Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
It wasn’t entirely my fault. Well, I’d like to argue that it wasn’t my fault at all, though I don’t think I’d get away with it. But seriously, I was innocently floating on my back, gazing up at the perfect blue of the sky and I would probably have been happy to stay there all morning and all afternoon.
The problem, though, is that bathing suits don’t leave much to the imagination; the Speedo, for example, gives far too much away, but even a relatively baggy pair of shorts is not the most modest item of clothing. And it doesn’t matter if you’re in the most public place; it’s not ever easy to tamp down the natural human reaction to seeing a perfect specimen of the opposite sex, though at least as a woman it’s not as embarrassing as it could be.
It had been a quiet week — boringly so. I guess that is the reward for spending a holiday in a huge resort filled to overflowing with tourists. The locals stay away as much as they can — they have more interesting things to do — and too often the tourists are exactly the people one was trying to escape from in the first place.
It was, I had come to realise with regret, the kind of place that deliberately tried to keep its residents — or inmates, so it felt — from having to realise they were in a different country. Certainly it had not yet lived up to my colleagues’ promise of beautiful men and unbridled sex on the beach. And it seemed like even my quite tame fantasy of a snog or even a dance with some gorgeous Adonis, some tall dark stranger, was more than I could expect to have fulfilled. I was fast running out of time.
The pool water was warm and the sun was just hot enough on my skin for comfort, without feeling like it would bake me to a crisp. My newly purchased string bikini had not attracted the attention I had secretly hoped it would, despite its (for me) daring brevity, but it had at least contributed to my having a nice even tan, even on my belly. I’d braved the topless beach one afternoon, but had been so intimidated by the confident, botoxed, tummy-tucked crew there that avoiding tan lines on my back had just become another unfulfilled fantasy. It had been bad enough being fully dressed at that end of the resort, never mind baring myself to a bunch of strangers.
At least the pool was quiet today, the consequence of a day trip that most of the hotel’s residents had taken up; not from some great desire to see the local culture, you understand, but because today’s trip was to an enormous mall rumoured to have duty free booze.
Floating in my private, tranquil world, my eyes half closed against the light, I was convinced that if nothing had happened so far, my last couple of days in the place were unlikely to make any difference. So when a shadow fell across my face and I opened my eyes, I didn’t immediately imagine that it was a harbinger of change.
I squinted up to see an undefined shadow on the diving board.
“This is dangerous,” insisted a voice, the accent proclaiming its owner a native. “You should be paying more attention, I would have landed on you.”
As my vision focused and my eyes adjusted to the brightness I squinted up at the figure towering above me.
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” I grumbled. I opened my mouth to continue and then stopped dead as I finally took in a little more of the man who was glowering down at me.
The few local guys I had previously come into contact with had all been either ancient taverna landlords or callow pool boys. The youths were undeniably beautiful, but so young that it was easier to want to mother them than to lust over them; and the elderly men were just as sexy as elderly men at home — that is, not at all. I had despaired, and reluctantly concluded that they must flip from one state to the other with no intervening period of gorgeous manhood, but the evidence to disprove my theory stood over me looking angry and almost painfully hot.
I have to admit that for a few moments what he was saying did not sink in at all; I was too busy catching up on all the ogling I had missed out on for the rest of the week. I was captivated by the long, well muscled thighs, the lean torso, the smooth but firm looking chest; I tried very hard not to check out the bulging package that his relatively modest but still brief and, crucially, wet swimming trunks utterly failed to disguise. Against the bright sky it was impossible to make out the detail of his face, but it was impossible to think that the owner of such a physique would be less than ravishing from the neck up.
It took me a second to realise fully that I was staring — well, gawping really — and then I realised that he had asked me a question and that I had entirely missed it.
“I’m sorry, I… what?”
I flushed; OK, so I was starved for eye candy, but I really should be slightly more able to control myself, and being so bedazzled that my ears had actually shut down… well, kind of embarrassing, no?
“I asked, if you are only wishing to sunbathe, why do you not use a sun bed?” he repeated, sounding exasperated. “The swimming pool is for swimming.”
He gestured at the array of white plastic loungers, canlı bahis today miraculously free of German and British tourists trying to re-enact vital wins and losses from the second world war by means of the skilful deployment of beach towels.
