Your skin is cold. The water felt warm when you went in, but the sun has set and the air is cool. You hurry back to the blanket by the fire, not even glancing back at him as he makes his way out of the water behind you.

'Everyone's vanished,' he observes as he gets close. You shrug, grabbing the blanket off the ground and shaking the sand off it so you can use it as a towel. Your little dip was unplanned, as unplanned as being left here alone with him.

'They must have thought we wanted to be alone.' He chuckles slightly as he says it. You wrap the blanket around your body and look at him in the firelight. He is unspeakably beautiful when he laughs. Water drips off him, catching the firelight in rainbow fragments, and his eyes are luminescent in the semi-dark.

'Ha!' you say, before you can help it.

'Give me that,' he snatches at the edge of the blanket. You tug back. He doesn't let go of it, but comes with it instead until he's standing quite close to you. You keep your hold of it too. 'And what do you mean, ha?'

'Nothing,' you say, tugging at the blanket. He pulls back.

'Come on,' he says, 'I'm freezing. And you didn't mean nothing. I know a significant ha when I hear one.'

'Nothing,' you repeat, moving away from him, closer to the fire. He follows, still clutching the blanket. He pulls at it again, until you release a section of it. But he doesn't do anything with it, just stands there holding it tightly and looking at you, his head tilted slightly, eyes concerned.

'So?' he says interrogatively.

'So what?'

'What did that ha mean?'

'I told you. Nothing.'

He raises his eyebrows sceptically and you look down at your feet.

'You don't want to be alone with me?'

'I did not say that.'

'Then what...'

'Nothing. Only... boys as pretty as you don't want to be alone with girls like me.' You try to sound sarcastic and cool, and mostly succeed, but your skin prickles and you put one hand, the hand on the side he's on, up to your face, pretending to rub your temple. That was too close to home. He is regarding you seriously, as though turning the words over in his mind while he watches your half-hidden face. You can feel yourself flushing.

'That's the most cynical thing I've ever heard,' he says.

You shrug and try to smirk. 'You're young,' you say.

He laughs at that and looks into the fire. There's less than a year between you.

'And obviously have led a sheltered existence,' you continue dryly. You hope you speak dryly. You hope he can't hear the faint tremour in the back of your voice. You hope that your knees don't give way. He's so close you can't quite think straight. You aren't sure that you can even breathe properly. Each breath seems to take an enormous effort. You release your hold on the blanket and move back and he pulls it away and starts towelling himself off with it.

'And also the stupidest,' he says, so quietly you can almost believe you imagined it. Wishful thinking. He's not looking at you any more, apparently concentrating on the job at hand.

You bite your lip gently and look away.

It's silly to imagine that he means anything by this. He's kind. That's all it is. You turn away and hold your hands out to the fire. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he takes his wet shirt off and lays it on the sand by the fire, then continues to rub himself dry with the blanket. You gulp and cross your arms over your chest. Your own shirt sticks to your skin damply and you can feel the salt from the sea as your bare skin begins to dry in the warmth from the fire.

'That's going to get sandy,' you warn, looking down at the shirt, refusing to make eye contact. He shrugs, spreads out the blanket next to the fire and sits down elegantly on it, leaning back onto his hands

'Have a seat,' he offers. You would refuse if you could think of a good reason, but you can't, so you sit with your back to the fire and your side to him, knees up to your chest, arms around your knees.

You sit in silence for a couple of moments. It's not an uncomfortable silence, but you couldn't call it comfortable either. Your back is quickly becoming too warm, your front is cooling fast and you are hideously self conscious of how your shirt is sticking to you. Not to mention the fact that he's looking steadily at you and you're blushing, your skin burning, face, neck, ears. . You don't look back at him, instead keeping your eyes intent on a point beyond your feet.

