on her bare shoulders. "Quiet is exactly what I need after dorm life." She hesitated, the awkwardness thickening the humid air. Diane’s warning echoed: He might wander down. "So... if there’s anything I need," she ventured, trying to bridge the gap, "or if something’s missing back here... should I just let you know? Or go straight to your mom?" The question felt clumsy, exposing the weird dynamic – tenant and landlord’s son sharing a secluded backyard.
Ben paused, hose recoiled neatly. He turned fully towards her, leaning back against the cool grey siding of the shed. Those startlingly blue eyes met hers again, direct and assessing. A slow, easy smile spread across his face, transforming his guarded expression into something disarmingly open. "Absolutely," he said, his voice deeper than she’d expected, smooth and unhurried. "I’d be happy to help." He gestured loosely towards the studio with a tanned hand. "Wi-Fi acting up? Drain clogged? Pool pump sounding like a dying chainsaw? I’m usually around." His smile held a hint of amusement, as if privy to some private joke. "Mom’s great, but she gets... absorbed. Easier to just ask me."
Tracy felt a flicker of surprise. His sudden warmth was a stark contrast to the detached worker from moments before. "Thanks," she managed, returning his smile cautiously. "Good to know." The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. Maybe this wouldn't be so awkward after all. "I’ll keep that in mind."
Over the next few days, their paths crossed more often than Tracy expected. Ben seemed to materialize near the pool shed almost daily—checking chemical levels, skimming leaves, or simply stretching out on a lounger with a textbook propped open, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Tracy, initially determined to stay holed up studying, found herself drawn outside by the California sunshine and the siren call of the turquoise water. She’d sit on her small deck with her biology notes, pretending to focus while stealing glances at the lean lines of his back as he tested the pool pH, or the focused frown as he wrestled with the filter pump.
One particularly stifling afternoon, the air thick with humidity, Tracy couldn’t resist the water’s pull any longer. The shimmering turquoise surface seemed to whisper promises of cool relief. She retreated inside, peeling off her sweat-dampened t-shirt and shorts. From her duffel, she pulled out her sole swimsuit—a deep emerald green bikini she’d bought impulsively on sale months ago. The triangles of fabric were smaller, the cut higher on the hips than she remembered. She hesitated, scrutinizing her reflection in the small bathroom mirror. The green fabric contrasted sharply with her tan skin, accentuating the curve of her hips and the dip of her waist. It was sexy, bordering on daring. A flicker of self-consciousness warred with the heat radiating off her skin. He’s just a kid, she reminded herself sternly, knotting the strings securely behind her neck and back. It’s just swimming.
Pushing open the sliding door, the heavy air rushed over her skin. As she emerged onto the sun-baked deck, he was already there. Ben lay sprawled on a faded blue lounger positioned directly across the pool from her studio entrance. He wasn't studying or working this time. He was simply soaking up the sun, shirtless. His bare chest was exposed, lean and sculpted with the nascent definition of someone naturally athletic. Sweat glistened like liquid gold across the slight ridges of his abs and the firm planes of his chest, tracing paths through the sparse dusting of dark hair. The sight was unexpectedly arresting, undeniably masculine. Tracy felt her breath catch. He looked older than seventeen in that moment, radiating a potent, relaxed physicality that was intoxicating.
She forced her gaze away, focusing on the shimmering turquoise surface. The coolness of the water beckoned, promising relief from the oppressive heat and the sudden flush warming her cheeks. She slipped into the pool with minimal splash, the coolness instantly enveloping her, a shock that steadied her thoughts. The water felt like liquid silk against her heated skin, washing away the self-consciousness prickling at her neck. She submerged completely, letting the silence of the underwater world soothe her momentarily. When she surfaced, pushing wet strands of hair from her face, she saw Ben watching her. He hadn't moved from the lounger, but his head was turned towards her. Those impossibly blue eyes were fixed on her, a faint, unreadable curve playing at the corner of his lips. He didn't look away.
Tracy swam a slow, deliberate lap towards the shallow end, acutely aware of his gaze tracing her movements. The emerald bikini clung to her skin, feeling suddenly more revealing than ever under his direct observation. She stopped near the steps, resting her elbows on the warm concrete edge. The silence stretched, thick and humming with the drone of unseen insects and the gentle lapping of water against the pool walls. Ben pushed himself up slightly on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing. His gaze drifted slowly, deliberately, from her face down the length of her body submerged in the turquoise water, then back up to meet her eyes. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face – confident, bordering on challenging. "What," he drawled, his voice low and smooth, carrying easily across the water, Tracy asked "you want to join me?" The question hung in the humid air, layered with implication, it was an invitation laced with something far more primal, acknowledging the electric tension crackling between them.
