One Week in Provence: Chapter 4

The Pool

  I swam to forget.
To cool down.
To control the hunger clawing inside me.

But he was there.

Lounging with a book, sunglasses low, mouth slightly open. Watching.

The water was cool. My skin, flushed. The thin black swimsuit clung like second skin.

When I climbed out, I felt his stare crawl down my spine.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I whispered, standing above him, water dripping down my legs.

He set the book aside. Slowly. Purposefully.

“You shouldn’t swim like that,” he said, “unless you want to be looked at.”

I swallowed.

He stood, towering over me. His hand brushed my jaw.
Then my shoulder.

Then the strap.

“I want to memorize the way you taste when you’ve just left the water,” he said.

And then—finally—he kissed me.

Wet. Deep. Consuming.

His hands slid beneath the straps. Mine tangled in his hair. We didn’t make it to the bed.

But the stone terrace still remembers us.

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