Your gaze is so fixed, in fact, that when his fingers make contact with your skin you almost jump. But you manage not to. You don't remark on it. You don't look at him. You try to keep your breathing under control and think to yourself, a foot is not an erotic object. Except that at the moment the foot in question is being ever so delicately caressed by his long fingers. He traces a line up the bridge of your foot to your ankle with his forefinger. It feels like he's trailing cold fire, little tendrils that burn and chill up the length of your leg. Then his hand closes softly around your ankle. Breathe, you say to yourself, breathe steadily, we are not noticing this, we are not, because if we do he might stop. His fingers skim across your ankle bone and slide, slowly, slightly, subtly - except it's not subtle at all for you, because you're completely concentrated in that ankle - inside the leg of your damp trousers. You'd swear you can hear your heart beating, actually hear it, like a distant drum. Drums in the deep, you think, and almost laugh, almost squeal, as his fingers stroke your shin and calf inside your trouser leg.

Finally, you glance at him timidly. He's looking directly at you, his eyes inexorable and glowing in the light of the fire. You look away again hastily. Your skin tingles. You can feel each delicate stroke of his fingers in places you would never have associated with feet before. You hold your breath for a moment. It should be silent, you think, I'm not breathing, I'm holding my breath, so where is that... Oh. And you realise, it's him. His breath is heavy, with the same kind of controlled slowness that yours had. You release your own breath before your lungs explode.

'So,' he says, almost casually, as though unaware either of the action of his hand or the effect it's having on you, 'You think I'm pretty.'

You let out a giggle, unrestrained, almost hysterical. The tension is becoming too much. Your eyes meet again and he smiles. 'Well?'

'Of course,' you manage to say, rolling your eyes, just so you can break the gaze, 'The prettiest.'

'I'm not sure if I like that,' he says, 'It doesn't sound too manly.'

'I really don't think that's an issue,' you say, then cover your mouth with your hand. Honestly. You glance at him again. He's still smiling, but it's different. You look away, a long way away, right out over what would be the horizon if it wasn't dark. You can see stars. You hope they're actually stars, because otherwise he's affecting your eyesight.

'Stars,' you say.

'Uh-huh. Beautiful.'

You look back at him again. He isn't looking at the stars. This is ridiculous, you think, this is completely... Without getting any further than that, and without any conscious intention, you unfold your arms, lean forward, put your hands on his cheeks and kiss him, very lightly, on the mouth. As you start to pull away, he lets go of your foot (damn, you think) and seizes your wrist, holding you near him, rests his other hand on your throat and kisses you, not lightly at all. His lips almost crush yours, pushing them apart, his tongue sliding, searching, inside your mouth. For a moment, you are so astonished by this that you don't actually kiss him back. In another moment, you are completely overtaken by it. He kisses you hard, passionately, almost painfully, as though he's looking for something desperately important.

Finally, the kiss breaks and you snap back, like an elastic band, to your original position, covering your mouth with one hand. He is breathing fast and hard and looks into the fire. You regard him for a moment, then take your hand away from your mouth and lean back onto both hands. Finally, he looks back at you, a slight teasing smile on his face. He puts his hand back on your ankle, then gently begins to stroke up toward your knee. You lower your knee, so that he can just move along your leg without impediment or obvious effort, and watch his face. He is watching his hand, tracing long lines and weird patterns up the length of your thigh to the hip, leaving lines in the wet fabric of your trousers where they stick to your skin. Then, glancing up at you questioningly, he traces a line over your hip and your stomach, to your navel. You exhale heavily.

He moves closer to you, his hip next to yours, facing you, and begins to unbutton your still-wet shirt. You watch his strong, lean, flexible hands as they move from button to button, pulling the fabric aside as they go. All buttons undone, he moves his hands to your shoulders and starts to peel back the wet fabric from them and from your upper arms. You don't help him. At this point, you are absolutely dependent on your arms to keep you upright. If you moved them, you are quite certain you would collapse entirely. He peels your shirt down your right arm, lifts your hand very gently from the ground, making your left arm tremble with the effort of holding you upright, and pulls the shirtsleeve off it. Then he leans over you, his face pressed tantalisingly against your collarbone, to repeat the procedure on the other side. Your shirt out of the way, he pulls back slightly, although not all the way, he still leans over you with his hand resting on the ground next to your left hip, and looks into your eyes. You can't help it, you close them and tremble. He's so beautiful and his eyes are so intense. You aren't at all sure that your arms are going to be able to hold you up much longer.

