The late afternoon sun was a molten gold coin sinking toward the jagged line of the horizon, spilling liquid light across the Atlantic. From the deck of the dilapidated beach house, Margot could see the glittering expanse, a sight she’d memorized over four long summers. But today, she barely registered it. Her attention was fixed on the thin sliver of beach below, where a lone figure was hauling a kayak onto the sand.
Marcus.
Her heart did its familiar, treacherous little flip. It was a sensation she’d grown addicted to over the past two months, a delicious ache that lived in her chest and pulsed low in her belly. He straightened, shaking water from his dark hair, his torso gleaming wet. He was a world away from the men in her husband Richard’s firm—all pale, soft-handed, and wrapped in linen. Marcus was all sun-bronzed skin and taut, ropy muscle, his body a testament to the physical labor he did for the local boatyard.
He didn’t look up at the house, but she knew he knew she was watching. That was part of their game.
He’d come to fix the dock a month ago, a simple job Richard had waved off, eager to get back to his spreadsheets. Margot had watched him from the kitchen window, a cold glass of lemonade sweating in her hand. He’d seen her then, too, a flash of blonde hair and a floral sundress. He’d smiled, a slow, easy grin that had felt like a secret in the salt air.
Now, the house was theirs alone. Richard had flown back to the city for an “emergency” meeting that morning, promising to return by Sunday. He’d kissed her cheek, his mind already on quarterly reports, blind to the nervous energy vibrating through her.
She moved from the deck, her bare feet silent on the worn wooden planks. She slipped out the side gate, the latch clicking with a finality that made her breath catch. The sand was warm and giving under her toes as she walked the short distance to where he was securing the kayak.
He straightened as she approached, his eyes a startling, clear blue against the deep tan of his face. He didn’t smile, not right away. He just looked at her, his gaze traveling from the loose, salty waves of her hair, down the sheer, sky-blue cover-up that did little to hide the white bikini beneath, to her bare legs. The look made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t felt in a decade.
“He’s gone,” she said, her voice a little breathless, a little husky.
He finally grinned, that slow, devastating smirk. “I know. I saw his car leave early.” He took a step closer, and she could smell the sea on him, a clean, masculine scent over the faint tang of sweat. “I was hoping that was the case.”
He reached out and traced the strap of her cover-up, his calloused finger grazing her sun-warmed shoulder. “You’ve been missing for two days,” he said. “I checked the dock for you.”
The possessiveness in his tone made her knees weak. “I had guests,” she lied. It wasn’t a lie; she’d had Richard’s partners and their wives over for drinks. But she’d spent both nights in her enormous, empty bed, barely sleeping, thinking of his hands.
“They’re gone now,” he said, his voice dropping. It wasn’t a question.
She nodded, speechless as he took her hand. His palm was rough, a stark contrast to the silk of her own life. He led her not to the house, but to a place behind a jumble of large, weather-worn rocks that formed a natural, private alcove on the beach. He’d found it weeks ago, a secret hollow shielded from the prying eyes of the few neighboring houses.
A large, striped beach blanket was already spread inside, a small cooler tucked in the corner. He’d planned this. He’d been waiting.
He sank onto the blanket and pulled her down with him, so she was kneeling between his spread legs. The sun, now a brilliant orange, painted his features in fiery relief. He cupped her face with one hand, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
“I need to touch you,” he rasped, the words thick with a week’s worth of pent-up longing. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About your skin.”
Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers. It wasn’t a tentative, getting-to-know-you kiss. It was a declaration. He kissed her deeply, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a possessive hunger that stole her breath. She melted into him, her hands coming up to fist in his damp, sun-streaked hair. It was all heat and salt and the taste of him, and it made her head spin.
His hands were already at the tie of her cover-up. With a sharp tug, the knot came undone, and the sheer fabric fell away, pooling around her hips. He broke the kiss, his gaze searing as he took in the white triangle of her bikini top, the way her breasts strained against the thin fabric.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself.
His fingers hooked around the strings of her bikini top. He drew the material away slowly, inch by inch, revealing her sun-kissed skin. The cool evening air hit her nipples, hardening them to tight, aching points. He swore softly under his breath, his eyes dark with desire.