Tracy’s heart hammered against her ribs. He’s seventeen. The thought screamed in her mind, a frantic warning bell. But the raw magnetism radiating from him, the sheer physicality of his sun-warmed skin and the intensity in those sea-blue eyes, drowned out the caution. The months of pent-up frustration, the isolation, the sheer unexpectedness of him right here, right now, surged through her like a current. A reckless heat bloomed low in her belly. She managed a shaky smile, her voice barely above a whisper yet carrying clearly. She pushed off the edge, gliding slowly towards the middle of the pool, turning to face him fully. Her gaze locked onto his, unwavering, mirroring the challenge she saw reflected back at her. The water rippled around her, cool against her heated skin.
Ben didn't hesitate. He pushed himself off the lounger in one fluid motion, landing on the pool deck with a soft thud. Water droplets scattered from his skin as he moved. He walked to the edge, his gaze never leaving hers. There was no teenage awkwardness, only a predatory grace that sent another jolt through Tracy. He dove cleanly into the deep end, slicing through the turquoise water with powerful strokes. He surfaced mere feet from her, shaking dark hair from his eyes. Water streamed down the sharp planes of his face, over the corded muscles of his shoulders and chest. The chlorine scent intensified, mingling with the warm, earthy smell of sun on wet skin. He treaded water effortlessly, his eyes darkening, fixed on hers with unnerving intensity. The space between them crackled, charged.
Tracy's breath hitched. The rational voice screamed louder—seventeen, Diane's son, your landlord – but the primal pull was stronger. She could feel the heat radiating off him even through the cool water. His gaze drifted lower, lingering on the swell of her breasts above the emerald bikini top, then tracing the line of her waist where the water lapped against her skin. A slow, knowing smirk played on his lips. "You look..." he murmured, his voice low and rough, "...hot." The double meaning hung heavy in the humid air. He drifted closer, his leg brushing against hers underwater. The contact was electric, sending a shockwave up her spine.
She was powerless. The warnings dissolved into static. Months of loneliness, the stifling heat, the sheer magnetic pull of his confidence—it all crashed over her. Her body moved before her mind could protest. She closed the tiny distance, her hands finding the solid warmth of his shoulders beneath the water. His skin was slick, smooth, impossibly firm. His blue eyes darkened, pupils dilating as he watched her lean in. His hand came up, fingers tangling in the wet strands of hair at her nape, guiding her gently. Then his lips met hers. Softly, surprisingly tentative at first. A soft kiss, questioning, tasting the chlorine on her skin.
Then it ignited. His mouth opened against hers, deepening the kiss with sudden, hungry intensity. His other arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him underwater. She gasped into his mouth, the sensation overwhelming – the cool water surrounding them, the burning heat where their bodies met. His tongue slid against hers, exploring, claiming. Her hands slid up from his shoulders, fingers threading into his wet hair, pulling him closer, anchoring herself against the dizzying rush. The kiss was deep, consuming, tasting faintly of chlorine and something uniquely him – warm, vital, intoxicating. She kissed him back with equal fervor, months of pent-up need pouring into the connection. The world narrowed to the slick slide of skin, the press of his chest against hers, the desperate, hungry rhythm of their mouths.
He shifted slightly, his legs kicking gently to keep them afloat. One strong arm tightened around her waist, holding her effortlessly against him. His other hand slid down her back, fingers tracing the dip of her spine beneath the water, then lower, gripping the swell of her hip. The touch was possessive, deliberate. As he adjusted his stance, his knee brushed between her legs underwater. Then, unmistakably, she felt it—the hard, insistent ridge of his erection pressing firmly against her inner thigh through the thin fabric of his swim trunks. The contact was electric, jolting through her. A low groan vibrated in his chest, muffled against her lips, as he pressed himself harder against her leg, grinding slowly. The friction sent a bolt of pure heat straight to her core, igniting a desperate ache. Her own hips arched instinctively towards him, seeking more of that delicious pressure.
