I wander the hotel property aimlessly, unaffected by the breezy sand and the sun and the palm trees. The perfect weather. The lure of a soft and lazy romance I could just melt right into. I should have slept after Sam left but I”m too wound up. Too ill at ease. I’m beginning to wish I never…but then, it’s too late for that. My phone vibrates.

“Yes, I’m having a lovely time :-)” I text back.

“How is Jorge?”

I can’t burden Chris with this particular truth. His loyalties are torn already, being an employee at Eric’s gallery. I know which side he would choose. I just don’t want him to have to make that choice. Ignorance is bliss, my dear friend.

“Remove your clothes, Love.” John instructs.

“All you are comfortable removing, that is. But less is better.”

I lie on the table under a towel, in my new white lace tanga panties. John is silent, patient. I study his movements as he washes his hands in a sink against the wall of the small room. The lighting is subdued and new-age music streams from a small speaker in the corner.

John’s body is muscular and fit, an obvious body-builder. His full biceps and quadriceps bulge from under a tight black t-shirt and dark wash jeans. His head is bald—shaven smooth. I notice the tattoos on his biceps and that both ears are pierced. I try to remember what that means. Is he straight, gay or bisexual?

His hard-edge appearance is softened by a very proper British accent.

“Is this your first time on the Island?” he asks gently.

Warm oil on his hands and I begin to relax. Yes, this is what I need. What I should have done all along. Me time.

It feels as if he knows my body, knows what it wants. What it needs.  I smile to myself, indulging in a harmless daydream:

As John’s strong presence looms over me, manipulating my body, one set of muscles at a time, I feel myself soften into the table. Into the allowing of natural instinct. I imagine what might happen if I dared touch him in that very tenderest of places just below his navel, where we are so close that I can see the soft curl of dark hair. What if I just lightly brushed the smooth back of my hand against his exposed skin? Would he flinch and recoil in surprise? Or would he allow me to keep going?

It feels nice to imagine what could never really happen. My skin feels ultra-heated and sensitive as my fantasy continues. I am surprised, but pleased, when he leans over and presses his lips against mine, slow and deliberate.

I taste his lust—thick with feverish urgency. Yielding to his insistence, I accept his warm, heavy tongue, allowing him to explore my mouth fully.  A lanquid dance fueled by desire.

It feels like floating, weightless and unmoored—fully surrendered to the moment. He gently places my hand a bit lower as he unzips, satisfying my burning curiousity.

I feel a wave of pleasured anticipation, a low hum and shudder, noting the slick heat rising between my thighs.  He twitches and stiffens, wrapped in my firm grip. I delight in the electricity of first contact.

He is working on the front of my legs and moving down to my toes.

“Are you alright, Love?”

My eyes flick open.

“You were moaning, dear…are you quite well?”

“Ummm…I, I’m sorry. I think I was dreaming. I think I fell asleep.”

I am slow to answer, finding my bearings.

He gives a reassuring pat on the top of my foot and squeezes my big toe playfully, turning to dry his hands on a small towel.

“Perhaps you would benefit from additional therapy. The Healing Hands Spa offers a full range of alternative services, discreetly, of course.”

To be continued…