You'd been strategic this morning, grabbing one of two pool shades. You weren't going anywhere, even if you needed to use the washroom and you were thirsting for something cold and icy. The ice would melt immediately in the dense heat but you wouldn't let it last long enough to get that far.

It's a dangerous sort of summer day, when the heat is a force of nature, pushing you. The idea of soaking up the sun and getting soused with drink is far too great a temptation. You didn't need to add in the beautiful man sitting across the pool in his own chair, the sun pouring down golden over his glistening brown skin. You'd spent the late morning eyeing him up behind your large sunglasses.

There's a mouth-watering bulk to his body; muscle taut under delicious fat. He looks like he eats his greens and then some. You'd cook him up big, hot suppers when it turns cool — gravy and sauces, buttery carbs, and perfect cuts of meat. He'd moan appreciatively, his mouth full of your cooking, eyes closed to absorb every morsel. You'd kiss the gravy off his beautiful mouth, lick butter from his teeth if you could. On a day like today, he'd come into your kitchen like a farmer, drenched in sweat and starving, ready to eat a huge plate of cold food, like a heavy potato salad and cold cuts sliced thin. You, in the kitchen, foot propped up on the other, smiling at him while he wolfs down your meals and chugs at his lemonade or iced tea, his throat working in earnest.

Your book, a pulpy paperback you'd grabbed from a gas station, is a wonderful cover for your ogling. You turn the pages to complete the theatrics of it all, but your body, saturated and buzzing with sugar-sweet liquor, is slowly transforming into a woman in heat.

Eventually, a younger family climbs out of the pool to go cool off in their air-conditioned room and eat some late lunch. A couple slips off, giggling, into their room.

You and the man are left alone, on opposite ends of the pool area, the hot-blue water stilling in between you. You sigh, laying the book face-down, and stand up. You grab the bottle of sunscreen, shake it, and squeeze a fat dollop into your palm. Rub both hands together slowly and then begin from your forearms, dark brown and radiant from sweat and sunscreen an hour ago, working the cream up into your shoulders. Throat tipped back, up to your ears, sending your dangling earrings swaying, and then down your neck, around to the nape. Another dollop, spread across the tops of your breasts where your bikini top is drawn together with string. Fingers splaying out under the string, lifting and shifting it, your breasts with it.

"Need a hand?"

You don't expect him to be English. Your fantasy burns into a new mirage of being in a small, rambling cottage, laying out cold ham and hard cheese; a ploughman's lunch for your sweating English farmer coming in from the croft. He smells like sheep's milk and stones and dirt, and you want him to wash up before he digs in. He'd take a clean rag, soak it under the cold running water, and wipe at his dirty throat, down to where his shirt opens at his chest.

"I'm doing just fine, thanks," you demur, smearing it across your tummy and tops of your thighs. If your thumbs drag at the bikini bottoms a little, so be it.

"You're missin' spots," he says leisurely, sprawling out in the lounger next to yours like a cat in a pool of sunshine, openly watching you behind his tinted sunglasses.

"Hm," you hum haughtily. Your fingernails are painted a cool cherry red, and you both watch as your fingers slide the lotion into the soft creases of your inner thighs where your flesh is plumpest. You wonder how hungry he really is. You're hot inside under his heavy gaze, but make no other sign of it.

Down to your toes, you work fastidiously, making a meal of it. When you glance over, you see that the man has gotten hard in his swim trunks, but his hands are laid out calmly on his thick, hairy thighs. Patiently waiting, for something.

As you finish, you stand back up and throw the bottle into his unsuspecting lap. He laughs abruptly in surprise, then hauls himself up. Instead of standing in front of him, you lie down on your own lounger.

He follows your cue, kneels down beside it, and puts some lotion in his big hands. You turn your face in the opposite direction of him, as coolly relaxed as ever. He huffs a short chuckle, and begins to drag his hands from the tops of your shoulders down your nape, across your shoulder blades.

"Undo them," you mutter boredly.

There's a slight hesitation, and then the strings at your neck and breastbone are released in sequence, his fingertips gliding across your skin.

More lotion, more drag, down your ribs to where the fat of your breast is plumped to the side. His hands are good, strong, sturdy. Every bit the farmer's hands holding his wife to fuck each night in their bed.

Down to your lower back, across the band of flesh above your bikini bottoms. He's not missing one single inch. You fight the squirm that your body wants to do, signalling the sites of interest for him to rove over. His hands massage and knead delightfully, and you sigh prettily into your towel.

Lower down now.

Cheekily, he undoes the side strings of your bottoms before you decide whether to tell him to or not. You inhale deeply, the anticipation suffusing through you like melted ice. One wayward finger of his will reveal that you've soaked your bikini bottoms.

He strokes over your ass, keeping the fabric mostly in place, and then, dreamily and hotly, his fingers tighten and shape your thighs, thumbs coming together as they encircle your flesh. The tips of his fingers are so close to your pussy, you hold your breath until he drags his hands up and off. Next thigh, same move. Back and forth until now you are twisting a little in your spot.

He makes a soft groaning sound, and then he moves on. He spends a longer time on your hamstrings, the damp underside of your knees, and the full curve of your calves. Ankles and feet to end.

