Chapter 2: The Approach
The heavy silence that had settled between the two friends was split by the sound of approaching footsteps on the wet deck—a steady, confident cadence that didn’t veer away. Megan looked up first, her eyes widening slightly.
He was tall, well over six feet, with the kind of lean, ropy muscle that spoke of functional strength rather than showroom vanity. Sun-bleached brown hair fell in messy curls, and his skin was the deep, weathered bronze of someone who lived on the water. He wore only navy board shorts, low on his hips, and the pronounced, heavy bulge they contained was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just noticeable; it was a declaration.
He stopped at the foot of Lissy’s lounger, his shadow falling over her. She tilted her head, peering over the top of her sunglasses.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a low, easy rumble with the faintest trace of a local accent. “Saw you from over there. You look… intense.”
Lissy didn’t move to cover herself. She just smiled, a slow, appraising curve of her lips. “I am intense. You looking for a critique?”
He laughed, a quick, genuine sound. “Nah. Just an introduction. I’m Diego.” He glanced at Megan, gave a brief, polite nod that acknowledged her presence without engagement, then focused back on Lissy. “You’re not from here.”
“Astute. It’s spring break,” Lissy said, pushing herself up to sit fully. She made no move for her bikini top. “I’m Lissy. The nervous one is Megan.”
Diego’s gaze was frank, sweeping over her shoulders, down her torso, and lingering for a respectful but undeniable moment on the spectacular swell of her glutes before returning to her face. “Spring break. Right. The week of regrets.”
“Only if you do it wrong,” Lissy shot back, her eyes now locked on the substantial outline in his shorts. “You a surfer?”
“Used to be, professionally. Now I run charters. Fishing, diving, taking tourists to see the arch.” He shifted his weight, and the movement did interesting things to the fabric of his shorts. “You lift.”
It wasn’t a question. “Every damn day,” Lissy said, pride sharpening her tone. “Glutes twice a week. Heavy.”
“I can tell. It’s impressive work. Hard to build something like that without the right discipline.” He nodded, a connoisseur appreciating fine art. “Surfing builds a different kind of strength. Core, back, shoulders. But I gotta admit,” he said, a playful grin spreading, “after a four-hour session, I’m pretty spent. Could probably use a proper workout.” The double meaning hung in the air, obvious and unchallenged.
Megan made a small, strangled sound and looked away, pretending to be fascinated by a pool float.
“A four-hour session, huh?” Lissy echoed, her voice dropping, becoming more intimate. “That’s some stamina. Shows dedication.” Her eyes flicked down again, pointedly. “Seems like you might be dedicated in a few departments.”
Diego followed her look and shrugged, utterly unselfconscious. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, adjusting them slightly, which only served to accentuate the formidable package beneath. “What can I say? Genetics are a lottery. I got lucky.” He said it like he was commenting on his eye color.
Lissy’s breath hitched, just a little. This was different. This wasn’t a finance bro pretending. This was a man who knew exactly what he was working with and wasn’t afraid to show it. A bolt of pure, electric possibility shot through her.
“Well, Diego,” she said, leaning back on her hands, arching her back just so. “I have a problem. A logistical one.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m very serious about my tan. No lines. But I can’t reach my own back properly. And my friend Megan here,” she said, glancing at Megan’s rigid, horrified profile, “is squeamish about touch. Do you think you could help me out? With some sunscreen?”
The question lingered in the hot air. Diego’s grin widened. He didn’t look at Megan for permission. He only had eyes for Lissy. “Sure. I’ve got good hands. Steady from reeling in marlin.”
He picked up the bottle of SPF 30 from the little table between the loungers. Lissy turned smoothly onto her stomach, presenting the broad canvas of her oiled back and the two dramatic, rounded peaks below. Megan stared resolutely at her own hands, her knuckles white.
Diego squeezed a generous amount of lotion into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and then placed them firmly between Lissy’s shoulder blades. His touch was warm, sure, not tentative. He began to spread the lotion in broad, smooth strokes, working it down the knobs of her spine, over the wings of her shoulder blades.
“You’re tight,” he murmured, his thumbs pressing into a knot of muscle near her scapula.
“Carry all my stress right here,” Lissy mumbled into her towel, her voice already loosening.
He worked downward, past her waist, until his palms were hovering over the crest of her ass. He paused. “Here okay?”
“The whole point,” Lissy said, turning her head to the side to look at him. Her eyes were dark. “Can’t have my masterpiece burning.”
His hands settled on her. Not a slap, not a pat. A full, possessive grasp, his fingers spreading wide, each one sinking into the dense, resilient flesh. He began to knead.
It was not a gentle, token rub. It was a deep, thorough, clinical working of the muscle, the way a trainer might handle an athlete. His strong fingers probed, pressed, and smoothed the lotion in deliberate, circular motions, mapping the incredible topography of her glutes. He took his time, paying equal attention to each side, his grip firm and knowing. The sound was a soft, slick, intimate squelch in the quiet space around their loungers.
Lissy let out a long, shuddering sigh that was pure relief and gratification. A small, breathy sound escaped her. Her fingers clenched the edges of her towel. This was it. This was the assurance. The sheer authority of his touch told her everything his bulge had hinted at. He wasn’t scared of her body. He was handling it. Appreciating it. Using it.
Megan stood up abruptly, the legs of her lounger scraping on the concrete. “I’m… I’m going to get a smoothie. Or something.” She fled, her cover-up fluttering behind her.
Neither of them acknowledged her departure. Diego’s hands continued their slow, deliberate conquest, kneading lower, to the very upper reaches of her thighs, where the black fabric of her thong dug in. His thumb swept along the edge of the material.
“You know,” he said, his voice a low murmur near her ear, his hands never stopping their rhythm, “after I’m done here, my boat’s at the marina. It’s private. Has a nice, spacious cabin. No… interruptions.”
Lissy turned her face fully toward him, a triumphant, hungry smile spreading across her lips. “What time does your charter start, Captain?”