“I am swimming, I’m… well, I’m floating,” I retorted, trying to work out just who this guy was. Most of the local men who worked in the resort were incredibly deferential, no doubt used to awkward foreigners and our unfortunate tendency to get our knickers in a twist about the stupidest things whilst on holiday. After a week of living the picturesquely sanitised life of a paying customer, with the staff living only to keep me happy, it was a strange though not unpleasant experience to have someone who clearly belonged here treat me like a normal, annoying human being who was somehow in the way or otherwise doing something wrong.
“Can you not float in the shallow end?” His tone was acerbic. I decided not to push my luck.
Muttering to myself about show offs, I paddled to the side of the pool where I clambered out inelegantly, giving anyone who cared to look an eyeful of my bum, and then perched for a moment, turning round in time to see Mister Perfection perform (but of course) a textbook dive into the clear water and plough the length of the pool with a strong, efficient front crawl.
I retreated to a lounger and the book which had been sitting on my white fluffy towel (provided by the management, naturally, fresh that morning), but it was pretty difficult to concentrate even on the chick lit (fluffier than my towel) which I had deemed suitable holiday fare. For some strange reason — who knows why? — I couldn’t help staring at the utterly delectable body powering up and down the water. Well, we all have our weaknesses.
After a while the front crawl changed to a more leisurely backstroke and then to a positively laid back breast stroke (I allowed myself a dirty little snigger and an “if only” sigh at that thought…), at which point it seemed safe (well, ish) to get back in.
Leaving my book, in which I had barely managed to read a paragraph, I made my way back to the water and gingerly lowered myself in. It would feel delicious after a while, but in this warm air it always felt chilly at first. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my gorgeous pool-mate paused at the side, watching me, and was uncomfortably aware of my nipples unashamedly poking through the thin fabric of my bikini.
“It’s the cold water, it has nothing to do with you,” I wanted to explain, but I was not even sure that was true. There was nothing much I could do and instead I slipped the last couple of inches down into the water more rapidly to cover up my body’s betrayal.
His eyes stayed on me and I decided I should play it safe. Instead of floating along as I had before I begrudgingly fell into my own rather stately breaststroke, my head held high out of the water to save my hair from the worst of the chlorine. I had no doubt that after his swimming display he would be rather disparaging about the old-lady-style swimming, but gorgeous as he was I wasn’t about to mess up my hair for him. Or so I thought.
The caress of the water against my skin and the sun reflecting off the ripples of the water was pleasant and after a short while I forgot to be self-conscious and just ambled along. I had even managed to forget about my company when, as I swam along, I felt hands on my skin — one on my belly, one on my back — gently but firmly tilting me forwards.
“You need to let your head under the water,” said a familiar voice, but with the shock of being disturbed from my tranquil swim I lost the plot swimming wise and tried to right myself and stand up to tell this perfect stranger exactly where he could stick his swimming advice. Unfortunately I had not realised I was approaching the deep end; trying to stand up in almost six feet of water when one is barely five foot five is not something I would recommend.
After a few confused seconds I surfaced, coughing and spluttering, holding on tightly to the nearest solid object while I got my breath back. It took me a few seconds to realise that the solid object was my would-be swimming teacher, and that I had one hand wrapped tightly round a bicep and the other on his chest; it probably would have gratified me to realise that his nipple under my palm was at least as hard as my own if I hadn’t just tried to drown myself in front of him.
I looked up crossly into his face. “Just what the fuck were you trying to…?”
He cocked his head to one side as I momentarily trailed off, speechless. Damn, he was fine. I had assumed that he would be beautiful; nothing had prepared me for exactly how beautiful. Unbelievably dark eyes, mid brown smooth, soft skin, sensual mouth, strong jaw, a shadow of stubble sprinkling his cheeks and chin, and a mass of black hair, soaked from the pool but curling slightly at his neck and temples where it had started to dry in the sun. He was a walking wet dream.
It struck me that no man should be allowed to have eyelashes that lustrous or a mouth that full, or at least if he did he should not be bahis siteleri allowed to possess them and yet at the same time look so masculine and so knicker-meltingly sexy. He raised an eyebrow and half smiled, revealing a glimpse of perfect white teeth, but his obvious pleasure in my slight discomfort was the stimulus I needed to remind myself that I was furious with him.
