The last swim student of the day is an older guy rehabbing a shoulder injury and bragging about some long-retired baseball glory. I’m trying to stay focused, correcting his strokes and counting his laps.
I feel her before I see her.
That warm itch under my skin. That electric, you’re not alone anymore zing that only ever means one thing.
I glance up between laps, and sure enough, there she is. Big pink sunhat, heart shaped sunglasses, and a dress that doesn’t even try to pretend it’s not see-through in the sun. Just perched on a lounger like a summer mirage, legs crossed and chewing on the straw of a drink she definitely brought just to look scandalous.
She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile.
Just watches me like I’m the one putting on a show.
My student notices me glancing over and jokes, “That your girl?”
I almost choke on air. “No. She’s, uh. Just a friend.”
The guy smirks. “Sure she is.”
Ten minutes later, I’m drying off my arms and dismissing him, and she’s still there, twirling that straw between her fingers like it’s a joystick she’s about to use to ruin my life.
I walk over.
“Hey.” My voice comes soft. “You stalking me?”
She shrugs. “No. That would require effort. This is lurking.”
“You want to get in?” I nod toward the pool. “Water’s warm.”
She stands. Her dress clings to her thighs like it missed her and wants her back. I can already feel my heart misfiring.
“I didn’t bring a suit,” she says and steps close enough that I can smell coconut sunscreen and something sharper underneath, wild, impossible, Delilah.
Then her fingers land right at the waistband of my shorts. Barely a touch. More of a suggestion.
“I wasn’t really planning on swimming,” she says, eyes flicking up to meet mine, bold and full of challenge. “But if you think I need to cool off…”
Cool off? Hell no. Not if this little pixie is hot for me.
“My place?” I ask, pulse doing dangerous things.
She hums like she’s considering it, then smiles, teeth sharp. “Race you to the car.”
I grab my bag and follow that sundress and sunhat like a man walking into his own beautiful, preventable ruin.
I pull into my driveway. She’s halfway out of her seatbelt before the engine’s off, and I barely get my keys in the door when her hands are in my shirt and her mouth is on mine.
She tastes like sun and sugar and the kind of trouble you never want to recover from.
“Jesus, Delilah.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain when I’m about to do this,” she huffs, sinking to her knees like this is a perfectly normal Sunday afternoon behavior and not something that’s going to rewire my entire central nervous system.
I haven’t even locked the door behind us. She’s kneeling in front of it, pink sunhat tumbling somewhere behind her, grinning up at me in a way that says she’s about to commit a felony with her mouth and needs me to sign the waiver.
“This okay?” she asks, even as her hands are already tugging at my shorts.
“Y-Yeah,” I choke. “Jesus. Yes. Are you?”
She rolls her eyes and pulls my waistband down just enough to free me.