Leaning forward, he took one rosy nipple into his mouth. The sensation was electric, a jolt that shot straight to her core. She gasped, arching her back, pushing herself deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. He laved her with his tongue, then sucked hard, a delicious, almost-painful pressure that had her crying out. While his mouth worshiped one breast, his hand kneaded the other, pinching and rolling the pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
She was on fire. Every nerve ending in her body was live, sparking at his touch. She felt his free hand slide down her stomach, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her bikini bottoms, sliding through the damp, slick curls between her legs. He let out a low growl against her skin as he found her, wet and swollen and ready for him.
“God, Margot,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “You’re so ready. So damn wet for me.”
“I can’t help it,” she whimpered, her hips rocking against his hand. “It’s you. It’s always you.”
He slid a finger inside her, and she moaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure relief. He moved it slowly, curling it against that sweet spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes, all while his thumb circled her clit with a wicked, practiced precision. He was reading her body, learning every sigh, every gasp, every shiver.
“I want to taste you,” he said, his voice thick with lust. He didn’t wait for permission. He pulled her bikini bottoms off and gently pushed her back onto the blanket.
He settled between her thighs, his broad shoulders forcing her legs apart. He looked up at her, his eyes blazing in the fading light, and then he lowered his head. The first, long, slow lick from her entrance to her clit was a revelation. He devoured her like a man dying of thirst, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, his lips suckling on her swollen nub while his teeth grazed her with maddening precision.
Her hands flew to his head, her fingers twisting in his hair as waves of pleasure began to crest inside her. She was panting, incoherent, her hips grinding against his face. She could feel the pressure building, a tidal wave threatening to break.
“Oh, god, Marcus… I’m… I’m going to come,” she gasped.
He didn’t stop. He only pushed two thick fingers inside her, curling them in a “come here” motion, and that was it. The wave crashed over her, a blinding, consuming orgasm that tore through her body. She cried out his name, her back arching off the blanket as tremors wracked her frame. He lapped at her through it, prolonging every last exquisite spasm, until she finally collapsed, boneless and breathless.
He crawled up her body, his chest heaving. His skin was slick with sweat. He was still wearing his board shorts, the bulge in them impossibly prominent and straining. She reached for the drawstring, desperate to see him, to touch him.
He caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm. “Not yet,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “I want to be inside you when I come this time.”
He shed his shorts, the garment quickly discarded. His body was a work of art—all lean muscle and golden skin. He was magnificent, fully hard, the head of his cock glistening with a bead of pre-cum. He positioned himself between her legs, and she felt the thick, blunt pressure at her entrance.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and intense.
She did. Her eyes locked on his, and he thrust forward with a single, powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt inside her. They both groaned. The feeling of being so completely filled, so stretched by him, was exquisite. It was more than just sex; it was a rebellion against the polite, sterile intimacy she shared with Richard. This was raw, primal, and utterly consuming.
He paused, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged. Then he began to move. He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in, setting a punishing, dominating rhythm. Each stroke hit that perfect spot deep inside her, and she felt the beginnings of a second orgasm, coiling like a serpent in her belly.
His hands moved down to grip her ass, tilting her hips up to take him even deeper. He was claiming her, marking her, with every powerful thrust. The sounds of their coupling—the wet slap of skin against skin, their ragged breaths, his low grunts of pleasure—filled the little rocky cove.
“You feel so fucking good,” he gritted out. “So tight. So perfect for me.”
His words were like gasoline on the fire of her arousal. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, meeting each of his thrusts with her own desperate need. He buried his face in her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point, and she felt his rhythm falter, becoming harder, faster, more frantic.
“Come with me, Margot,” he growled, his voice a desperate plea. “Come with me now.”
His thumb found her clit again, rubbing in frantic circles, and the double assault was too much. The serpent inside her detonated. Her climax ripped through her, a violent, convulsing explosion that made her scream his name into the fading sky. The walls of her sex clamped down on him, pulsing wildly, and that was his undoing. With a deep, guttural roar, he slammed into her one last time and came, his hot release flooding her in endless, shuddering pulses.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a comforting, grounding force. He was slick with sweat, his heart hammering against her chest. For a long time, there was no sound but their ragged breathing and the whisper of the waves on the shore.
He finally lifted his head, his gaze soft and full of something that terrified and thrilled her. He gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“Sunday,” he said, his voice husky. “He’s coming back Sunday, right?”