She broke the kiss, gasping for air, her forehead resting against his. The cool water lapped around their shoulders, a stark contrast to the wildfire raging inside her. His breath was hot and ragged against her cheek. His eyes, dark and dilated with raw hunger, locked onto hers. She could feel the frantic pulse throbbing against her thigh. Without breaking eye contact, her hand slid down his slick chest, over the ridges of his abdomen, fingers dipping beneath the elastic waistband of his trunks. Her fingers closed around him underwater—thick, hard, and impossibly hot. The skin was velvet over steel. He gasped sharply, his hips jerking forward involuntarily into her grip.
"Tracy..." His voice was a choked rasp, strained and urgent. His hand clamped over hers, not pulling away, but pressing it tighter against him, urging her on. His other arm tightened around her waist like a vise, crushing her against his chest. She could feel the frantic hammering of his heart against her ribs.
Then the sound sliced through the humid air—sharp, unmistakable. The crunch of gravel under tires. Close. Too close. Tracy froze, her hand still wrapped around him beneath the water. Ben went rigid against her, his head snapping towards the driveway side of the house. His eyes, wide with sudden alarm, locked onto hers. The raw hunger vanished, replaced by pure, cold dread. "Shit," he hissed, the word barely audible. "Mom."
Panic surged through Tracy like ice water. She jerked her hand back as if scalded. Ben instantly pushed himself away from her, putting a foot of churning turquoise between them. His expression slammed shut, the open vulnerability replaced by a mask of neutral detachment. But Tracy couldn't leave him like he was – exposed, painfully aroused beneath the waterline, the outline of his erection clearly visible through the wet, clinging fabric of his trunks. It screamed guilt. Her own arousal vanished, replaced by a frantic need to hide the evidence. Without thinking, she surged forward, closing the gap again. Her hand plunged back into the water, finding him instantly. He flinched, startled, but didn't stop her. "Turn around!" she whispered urgently, her voice tight with fear. "Towards the fence!"
Understanding flashed in his eyes. He obeyed instantly, spinning in the water so his back was towards the driveway and the approaching footsteps. Tracy placed herself beside him, her hand still gripping his pulsing cock, pressing it flat against his lower belly beneath the waterline. Her other hand splashed casually, creating ripples to obscure the view below. She forced a bright, slightly breathless smile towards the deck as Diane Evans rounded the corner of the main house.
Diane carried a large woven basket overflowing with vibrant purple bougainvillea clippings, her gardening gloves tucked into her apron pocket. Sunlight glinted off her silver-streaked blonde hair. She paused at the edge of the pool deck, her gaze sweeping over the scene: Ben facing the far fence, Tracy beside him, both submerged chest-deep in the shimmering turquoise water. A warm smile touched Diane’s lips, utterly oblivious to the frantic heartbeat pounding in Tracy’s chest or the rigid tension radiating from Ben inches away. "Oh, perfect! You're both enjoying the pool!" Diane chirped, setting the heavy basket down with a soft thud. "It’s a scorcher today, isn’t it? Ben, honey, did you remember to top up the stabilizer this morning? The sun’s just eating it up."
Ben shifted slightly, a barely perceptible tremor running through him. Tracy’s grip tightened instinctively beneath the water, pressing the hard heat of him firmly against his lower belly. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp intake that sounded like a gasp choked back. Tracy’s smile felt brittle, plastered onto her face. "Y-yeah," Ben managed, his voice strained and unnaturally low. He cleared his throat roughly. "Yeah, I did." The words came out thick, forced. Beneath the surface, Tracy felt him pulse violently against her palm, a shudder rippling through the muscles of his back pressed close to her arm. His knuckles, gripping the pool edge near her hip, were white.
Diane tilted her head, her gaze lingering on Ben’s rigid posture. "Everything okay, sweetheart? You look flushed." She took a step closer to the pool’s edge, squinting against the sun. Tracy’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She splashed her free hand lightly, sending ripples dancing across the water near Ben’s waist. "Just hot!" Tracy interjected quickly, forcing a bright laugh that sounded tinny even to her own ears. "The water’s amazing though." She risked a sideways glance at Ben. A bead of sweat, or perhaps pool water, traced a path down his temple. His jaw was clenched tight, tendons standing out in stark relief.
Then she felt his hips jerk, a sudden, involuntary spasm that sent a wave sloshing against Tracy’s stomach. Beneath the turquoise surface, pressed flat against his lower belly by her trembling hand, his cock throbbed violently. Strong pulsing surged through him, rhythmic and insistent against her palm. Each throb was a silent, desperate confession, a seismic tremor hidden beneath the calm facade of the water. Tracy’s fingers instinctively tightened, holding him steady as another powerful pulse rocked him. She felt the hot, slick hardness bucking against her grip, the sheer force of his release a stark, shocking intimacy amidst the mundane suburban backdrop. His breath hissed through clenched teeth, a ragged sound swallowed by the gentle lapping of the pool water. Tracy kept her eyes fixed straight ahead on Diane’s friendly face, her own smile frozen in place, while her submerged hand bore witness to Ben’s silent climax, the pulsing heat radiating up her arm.
