Chapter 3
The water is warm. Warmer than the pool ever is, even in August.
I’m floating on my back, and the sky is black and close, no stars, just a dark ceiling.
This is my backyard, but the fence is farther away than it should be and the patio furniture is in the wrong place—the loungers are facing the water. I don’t remember moving them.
I turn upright. The water comes to my chest. I’m naked. That seems right.
The pool light is on, but it’s the wrong color—green instead of white—and it makes the water look like something you’d find in a cave.
They’re standing at the edge. Both of them.
The younger one on the left, the bigger one on the right.
Naked. I see the younger one first. Brown skin, the lean lines of him, his cock half-hard against his thigh.
Then the other. Broader, heavier, pink at the shoulders, thick through the chest.
He’s grinning. The grin I heard through the kitchen window.
They don’t say anything.
The big one steps off the edge, and the water swallows him to the waist. He comes toward me, the water pushing ahead of him in a slow wave that presses against my waist. The other slides in after, quieter, the water barely moving around him.
The big one reaches me first. His hands find my waist under the surface and pull me against him. His chest is solid, warm, and slick. His mouth finds mine. He tastes like chlorine.
Behind me, the younger one’s body presses against my back, his cock hard against me, his hands on my hips, overlapping. His mouth is on my neck. Slow. His lips drag across the skin below my ear, and I tilt my head to give him room.
The big one pulls back from the kiss and watches the younger one’s mouth on me. The water moves between us in small currents, warm against my belly, my ribs.
I reach down. One hand forward, one hand back.
The big one’s cock is thick, heavy in my palm, the water making my grip slide along the shaft.
The younger one is leaner, harder, and he makes a sound against my neck when my fingers close around him.
I hold them both, and the water rocks us gently, the three of us swaying with it.
I can feel my pulse in my hands where I’m gripping them.
The younger one’s fingers move between my legs from behind, slow, the water carrying his hand. I spread my thighs, and the water resists. Everything is slow. Everything takes longer than it should. I don’t want it to speed up.
I’m in my bed.
The ceiling fan turns. My hand is between my legs, and my underwear is soaked, and my heart is slamming in my chest. The sheets are tangled around one ankle. The room is dark, hot, and real.
I pull my hand away. I lie there. My pulse beats in my throat, my wrists, the insides of my thighs. Thursday is in two days.