'Oh God,' you hear yourself saying. And it's a prayer too, please don't let this stop, please never let this stop.

He bends forward and kisses your collarbone, then your throat. His mouth keeps moving up, your jaw, your cheek, your temple, your eyelid. Then it stops. You open your eyes to find him looking right at you.

'Kiss me again,' he says. His hand gently makes its way from your left hip, over your stomach, to your breast, where he traces the line of your bra. His touch is lighter than silk, but sends shockwaves right to your spine. You can feel goosebumps break out all over you and your nipples get hard. 'Kiss me,' he says again.

So you do, at first delicately, then harder, and as you kiss he pulls you into his lap. You aren't at all sure how he manages it, how he manages to get your legs wrapped around him or pull you so tightly to him, his hands massaging the back of your neck and your shoulders, without breaking the kiss. Finally, he does, and smiles up at you. You stare back at him, breathless.

'Pretty?' he says.

'Prettiest,' you repeat, with a soft giggle.

'We'll see who's laughing soon, missy,' he says, lowering his face and nibbling gently on your neck. That tickles, so you do laugh harder, your arms clutching him to you as tightly as you can. You can feel the muscles rippling in his back and shoulders as he moves his hands over your back, your hips, your thighs.

Between hard, wet kisses, he growls, 'Pretty?', then buries his face in your neck and starts feeling beneath your back for the clasp of your bra.

'It's better than cute!' you protest, 'And what do you want me to call you?'

He finds your bra clasp and releases it swiftly, then smiles up at you sexily.

'"God" was working for me,' he says.

You laugh again, happily distracted as he pulls your bra away from you, then gasp as he lowers his head and grazes his lips experimentally over your nipple. You put your hands on the side of his face and pull back from him slightly so you can look at him. He looks both mischeivous and serious.

'Pretty,' he growls.

'What's wrong with pretty?' you enquire.

'Pretty is for teenage boys who don't shave yet,' he retorts, dropping kisses across your upper chest and shoulders, 'You can't take pretty seriously. You can't take pretty to bed, for one thing. Pretty can't take you. Pretty doesn't take your breath away. Pretty wouldn't hold you down and...'

He breaks off and looks into your eyes for a long moment, then slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to lean forward, moving you backwards. You resist slightly, but when he kisses you again, you relax and he lowers you back onto the blanket. His hands move up the length of your body, stroking your sides and the sides of your breasts, caressing your arms, stretching your hands way over your head so you can feel the heat of the fire on them, holding them fast as he moves on top of you. his arms holding him above your body. God, his arms. You gaze back, very aware of the fact that you're half naked and practically panting. He smiles down at you, his shoulders flexed as they hold him over you, the weight of him pressed down on the length of your body. Your leg involuntarily rises beside him. He lets go of your hands and runs his hand down the side of your body, till he gets to your thigh, which he pulls hard against his side. The other hand is tucked behind you neck as he kisses you again, pressing his whole body down against yours until you really can't breathe. But it doesn't matter. For the moment, you don't care if you never breathe again.

'Well,' you say finally, 'Pretty is, isn't it? I mean, he. You.'

He smiles and sits up, straddles your thighs and begins to untie the drawstring of your trousers.

'When you put it that way...' he says, tugging at the wet fabric till it slides down your hips.

You squirm helpfully and in a minute they're gone. He kneels over you and places both his hands on your shoulders.

'Hm,' he says.

'Hm what?'

'What did you mean before, girls like you?'

'Nothing.'

'Come on,' he starts to drag his hands very slowly down your body. Over your shoulders, gently tracing the line of your collarbone, over your breasts, where his fingers tease your nipples gently, over your ribcage, your stomach, your hips, trailing more of those tendrils of cold fire you felt with his hand just on your foot, till his fingers hook into the sides of your knickers. It's almost unbearable. Every inch of your skin seems to be on fire. 'Girls like you. Come on. I've got you. I see you. You're almost naked. You're almost naked and about to get it on on the beach. Girls like you, what? Beautiful and uninhibited?'