You're wound tight and loosened all the same by the time he reties your bottoms and pats your ass firmly.

You fall asleep under the shade; wake up sometime later, the sun dipped low, casting its final beams on the motel room windows, hazy on the water. You're sweaty and overheated when you sit up, forgetting your top's still untied.

The pool area is empty. You dive into the water, which is unfortunately not cool enough to be refreshing anymore, but better than nothing. The sun disappears for good and you stay swimming, holding the heat at bay. You do some laps, then lay out on the shallow-end steps, listening to the rasping grasshoppers and buzz of cicadas. You have no desire to return to an empty motel room, alone and trapped in stale, recycled air.

"Got heatstroke, do ya?" The voice comes from above you. You open an eye to see the man standing so he's peering straight down at you. You can, almost, see up his shorts — different ones from earlier.

You shrug, picking at your nail. "Get me a drink then."

He wanders out of the pool area, comes back several minutes later with ice cold drinks for you both. He cracks them open and hands yours down to you, then sits down with his thick legs in the water.

You float back from him a little, taking a deep drink, using your big toes as your grounding force on the pool floor like some motel ballerina.

"Got a name?" He asks, a look on his face saying he doesn't really expect you to give one.

You do, but it's your middle name.

He gives you a big, earthy smile when he hears it. He leans back on his hands, elbows straight, legs lightly swishing. Watching you closely.

"So, where—"

"Can you hand me a smoke? From my bag." You point. He squints at you a little, then retrieves it. Sees your wet hands, lights it up for you. You toe your way to the edge of the pool and tilt your face all the way up.

He dutifully places the cigarette in between your lips, his gaze dark and low-lidded.

Then walks down into the pool, joining you.

You orbit one another like tentative lovers do, the string of teasing pulling and snapping tighter as your bodies circle, the radius getting smaller by tiny measures.

You drink and smoke, ignoring his questions about you until he gives up. He's getting restless. He begins to swim beneath the shadows and flickering neon from the motel sign, back and forth.

You idle between the shallow and deep end, watching him. Tracking him under the water until he resurfaces right in front of you. He looks delicious as he blinks off water, then rubs a hand down his face to disperse the rest. Shakes his hair a little. Then his arms are caging you in against the edge, his mouth lowering down to yours in increments.

His eyes are hot, dark with want, pinning you to the spot. Not waiting to hear your rebuttal.

You had none, anyway.

His lips are chlorine and beer and a smokiness you can't fully catch in your mouth. He plays with your mouth, teasing you open, his tongue meeting yours early. He's a pleasantly full mouth kisser, your heads tilting in tandem to accommodate one another, to find the groove of a good kiss. You're both making sounds up through your throats, a loop of noises that drive you both closer. His hand floats down into the water, and yanks the triangle cup of fabric down and away from your nipple.

His fingers are bold, tweaking and pinching while he mouths wetly at your neck, the spit and chlorine mixing. You gasp a little at the tug in your stomach from his fingers. "I wanna get my fingers inside you," he groans in your ear, sending a fizzy sensation through your body, anchoring in your pussy. "I wanna know how you taste." His hand curls against and cups you through the bikini bottom, and you push up against him tensely.

Logistics. Like sand poured over a fire.

You stare at him — figure it out.

He gropes your ass cheeks, head probably empty but scrambling for thought. "My room…my roommate's been passed out since dinner. Sleeps like a rock."

You raise your eyebrows. I know you don't think that's gonna fly.

He laughs a little, which actually resets you a little. "Trust me, I know how it sounds. But the man has slept through bombs going off—"

You stare.

He continues. "He drank himself into a dead mess at dinner and won't be up til at least 10 tomorrow, best guess. We—he's military, so he sleeps through anything."

You definitely don't want him in your room. There's no insidious reason for it; you just want to fuck the man and go back to your own, without needing to peel him off you and negotiate his exit. You'll be gone by the time the town's sweating tomorrow, anyway.

"Door stays unlocked."

He nods.

"No games."

He shakes his head.

He wraps you in a sun-warmed beach towel and leads you back to his motel room; he's on the second floor like you, although you don't tell him this.

By the time you've reached the stairs, his body is butting up against yours, his cock pressing into your hips and back before you can even climb properly. "Fuck sakes, woman," he mutters hoarsely.

You don't trust the iron balcony railing, but he does. He sits on it for a moment outside his door, grabs at your lush hips, pulling you closer into him. "C'mere. Let me just look at ya before we're in the dark," he groans. "You're so fuckin' hot."

You let him look, the beach towel yanked down a little so he can suck at the tops of your breasts, releasing small heated groans along the way. Your neck is the lightning rod and when he fastens on, with no pool water to dull the sensation, you feel your pussy tingle.

"What can you do to me in there?" You tease.

He closes his eyes in pain. "Tell me. Whatever you want. I'll eat you out. I'll eat that pussy so good for you. I'll let you do whatever you want to me." He's babbling now, a desperate thing in your palm.

You cup his cock through his shorts, sending his body into a jerk. "Fuck."

"Yes. Whatever I want."

He nods faithfully. "Yes. Yes. Please."