In Hot Water
by Thalia
Rating: PG-13
She clambers onto the lifeguard chair with a grace that's just
noticeable enough to make him think things that he'd never voice aloud,
in public. All long legs and slender hands and a pair of black-and-
silver sunglasses, and a red whistle that nestles right in between two
perfect breasts.
He knows her name. Has even talked to her a few times, since he comes to
the beach a lot and she works here for the summer. She smiles at him
when she sees him, and even that nowadays is enough to get him a little
bit hard. He curses his overactive imagination sometimes, though he
never thought that he'd be that desperate.
She's not even the prettiest girl he'd ever met, though probably the
most beautiful. Most would consider her beauty rather unobtrusive-- the
sort that's pleasant to look at but nothing extraordinary, in this day
and age of big-busted blondes with perfect golden tans and pouty lips,
but there's something pure about her that he craves. He imagines kissing
her breathless, licking the slightly briny taste of the water off her
lips, fingers dipping under navy blue lycra and exploring until she
loses her train of thought.
He originally came to this lake to sail, to break in the shiny new
speedboat which he'd named Beauty Queen. Now, the name is ironic,
because he barely focused on the boat... unless in relation to her
somehow. Sleek lines, blue-on-white. The same wind that caresses his
cheeks and sends the water spraying around him whips her short hair away
from her face.
His jeans-- the only article of clothing he wore today, in the heat--
are now uncomfortably tight, and he idly wonders if any of the teenaged
males milling about think of flailing in the water just to get her
attention. It's a silly thought, and he should be shocked that it even
occurred to him.
A shrill whistle cuts through his thoughts and he watches her as she
stands in her chair and calls out. Two children abashedly stop throwing
sand at each other, and she sits back down. She's very conscientious,
and he almost feels bad for perving on her, as it were. She's all of
eighteen, making a little money in the summer between college terms, and
he's a spoiled rich boy of twenty-three, who got the boat for his
birthday. He could have any girl he wanted in his circle. He's not
innocent.
He can't picture her in feathers and sequins, eyes lined with kohl, lips
blown up with collagen and gloss. But he CAN picture her on the beach,
goosebumps rising on her arms as the tides come in and his fingers
caress her bare skin, which shimmers blue in the moonlight as her head
tips back against his shoulder. He doesn't quite understand his
fascination with her.
His eyes return to her chair time and again despite his best efforts,
and he watches her flick some of her hair away from her face. It's
getting hotter now, and he imagines that if he just strained hard
enough, he'd be able to see drops of sweat sliding down her perfect
skin. It's not helping the situation at all.
By the time he comes to shore at last, his bare torso has tanned golden
brown and his tawny hair lightened to sandy blond. It's sunset, and most
of the beachgoers are gone. She's gotten off her chair and smiles at him
as he pulls towards the dock, and she wades into the water to pull his
boat in with surprisingly strong hands.
She ties the rope dexterously, and he's grateful that she's so pure--
and looks people in the eye instead of other places. Deciding to be at
least somewhat bold (what did he have to lose, after all?), he wraps a
friendly arm around her shoulders after he climbs out of the boat.
"You're good with that," he remarks.
She laughs, but she doesn't shrug his arm off. "I've been trained," she
tells him. "Did you have fun out there today?"
"You have no idea," he says seriously. "I'm sure it could be better, but
I really can't complain."
She accepts this answer, though she earnestly tells him that if there's
anything that she can help him with, feel free to ask. He laughs and
remains silent on THAT issue. It would be terribly inappropriate...
"Want to grab a bite to eat?" he asks her lightly. "Nowhere fancy, since
neither of us are dressed for the occasion. But I didn't see you leave
that chair all day."
They end up buying nachos and fountain drinks and eating on the pier,
her toes dipping into the water. She puts his hair in a loose ponytail
for him so that it doesn't get into the food, and of course she's
gentle. They chat about everything and nothing and he makes her laugh,
eyes glittering with mirth. Finally, after they finish their meal
together, he gathers up his courage. One and a half weeks of coming to
the beach. It has to mean something, really, if she's been on his mind
almost constantly, after such a short period of time.
"Hey, Amy?" he keeps his voice light. "Want to hang out with me
sometime, when you're not working?"
She seems a bit startled at the question, and when she understands the
implications, she blushes slightly, but she nods. "All right. When, and
where?"
"Just out in my boat sometime, I guess," he says. "Nothing too fancy,
unless you want it."
"That's fine," she smiles. "I'm off tomorrow. Do you want me to bring
anything special?"
His mind quickly comes up with far too many fantasies involving nautical
rope, sunblock and that lifeguard whistle to be proper, and he laughs.
"Just your beautiful self."
She blushes deeper and nods. It's crazy what this little slip of a girl
does to him, he reflects. But he keeps silent, because she has no idea
at all, and really, that's probably what attracts him the most. One part
of him wants to lose himself in her, has wanted to since the first time
he'd seen her, prim and proper in her chair.
But now, watching her blush, one hand diffidently brushing her hair
back, a greater part of him wants to know her too, cherish that purity
that attracted him.
He chuckles; he'll have to figure it out, later. For now, he settles for
pressing a friendly kiss to her cheek and going home to a very necessary
cold shower. He'll decide by tomorrow, and then he'll let her know. He
doesn't notice her eyes following the progress of his bare back and dark
jeans until he disappears into the distance.
-End
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