You laugh.

'Ah,' he says, 'Have you been spending all this time telling yourself you're... what, plain and uptight?'

'No,' you say, fairly unconvincingly.

'But why?' he leans forward, fingers still twisting in the cotton of your knickers, 'Do you not have eyes?'

'Only for you,' you say, blushing as you hear yourself say it. And then you think, the hell with it. Beautiful and uninhibited, that's what he said. You sit up suddenly and fumble at his zip. He lets go of your knickers and pushes you back down against the blanket, pressing his chest in close to yours, hard against your breasts, and kissing you again, his hands tangling in your hair.

'Hey!' you say, between kisses, 'Not fair.'

'All right, all right,' he says and sits up again. You follow and surprise yourself with the speed at which you manage to divest him of his trousers. So fast, in fact, that he is caught off balance and more or less falls back on top of you.

'That was a trick,' he says, 'I knew you wanted me to fall for you.'

'Haha,' you say, with a giggle, burying your face against his neck and biting him gently, your fingers clutching the back of his neck. He does likewise, his teeth lightly grazing your skin where your neck meets your shoulder. You're blushing again, but it seems to have taken the whole of your body. You wonder if your skin feels as hot to him as it does to you. One of his hands is tangled in your hair at the base of your neck, the other is running over your body again. You grab it and hold it away from you, unable to bear it any more. The sensation is so exquisitely intense and torturous you think you might scream. He pulls his face away from your throat and frowns.

'What do you think you're doing?'

You can't find any words, let alone sound them out. He looks down at your hand, which is clasped tightly around his wrist. Without you realising how he's doing it, he changes their respective places, so his hand now clasps your wrist and he draws it back over your head again. Then he does the same thing with your other arm.

'Didn't we do this?' you murmur, then bite your lip. He smiles wickedly and kisses you.

'Not exactly,' he says, moving his hands down your arms, and his mouth down from your face to your neck, then to your shoulders. You gasp and close your eyes as he starts kissing your breasts, properly this time, sliding your nipple into his mouth and flicking it gently with his tongue. His mouth feels so hot, you're almost afraid it will burn. Hard to believe that your skin seemed too hot only a minute ago. Now you think it's freezing, everywhere except where his mouth is or has been. There, you're burning again. This would be confusing if your mind hadn't dissolved into soft luminous clouds of nothing but desire. And him.

With his hands still holding your upper arms gently down, he moves down your body with his mouth, kissing the creases under your breasts, your stomach, your navel. You bite your lip and sneak a peek at him. He is looking impishly up at you.

'Can I trust you not to move your hands?' he asks.

'What?' you manage.

'No pushing me away,' he says, sliding his hands down the sides of your body and tracing the edges of your knickers.

'Ok.' At this point you would do it if he told you to put your hand in the fire. You close your eyes again because looking at him has become overwhelming and almost painful. Pretty, you think, what was I thinking? He's a fucking god. A smile curves your lips. And also a fucking god. And you're sure you would be giggling, if only you could breathe.

He begins to peel your knickers back, slowly drawing them over your hips, down your thighs, over your knees. Then he lowers his head and starts kissing your stomach again, moving down, down, down... You think you're going to black out. Some small part of you is saying, holy fuck, girl, what are you doing? This is completely out of control. You are completely out of control. He is completely... What is he doing? What is he... oh my GOD!

The world seems to have exploded and there are stars all around your head when you open your eyes. It takes you a moment to realise that the stars are real.

'I think I see Andromeda,' you mutter, apropos of absolutely bugger all. The truth is, you don't even know where Andromeda is. That makes him laugh. He is still kneeling between your legs, his hands on your hips, looking down at you with triumph and a kind of glee, his thumbs grazing what would be your bikini line if you were wearing a bikini. Which you aren't and you are suddenly very aware of that fact. Stupid brain, you think, why can't you just stay in a nice haze? Why do you have to go and get all self-conscious?