“What were you trying to do? Drown me?” I demanded. The smile was quickly wiped off his face when he realised the doe-eyed, come-hither look was not performing as expected.
“I was just trying to help you. You need to be more relaxed in the water, let your head go under. Then you will be more confident.”
I glared at him. I considered telling him that in my day I’d been on my school’s swimming team (as a substitute only, but even so) and that actually I had scuba dived off the Great Barrier Reef only last year and that, thanks, I knew how to cope under water on days when I didn’t mind my hair being messed up and when some random know it all wasn’t attempting to drown me. But between my anger and how close I was to his gorgeous body I couldn’t seem to get a sentence out straight. I was not going to have him thinking I was some pathetic woman who could barely swim though, so without really thinking about it I settled on a practical demonstration.
I finally loosened my grip on him and, ducking under the water, too quickly for him to react, I swam down and around his legs. I could see him twisting round, clearly wondering what the hell I was up to, but I had the element of surprise on my side. He ended up in a half crouch, unable to keep track of what I was up to as I swirled around him, and on impulse I pulled myself in closer and pinched his backside through his shorts — well, I couldn’t help it, it was so firm and delicious and peachy I was tempted to bite it, and besides I was cross with him — and then surfaced.
His face was a picture — but then I suspect mine was too.
“I can swim, damn it. I was just trying to keep my hair dry, you idiot! And now look at me!”
It was easier to keep the anger going, walk away with whatever scrap of dignity remained, and to try to forget that I’d just felt up his butt. So I stalked away towards the shallow end, only realising too late that “stalking” doesn’t work so well in water, extricated myself from the pool, grabbed my towel, and marched off in high dudgeon.
The walk through the gardens to the beach was a pleasant one, but I was in no mood to appreciate it. At first I felt relieved that at least I was leaving soon, so any embarrassment between me and my still anonymous non-friend would not have much time to cause a problem; as I went on, though, I realised with chagrin that for the first time this whole holiday I had met an attractive man, and my reaction had more or less been to humiliate both of us. Then it occurred to me that the whole swimming lesson act, the gentle hands on my naked skin, was probably his idea of a smooth chat up line — help the clueless foreign girl who is swimming like someone’s maiden aunt — and my heart sank to my toes. My friend Carolyn always told me, “Never look a gift shag in the mouth.” But it seemed possible that I had actually kicked this one in the mouth instead.
I was grateful for the warm air, which dried my skin off quickly, and the towel which had been haphazardly slung over my shoulders was demoted to temporary sarong as I approached the edge of the beach.
My aimless walking had taken me further than I had intended, and I groaned as I realised I’d managed to end up on the topless end of the private stretch of sand. Not that there was a rule about being topless, but it seemed de rigueur; when I’d come this way before I’d got as many odd looks with my boobs covered as you’d expect in the centre of London if your tits were hanging out. Possibly more.
I leaned up against a tree and crossed my arms over my chest. It was a quiet day down here — all the truly terrifying beauties must be at the mall — and I reckoned I was probably fair competition for most of the bodies I could see splayed on the sand. But still. I hesitated, trying to decide the least humiliating choice between exposing myself, being stared at for not exposing myself, or returning to Mr Hunk at the pool.
I paused too long in my deliberations and was thrust into a totally new dilemma when I looked over my shoulder to find Mr Hunk himself gazing at me, a loose checked shirt open over his soaked shorts, obviously having followed me from the pool. I wondered if he had checked all along the beach or had just assumed I would be down here getting my kit off; part of me hoped that he had been banking on the latter, I must admit.
“What?” I barked, as he stood and looked at me.
He shot me a hangdog expression. “I am… I am sorry. I did not mean to… to patronise you,” he said. His eyes continued to bore into me and then a smile tugged at the side of his mouth. I wondered if he was laughing at me, and I rued the impulse which had made me grab his bum.
“I’m sorry I, erm.”
Now he was definitely laughing. “I am… not sorry.” He moved closer and bahis şirketleri grinned. I forced myself not to grin back. No point making him think he could win me over that quickly. He held out a hand and I tentatively took it. “I am David.” Of course, in his accent it sounded like ‘Dah-veed’ and about a million times sexier than plain old David.
