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"What the hell are you doing?" I shriek.
I'm half upside down, face against his damp back and my legs gripped by strong arms. The body I've lusted after, in an ‘I will not lust after’ way, is closer than I ever imagined. Wet. Cold. And almost naked. My breasts squash against his back, nipples hardening as his skin dampens my T-shirt.
"Put me down," I demand unconvincingly.
"Swim with me."
"No!"
I wriggle, but his grip is steel. "Yes."
"Stop behaving like a cave man." I slap his backside, secretly pleased to get a chance to touch him.
He slaps mine in return. "Stop being boring and swim with me.“
"I'm can’t. I have all my clothes on," I say through a giggle. This is insane, freeing and, strangely, a turn on.
Until he tips me over, dumping me in the middle of a cresting wave. My backside hits the sand and water pours over my head. Freezing water. Dragging myself upright, before another wave covers me, I wipe my hair from my face and shake water from my arms.
“Omigod! I can’t believe you did that!" I yell.
Dylan laughs, and the sound pushes through my irritation to the freedom of the situation and I fight smiling.
"Don’t make me laugh. I’m annoyed with you! Look at what you did to me." A wave drags my footing and I stumble. When he doesn’t catch me and instead lets me fall into the sea, I sit in the wet sand and cross my arms, pouting.
"Here." Dylan holds out a hand.
Gripping his wrist, I give him a hard stare as I stand. "I’m soaked. If I’d wanted to swim, I’d have worn my swimming costume."
“’Swimming costume’ sounds as exciting as ‘knickers’. You don’t have a bikini?" he asks, looking me up and down.
"Who the hell would wear a bikini on an English beach?"
"Plenty of people."
I won’t tell him I haven’t the confidence to parade my pasty body covered in scraps of material for the world to see. Omigod, he’s staring at my tits. I pull forward my T-shirt, loosening from where the material sticks to my chest, and then cross my arms across my protruding nipples. Dylan bites his lip, turning darkened eyes back to mine.
"Sorry, I was picturing you in your bikini."
Which is pretty close to him imagining me naked. So now, I’m imagining him naked.Jeez, Sky."I don’t have one."
"You do in my imagination," he says in a low voice, leaning towards me, "You’re lots of things in my imagination."
He can’t suggest things like this to my sex-starved brain. "Well, you can keep them there."
If we were on TV, or maybe somewhere warmer, and I was a willowy actress, we could pretend to be a romantic couple playing in the sea and using the water as an excuse to get skin to skin. But we’re not—and I'm bloody cold. I turn and wade out of the sea before I’m pulled under again, by Dylan or the waves.
I need a shower, but now I’m unsure whether to go for cold or hot.
* * *
Dylan stays awaymost of the morning. When he returns, I remain buried in my book world and ignore him, despite being hyperaware of his every move. Following a shower, he makes me a sandwich and tells me to stop sulking. I carry on half-sulking. With a darkly muttered, "Fuck this." Dylan disappears upstairs for the rest of the afternoon.
Hours later, a pen lands on the book I'm reading, thrown by Dylan who's holding his writing pad under an arm.
"Fish and chips?" he asks.
So engrossed in the peace of the world around and the hot sex occurring in my book, I hadn't noticed Dylan reappear. He's back in distressed jeans, and a black T-shirt stretching across the ridges of his chest. I point at the band name and symbol printed on the front.
