Page 122 of That Last Summer

He turns his head and rolls his eyes. Silly boy. Especially in the mornings. He’s scorching hot too. I watch him as he walks ahead of me, ass swaying. And I’ll bet my favorite glitter pompom shoes he’s not wearing any underwear under those gray sweatpants. I can tell by the way they hang on his hips.

It takes him seven seconds to shed the pants and dive into the water; seven seconds to get naked and show me that ass I love so much. I would’ve won that bet.

He starts swimming laps, even though the pool isn’t large, and I sit on the edge with my feet in the water. I watch him go back and forth over and over, like I’ve done so many times in the past.

He swims for fifty minutes without a break and without so much as a glance at me, but with each length he’s been getting closer, until he brushes against my feet every time he passes. Again, and again.

After the last length, Alex shakes his head and runs his hands through his bangs, clearing his forehead. His chest rises and falls in time with his agitated breathing. He must be tired.

I pat my right thigh. Come sit with me.

He climbs effortlessly out of the pool, and I spread my legs wider so he can settle between. His back rests on my chest, soaking my shirt; he spreads his palms over my knees, and I massage his shoulders affectionately. I’m no expert, so I guess I’m just caressing him, but he seems to like it since he immediately starts moaning, getting more comfortable between my legs.

My face is so close to his neck that the smell of chlorine on his skin inevitably floods my nostrils; the smell of the Alex from the past, from that first part of my life. He’s stroking my legs now, and I bring my lips close to his wet skin; I can’t resist any longer. I lower my head to the corner of his mouth, an innocent kiss that turns into something deeper as soon as Alex reacts.

As we kiss, he lifts his right arm, holds the back of my neck, and drags me forward toward the water.

“Ahh!” I yell.

I wrap my legs around his waist to keep from going under, but we both end up submerged. Even though I was half wet already, I shiver at the contact with the cold water, but I have no time to react because the second I surface, Alex slides his head under my legs and lifts me up to sit on his shoulders.

We play and goof around until we fall back down and face each other, me with my shirt soaked and my body exposed; him, with his eyes full of desire. He peels off my clothes and kisses my breasts with a hunger I haven’t seen in these past weeks.

He pushes us across the pool, his mouth still on my body, and when we reach the edge he lifts me up and sits me there.

“Lie down.”

I do. I rest my back on the tile—warm now from the sun—and, more than seeing, I feel Alex remove my soaked underwear. He hides his head between my legs and starts to kiss me. Arousal lashes me like a whip and I squirm, gasping and moaning, until my orgasm hits a few seconds later. I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever come.

I lie helpless, sprawled on the tiles, but Alex helps me up and takes me in his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist once more and we enter the house, kissing all the way. Alex lays me down on the first surface he finds: the dining table. He grabs my ankles, pulls me forward so my ass is at the table edge, stretches my legs over his shoulders and enters me in one thrust.

This is smutty sex.

Over the past two weeks, Alex and I have had many kinds of sex, almost every kind there is, and today it’s the dirty, smutty kind. The kind that makes us scream, the kind that makes us say filthy words in each other’s ears, the kind that pushes my body violently up and down on the table. It’s also the kind that ends with both of us exhausted and sweaty, one on top of the other, and grinning like idiots.

Wow.

Later, when we get out of the shower, Alex suggests breakfast at the pub since he’s off work today. I accept, gladly.

“Well, well, look at that! Alex and Priscila are here,” Pedro greets us as we enter his bar.

Alex and Priscila. I like how that sounds. I always liked it.

Because it sounds good.

We sit across from each other at a table with coffee and a giant toast with olive oil. We talk about a little bit of everything and, despite enjoying the conversation, I feel like doing something different; I feel like playing.

“You want a game of darts?” I suggest.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

Gosh, he can be rude.

“And if I try to convince you?”