“I am not used to women who know how to swim so well,” he added. “Would you like to… can I show you something?”
I looked at him, wondering if his ‘something’ was concealed (not very well) in his shorts, but something in his expression convinced me that it was worth the chance and I shrugged.
He took my hand and led me out onto the sand towards the sea. I feigned reluctance, hanging back and needing to be tugged along; partly I just didn’t want to seem too eager, though I was absolutely gagging to touch him, and partly it was because being behind his line of vision made it a heck of a lot easier to disguise the fact that I could not help checking him out as we walked. On reflection I couldn’t blame myself for earlier on. His backside was nigh on irresistible.
Finally we reached the water’s edge and he dropped his shirt onto the beach. I primly folded my towel and placed it tidily on the sand, a silent attempt to signal that I was not interested in anything improper, and followed him into the waves.
He swam strongly out into the cool blue water and I followed; I was pretty sure he wasn’t swimming full out as I was able to keep up with him, but I began to be nervous about how far out we were and how deep it was at exactly the moment when I was also too far out to feel confident about swimming back alone. I am a confident swimmer, but deep water still gives me the creeps unless I have a pair of fins to help me get back to shore easily. I wondered if I had made a mistake in trusting him so easily.
He veered to the right and to my surprise I found the water getting reassuringly shallow till I could in fact touch the bottom again.
We walked up the gradual slope and found ourselves on a very, very flat sandbank, hardly worthy of the name it was so shallow. It was almost invisible above the water, and it felt a little as if we were standing on the surface of the ocean.
I plonked my bottom down on the soft white sand and turned back to the shore.
“Wow.” The exclamation was entirely involuntary; seen from the distance, without the braying voices of the hoorah Henrys and their wives, it looked a very paradise. Cream and terracotta buildings peeped out of mounds of lush foliage, the green was fringed by sand that, with the blazing sun reflecting on it, looked like sparkling lines of sugar on the shore. Blue grey hills rose up behind, and in the far distance I could just make out the coast of the mainland, a mere smudge on the horizon even in this clear air. Above it all was that intensely blue sky. It was truly beautiful.
I turned to look at him, to share my wonder, and found him gazing intently at me. He stared at me for a moment, and then, as if satisfied that I had appreciated his view as it should be appreciated, slowly smiled and then turned back to look again himself.
“Thank you for showing me,” I breathed.
He nodded, and then laid back on the sand, closing his eyes against the sun.
“I am glad you like it. Few people see this place at its best. Now, you have.”
When he fell silent, the only sound the waves murmuring at the edges of our little refuge. It was incredibly peaceful. After drinking in the view for a another few minutes I took his example and laid back. The sand was slightly damp and cool, and I guessed it never really dried out despite the full glare of the hot sunshine. I supposed I should be concerned about being marooned on this tiny island, which would surely disappear at the first wave of a rainstorm, but instead I felt myself relax properly for the first time since I had arrived. The resort was touted as a place to get away from it all, but unfortunately it was hard to get away from my fellow retreat-seekers. I wished I had been able to come here on my first day. To experience such peace and stillness was the most incredible novelty, and the air was so clean and fresh it was… well… indescribable.
I don’t know how long we lay there in the quiet, our breathing mingling with the rustle of the sea; I felt extraordinarily comfortable. I suppose I was touched that he had trusted me with this view, which was clearly incredibly precious to him, and somehow that also engendered a sense of trust in him. It didn’t occur to me to worry.
My tolerance for quiet and peace is pretty high, but when you’re sharing a sandbank with a gorgeous man, it’s kind of distracting. Inner peace versus damp hottie. It’s tough. Eventually I turned on my side to look at him. His eyelids flickered; he was clearly as aware of me as I was of him, which was flattering, but he didn’t open his eyes or acknowledge my look in any other way. I took the opportunity to stare at him for a few moments, drinking in his masculine beauty. He was tall and lanky rather than muscle bound, his physique almost that of a dancer; strong, even solid, but also graceful and lithe. It was tempting to reach out and touch him. After a moment he smiled. I imagined he was used to being stared at. He opened one eye and his grin widened. I’d been caught.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32