The Pool Boy Age Gap MILF erotica #2
Not yet. She wanted him to live in the almost.
“Wes.”
He was at the shallow end, brush dripping.
“My back,” she said. “I can’t reach the middle. You have hands.”
He did not move at first. A car went by on the street, slow, and both of them waited it out like the sound could see them.
Then his shadow fell across her lounge.
Mara rolled onto her stomach without covering the tie at her neck. The bikini strings cut little grooves into her skin. Her ass lifted with the turn, full and oiled, the bottoms eaten slightly between. She stacked her hands under her cheek and waited.
His palm landed between her shoulder blades.
Warm. A little rough from the brush handle. He spread the oil she had left in the bottle’s cap, and the first stroke went from the nape of her neck to the small of her back in one long drag. Mara’s breath left her in a sound she blamed on the sun.
“There,” she said. “Don’t be shy of it. I asked.”
He used both hands. Thumbs along the muscles beside her spine.
Fingers skimming the sides of her ribs, close enough to the heavy hang of her tits that the edge of his hand grazed the side swell through the gap in the strings.
She felt him hesitate and then keep going because she had not told him to stop.
Oil warmed between his skin and hers. The coconut smell thickened.
A bead of sweat rolled from her hairline into her eye and she did not wipe it.
When he reached the small of her back he stopped, exactly where the bikini bottoms began.
“Lower,” Mara said into her wrist. “The strap line burns if I miss it.”
His hands settled on the upper curve of her ass.
Consent sat in the air like the heat. She had asked.
He had checked the pause. She pushed back a quarter inch into his palms so he would feel the yes in her body and not only in her mouth.
He oiled the strip of skin above the fabric, then the places the strings cut, then—careful, so careful—the round where cheek met thigh.
His breath had gone uneven. Hers had too.
The lounge fabric scratched her nipples through the triangles every time she inhaled.
She made the sound again, lower, and turned her face so he could see her mouth open against her hand.
“That’s the heat,” she said, which was a lie they both let stand.
He pulled away first.
The loss of his hands left a cool shape on her back. Mara stayed where she was for three full breaths, ass still tipped, oil shining in the cleft at the top of her bottoms. Then she rolled to her side, not all the way onto her back, and looked at him from under her arm.
Wes stood with his hands held out like they did not belong to him. A smear of oil ran down the inside of his wrist. His board shorts did nothing to hide what the last two minutes had done to him. She let herself look at that, slow, the way she had looked at the pool on Monday.
“You can finish the tiles,” she said. “I’m not done with the sun.”
He went back to the brush. His shoulders were tight.
Mara lay on her side and watched him work with one knee drawn up, which opened her hips toward the water and toward him.
The bikini crotch was a narrow dark line.
She knew what she looked like. She had chosen it in the hall mirror and walked outside anyway.
Twenty minutes passed like that. Brush. Hose.
The wet slap of his shorts when he crouched.
She oiled the front of her thighs while he could see her do it, both hands, long strokes that stopped at the crease.
She did not go under the fabric. The wanting sat there, obvious, and she let him live with it.
When he coiled the hose she sat up and tied the neck string a little looser, which made the triangles sag and show the inner curve of each breast almost to the nipple.
“Friday still?” he asked. His voice had dropped.
“Friday.” She reached for her water and the motion lifted everything. “Photographer at two. Be here at ten. I want the water glass-still.”
“I’ll be here.”
Mara stood. Oil had pooled in the hollow of her throat. She did not wipe it. She walked to the slider with the same unhurried sway she had used on Monday, the string of the bottoms tucked slightly where his hands had been. At the door she looked back.
He was still holding the hose like it might save him.
“Use the slider next time,” she said. “The gate sticks when it gets this hot. I leave it open.”
She went inside. The air conditioning hit her oiled skin and pulled her nipples tight against the wet black triangles. She stood in the kitchen long enough to watch him load the truck through the glass. He glanced at the lounge she had left dented, then at the door, then away.
Mara did not lock it.
She poured another inch of wine she did not need and pressed the cold glass to the center of her chest, right over the oil and the heat his hands had put there, and she thought about Thursday the way other women thought about prayer.
The storm came in sideways on Thursday, two hours before he was even due.
Mara watched the first drops pit the pool from the kitchen and felt the day change shape.
Friday’s photographer would want glass-still water and a clean deck.