'No, really,' you say, propping yourself up on your elbows. He laughs harder and launches himself at you, which knocks you off your elbows and onto your back again, burying his face against your throat and kissing you furiously. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him even closer.

'Hey!' But you're laughing. And it's then that you realise that he is completely without apparel too. 'Huh. Someone has lost their pants in all this.'

'Who, me?' He says against your throat, 'Surely not.'

'No, I'm pretty sure.'

He pulls his head back and regards you in the firelight. And for some reason, his eyes are different now, softer, darker, with something in them that brings a lump to your throat and tears to sting your eyelids. Tenderness, you think, on the verge of tears.

'I want to make love to you,' he says.

'Now you ask me?' you can't help it. He doesn't smile. His expression doesn't change at all, it's still soft and intense at the same time.

'Don't joke,' he says, 'I'm serious.' He strokes your hair back from your face.

'Sorry.'

'Don't be sorry either. Do you want me to?'

Duh is on the tip of your tongue, but you restrain yourself. Because he is serious. Or else the best actor the world has ever known. And that would be unnecessary. You wouldn't be pushing him off even if he wasn't serious. But this look in his eyes turns your insides to honey. You're sure he must be able to feel your heart beating through your chest. Or maybe it's that you can feel his. You can certainly feel his breath, which is coming fast and hot, against your throat and cheek. You move your hand from the back of his neck and run your finger along the line of his jaw to his lips, then cup his cheek in your palm.

'I was wrong,' you say, 'You aren't pretty at all. You're beautiful.'

His smile is very slight, his eyes intent.

'Is that a yes?'

You nod.

'Say it.'

'Yes,' you say, 'Yes, yes, yes. Damn it, yes.'

His smile widens. He takes your hand from his face, kisses the palm and interlaces his fingers with yours, then eases it back so that it's beside your head. His lips meet yours with an urgency that almost paralyses you, although it doesn't seem to surprise him so much. Your other arm moves around his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, and he presses down onto your body, into your body, till you give a little gasp as he enters you. And for a moment, you are both perfectly still, your eyes fixed on each other. He looks, for the first time, very slightly unsure. Your hand moves down his back, pushing and pulling him closer at the same time - or you would be, if that were possible, and you're not sure it is. That's all the impetus he needs to start moving again and you moan as he moves against you, and wrap your legs around him tightly. He kisses you once, lightly, then holds your eye contact steadily, his shoulders flexing as you move together.

You let out a stifled moan as you come, almost unexpectedly, focussed as you are on his face, then bite your lip, close your eyes tight, your breathing heavy and irregular, and clutch him hard to your body as the waves of pleasure subside.

'Yes?' he says, when you open your eyes again, the word almost gasped out. You nod, unable to speak, and he buries his face against your throat. As he reaches his own climax, you can feel the groan from deep inside him, rippling up the length of your body. His fingers tighten in yours and his jaw presses hard against your collarbone.

The two of you lie there like that for what seems like hours, cuddled close together by the fire, his face nuzzling your neck. You hold him close, stroke his hair and kiss his forehead gently. He traces patterns on your collarbone.

Finally, you sigh.

'I suppose we'd better get dressed,' you say, 'Someone could be back any minute. I'm surprised they haven't...'

'They won't be.' His voice is muffled against your shoulder, but still quite clear.

'How do you... Oh. Ohh.'

You wouldn't have believed it was possible, after the last hour or so, but you're blushing again, heat rising in your face and neck. He raises his head and regards you, both triumphant and somewhat shamefaced.

'You're evil,' you say.

'I know. But I'm not sorry. Are you?'

You shake your head. His smile is radiant.

'What was that you were saying before?' he asks, teasingly.

'Shut up.'

'About girls like you?'

'Shut up!'

'So what exactly does a girl like you make of all this?'

'Shut...'

'Up. I know,' He kisses your cheek and strokes your face. 'I know what I make of it.'

You raise your eyebrows questioningly.

'I think a boy as pretty as me wants to be alone with the only girl exactly like you as much and as often as possible.'

The End.