The wheels of our plane kiss Charleston airport’s tarmac.
"We're actually here," Marina smiles as she claps her hands together.
She flew into Oklahoma City yesterday, spent the night, and then we flew out early this morning to Charleston.
It only takes a little while to taxi up to the terminal and for us to unload from the plane. Then we weave through the crowd to the baggage claim.
At the rental car kiosk, I tap my phone against the reader.
"Convertible or coupe?" Marina asks.
"Let's not tempt the weather gods," I say as I knew I’d reserved a sturdy SUV.
I slide into the driver's seat, and we begin our short journey to Pawleys Island, just beyond Love Beach. The coastal scenery looks like a postcard. I roll down the windows, letting the salty breeze ruffle through my curls, untamed for once.
"Imagine, Harmony, this time tomorrow we could be sipping cocktails with some Spring Break hunks," Marina teases, nudging my arm.
"Or buried in a book under an umbrella," I counter, though the idea of toned men lounging nearby isn't entirely unpleasant.
We cross the causeway to Pawleys Island, and the feeling of quaintness hits me.
"Home sweet temporary home," Marina declares, snapping a photo of the two-story beach house for her insta-story.
The key slides into the lock, and the door swings open to reveal our paradise for the week.
"Here we are." I step over the threshold.
Marina's already bounding up the stairs.
"First dibs on the bedroom with the sea view!" she calls back laughing.
I choose the opposite room on the second floor, dumping my duffel on the bed. It's smaller but feels cozy, almost bohemian with its eclectic mix of patterns and colors.
"Okay, schedule time!" Marina pops her head around the doorframe, tablet in hand, eager as ever to organize our fun.
"Let's keep it loose," I suggest, unpacking my clothes and placing them in the dresser. "You know, like, some beach volleyball, a few lazy afternoons reading at the coffee shop that’s on the water, maybe check out The Sand Dunes Bar & Grill one evening?"
"Perfect. Also, don't forget about the Yacht Club." Marina grins. "I've heard that's where the real action is."
"Action?" I arch an eyebrow. "You mean watching boats bobbing on the water?"
"Harmony, you're hopeless." She laughs and shakes her head.
With our week loosely sketched out, we wander downstairs, slipping on sandals for an impromptu sunset beach exploration.
"Can you believe how beautiful this is?" Marina's eyes are wide while her dark hair whips around her face.
"Sometimes I forget the world can be this stunning," I admit.
We walk in silence for a while, letting the vastness of the ocean and the whispers of the tide speak for us. These are perfect moments in life that I enjoy.
"Spring break, huh? It feels so... collegiate." Marina says as we stroll back from the beach, our footprints trailing behind us like breadcrumbs.
"Yeah, but with less keg stands and more sleep." I chuckle.
"Hey, I wouldn't mind a healthy mix of both. Maybe throw in a couple of those hot guys on the beach," she winks.
"Marina!" I feign shock, but the truth is, the idea sends a flutter through my stomach that's half nerves, half excitement. "I thought we were here to recharge, not chase after guys."
"Who says we can't do all of it? A little eye candy might be just what Dr. Kay prescribes for relaxation," she retorts.
"Fine, but I'm setting boundaries at drooling from a distance."
"Agreed. Drooling only," she echoes.
We reach the house, and Marina heads straight for the kitchen.
"So, chef Harmony, what's on the menu tonight?"
"Something easy. How about pasta with whatever mystery sauce the closest store has?" I suggest.
"Sounds perfect. Carb-loading for all the absolutely nothing we're going to do," Marina chimes in.
The next few hours, we check out the local small store, feed our bellies, and chat about randomness.
Before I curl into bed, I step into the steam filled shower. I close my eyes, letting the water flow over my shoulders and slowly exhale.
It's been two years—two years since I've felt the touch of a man, since I've allowed myself the pleasure of being wanted, of wanting in return. My hand, almost of its own volition, drifts lower, past the flatness of my stomach to the place between my legs to my sensitive nub.
I think of those tan, toned men tossing a frisbee on the beach that Marina and I giggled about earlier. Their broad shoulders and the way their muscles stretched as they leaped in the air to catch the round disc have had my thoughts running with what one of them would feel like on top of me.
My fingers find the rhythm I’ve perfected for release over the last few years. The tall one with brown hair and tan skin stays at the forefront of my mind. I can imagine the press of his lips, the grip of his hands. Mmm.
God, I need this.
Scientifically speaking, sexual release is beneficial, right? Endorphins, stress relief—it's practically health maintenance.
As my movements become more deliberate, more insistent, I let go of the analytical and just feel.
Every stroke coils the tension tighter, and I chase the approaching climax.
"Ah," I gasp as it hits its peak pressure point. My body quakes, my knees weaken, and I ride my hand until my pussy’s last pulse against my fingers dissipates.
The water continues to pour as I lean against the cool wall, catching my breath before dressing and getting a great night’s sleep.