The heat is different here, intense and sultry, touching everything with mid-day somnolence. The terracotta earth absorbs it, radiates it back in a shimmering haze the blurs colours and distorts distance. The insects in the grey-green shade of the olive trees buzz idly, and even the cicada's song is indolent, drunk on the savoury-sweet scent of thyme and rosemary, the pungent resin of the distant cypress trees.
She lies, stretched out on her back like a sacrifice, surrendering herself to the sun, feeling the prickle of its heat raise beads of sweat that trickle over her flesh, untouched, to dry like offerings. She glances at the glass of water at her side. It is frosted with condensation, the ice long melted, cool and inviting, but she can't move under the weight of the heat. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears, slow and heavy, her muscles liquid with relaxation. She closes her eyes.
She senses she's no longer alone, feels his presence, the unmistakable prickle of her skin and quickening of her senses that tells her he's watching. She makes a show of unawareness, keeps her eyes closed, stretches her arms luxuriously above her head and arches her back, a conscious display of golden flesh, the slow movement of her hips a flagrant invitation. For a hearts beat she lies in sensual silence, but the pressure of her knowledge of him is too strong to ignore and she turns her head and opens her eyes slowly.
He is sitting on the vine-shaded step of the veranda, bare-chested and bare-foot, his hair sleep-mussed, soft brown curls and tangles tipped with fading blond. She meets his languid, lazy smile with one of her own, wonders if the breathtaking thrill that courses through her at the sight of him will ever fade away, hopes it never will. He raises an eyebrow and holds out his hand to her and she stands and goes to him, across the sun-yellowed grass that pricks at her bare feet, leans out of the brightness to press her sun-hot lips to his shade-chill mouth, to feel the cool languor of his tongue against hers. She pulls back and bends to pick up a bottle of sun lotion, passes it to him and settles beside him on the step, back toward him, pulling the heavy weight of her hair over her shoulder. He unties her bikini top and lets it fall, baring the smooth expanse of her back, drops a fleeting kiss on tingling flesh that leaves her aching for more. His hands are firm and gentle, stroking on the sweet smelling lotion, cool against her sun-parched skin, and she shivers, his touch setting her burning more than the sun ever could.
His slides his hands slowly, sensuously down the length of her spine, then curves them around her waist, trailing them across the tenseness of her stomach and then up to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing sensitive nipples until she groans and arches against him.
"You know," he purrs, his breath against her neck, "you'll never get that tan sittin' in the shade."
She swings around, hooks one leg over his to pull herself into his lap, presses her throbbing body against his hardness. His eyes are sparked with knowledge of her arousal, heavy-lidded with desire, with love for her, and she feels that just that look could bring her to the brink of release. She rests her forehead against his, moves her hips against him, thrills at his gasp of pleasure. "Too much sun is bad for you." She brushes his cheek with her lips. "And why have something that's bad for you…" She lets the tip of her tongue brush the fullness of his lips, punctuates her words with teasing, butterfly kisses, "... when you can just have something very… very… bad…"
And then she's lost in the paradox of him, of the coolness of his body and the heat of his passion, of hardness and softness, of newness and familiarity, of nameless darkness and unexpected light, as the sun outside their shadowed refuge moves in the cerulean sky and gentles slowly towards evening.