Ben almost collapsed at the release. His shoulders sagged imperceptibly, a tremor running through his entire frame as the tension drained out of him. He leaned heavily against the cool pool edge Tracy gripped, his knuckles white where they clung to the concrete lip. His breath hitched, shallow and rapid, as the last aftershocks shuddered through him. Tracy felt the rigid heat soften slightly beneath her palm, the frantic pulse slowing to a heavy throb against her fingers. The immediate danger passed, replaced by a profound exhaustion radiating from him. He kept his head bowed, facing the fence, strands of wet hair clinging to his temple, hiding his expression entirely. Only the slight tremor in his shoulders betrayed the sheer intensity of what had just happened beneath the deceptive surface.
Tracy released her grip instantly, her fingers tingling. She pushed off the edge with a powerful kick, slicing cleanly through the turquoise water towards the shallow end opposite Ben. The movement was swift, purposeful, putting distance between them as much as fleeing the suffocating proximity to Diane. Water streamed from her hair as she surfaced near the steps, gasping slightly, though more from adrenaline than exertion. She kept her back to Ben, facing Diane directly, forcing her expression into what she hoped was relaxed neutrality. The cool water felt suddenly alien against her skin, the earlier intimacy replaced by a chilling dread. Her heart still hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the frantic pulse she'd just felt moments before.
"Everything's fine, Mrs. Evans!" Tracy called out, her voice remarkably steady despite the tremor in her hands as she gripped the pool ladder. She hauled herself up the steps, water cascading off the emerald bikini clinging slickly to her skin. The humid air hit her like a warm blanket. She kept her gaze fixed on Diane's concerned face, avoiding any glance towards the deep end where Ben remained motionless, facing the fence. "Just needed a breather. It is incredibly hot today." She grabbed her towel from the deck chair, wrapping it hastily around her waist, hiding the bikini bottom. The terrycloth felt rough, grounding.
As she turned towards her studio door, her eyes flickered sideways – just for an instant – towards Ben. He hadn't moved, his head still bowed, wet hair plastered to his neck. But she saw the subtle shift. His shoulders were less rigid, the frantic tension replaced by a profound exhaustion. Their eyes met across the shimmering turquoise expanse. His impossibly blue eyes held hers, dark and unreadable, filled with a complex storm of humiliation, lingering shock, and something raw Tracy couldn't name. A reckless impulse surged through her, bypassing the panic and guilt. A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips. Then, quick as a flash, she gave him a single, unmistakable wink.
Ben froze. His breath hitched audibly. For a heartbeat, the exhaustion vanished, replaced by pure, stunned disbelief. Then, incredibly, the faintest ghost of a smile touched his own lips – fleeting, almost disbelieving. His gaze intensified, locking onto hers with renewed heat, acknowledging the unspoken promise, the shared secret crackling between them like live wire. It was a silent pact forged in chlorine and panic: Until next time.
He turned abruptly towards the fence, hauling himself out of the pool with a single powerful pull. Water sheeted off his large frame as he grabbed his towel, wrapping it tightly around his waist with deliberate speed, hiding the damp evidence clinging to his trunks. He didn't look back at Tracy, but the stiffness in his shoulders spoke volumes – a mix of lingering humiliation and the electric echo of her wink. He scooped up his discarded t-shirt, pulling it on hastily over his damp chest, the fabric clinging instantly. His movements were sharp, efficient, avoiding eye contact with his mother as he mumbled something about needing to finish homework before vanishing towards the main house.
Tracy watched him go, the towel knotted securely around her own hips. The wink had been reckless, stupid even, a flare shot into the humid air. Yet, the stunned look on his face, that flicker of answering heat before he masked it… it sent a forbidden thrill chasing the panic down her spine. Until next time. The unspoken promise hung thick between them, heavier than the chlorine scent. When? How? The sheer impossibility of it crashed over her – Diane’s son, seventeen, living just steps away. But the memory of his lips on hers, the desperate pulse against her palm beneath the deceptive turquoise water, burned away caution. It would happen again. The certainty settled deep in her belly, a low, insistent hum beneath the surface fear.