This sky did not care. Wind shoved the umbrella against the railing.
Lightning walked the far side of the subdivision.
She had put on the short robe after her shower because the house was cold once the sun left, and because the robe was a problem she was in the mood to have.
Pale silk. Mid-thigh. No belt she intended to use.
It kept slipping off her left shoulder no matter how she set it.
When Wes’s truck lights cut across the drive she did not go to the gate. She waited at the island with the refrigerator light painting her legs.
He came through the slider she had left open, soaked in three steps. Rain ran off his hair onto the tile. His shirt stuck to him in dark maps. Board shorts heavy. He stopped on the mat like the kitchen might fine him for dripping.
“Gate’s underwater,” he said. “I can come back when it clears.”
“You’re already in.” Mara nodded at the towel on the stool. “Don’t track it to the living room. My husband’s particular about the oak.”
The husband’s name sat in the room and did nothing.
Wes toweled his arms, his throat, the back of his neck.
She watched a drop escape the towel and run into the hollow under his collarbone.
Twenty-three years old and built like the storm had been aimed at him.
She pulled the robe up her shoulder. It fell again before her hand left it.
Thunder rolled over the house. The lights dipped and held.
“Sandwich,” she said. “You drove in that. Sit down.”
She did not ask if he was hungry. She took turkey and bread out because her hands needed an alibi.
The robe gaped when she reached into the refrigerator.
Cool air climbed the insides of her thighs.
She was naked under the silk. She had decided that in the bathroom and then stood there two extra minutes making sure she meant it.
Wes sat on the stool like it might bite.
Rain hammered the sliders. The pool beyond the glass had gone choppy and pale.
Mara built the sandwich she had no intention of eating, mustard, pickle, the kind of ordinary motion that kept her from putting her mouth on him in her own kitchen.
She set the plate in front of him and stayed on her side of the island.
He did not touch the food.
“You going to stand there until I finish,” he asked, “or sit?”
“If I sit, this comes open.” She flicked the edge of the robe. Honest. Not coy. “Then we have a different afternoon.”
His jaw flexed. He looked at her mouth, then at the silk where it clung to the uncontained weight of her tits, then back at the plate.
Mara felt the look like fingers. Forty-one years old and a 23 year old’s attention still pulled heat straight down through her belly into the bare place between her legs.
She pressed her thighs together under the island and the robe whispered.
Lightning bleached the yard white. In the flash she saw her own reflection in the glass: dark hair damp at the ends, robe slipping, nipples raised from the cold tile and from him.
“I should go,” Wes said. “When it slacks off. You didn’t hire me to eat in your kitchen.”
“I hired you three days this week.” She picked up his discarded towel and came around the island. Close. The storm smell came off him—wet cotton, chlorine that never quite washed out, rain on hot skin. She held the towel out. “Your hair’s still dripping on my floor.”
He took it. Their fingers overlapped for a second that lasted too long. Mara did not pull back first. He did, and the towel bunched in his fist.
She stayed where she was, hip against the counter, robe loose enough that the inner curve of one breast showed to the edge of the areola. She knew. She had felt the silk slide and left it.
“Stay until it passes,” she said. “The roads west of here flood. I’m not putting you in a ditch so I can tell myself I was good.”
“Mara.”
Her name in that voice did more than the robe.
She looked at his mouth the way she had looked at his hands on her back yesterday.
Lower lip still a little raw from where he bit it when he was thinking.
She wanted the taste of rain on it. She wanted it with a clarity that scared her less than it should have.
“If you kiss me, you do it because I asked,” she said. “Not because the lights flickered.”
He went still.
“Did I ask yet?” she added, softer.
“No.”
“Then we wait.” She let out a breath that shook once and then behaved. “Eat the sandwich. Talk about the liner. Tell me the photographer won’t see footprints.”
He picked up half the sandwich and did not eat it either.
They stood in the hum of the refrigerator and the roar on the roof, two people holding food like a truce.
Water ticked off his shorts onto the tile between their feet.
Mara’s pulse lived in her throat and lower.
Every so often the robe slipped and she reset it with two fingers, which only called attention to what it was failing to hide.
“Friday at ten,” he said. “I’ll vacuum before the rain sets any dirt. Water should settle if the wind dies overnight.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I come early and we hope.”
We. She filed that away in the same place she had filed his hands on her ass.