Chapter 5: Sunrise Balcony Blowjob
The world was a deep, soundless blue when she woke. Not the blue of the ocean at noon, but the fragile, ink-wash blue just before everything begins. Jeff was a warm solidity beside her, one arm thrown over his face, breathing deep and even. The memory of the night was a pleasant heaviness in her limbs—the soaking tub, the easy silence, the way he’d carried her to bed and simply held her until they’d both fallen asleep.
No clandestine mission this. This was something else.
She slipped from the sheets, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on her naked skin. She found his discarded shorts, pulled them on, rolling the waistband twice. They hung low on her hips. She padded to the glass doors, slid them open a silent foot, and stepped onto the balcony.
The pre-dawn air was a soft, damp slap. It smelled of wet foliage, night-blooming jasmine, and the infinite, salty tang of the unseen sea. The horizon was a razor-thin line of bruised orange separating the dark water from the darker sky. Stars still pricked the blackness overhead. From the pool deck far below, the night staff laughed softly, the clink of bottles as they restocked the bar.
She went back inside. Kneit beside the bed. In the gloom, his face was relaxed, younger. She leaned close, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Jeff.”
A muffled sound. A twitch.
“Come see the sun rise.”
He cracked one eye. Hazy, disoriented. “It’s nighttime.”
“It won’t be for long.” She took his hand, pulling. “Come on. Before it’s gone.”
He groaned, a low, rumpled noise, but let her haul him upright. He was gloriously, sleepily naked. She led him, stumbling, through the doors onto the cool tiles of the balcony. The air woke him more fully. He shivered, looking out at the barely-there light.
“It’s cold.”
“It’s not.” She guided him to the wide, padded lounger, its cushions still damp with dew. “Sit.”
He sank down, his back against the angled backrest, his body a pale contrast to the dark cushion. The first true sliver of sun breached the horizon, a molten sliver of gold that instantly set the line of the ocean on fire. It painted his skin in gilded streaks—across his shoulders, down his chest.
She stood before him, watching his face as he watched the dawn. His eyes, still puffy with sleep, tracked the expanding light. There was a quiet awe there he never showed in daylight. The dangerous boyfriend, disarmed by the sky.
Then her hands went to the button of the shorts she wore. His. She popped it, let them slide down her legs, a puddle of fabric on the tile. The new sun warmed her back.
His gaze slowly drifted from the horizon to her. He took her in, standing naked in the birth of the day. His eyes darkened, sleep evaporating. His body responded, stirring, lengthening against his thigh in the cool air.
She didn’t speak. She knelt on the lounger, cushioning her knees on either side of his hips. She leaned forward, her hair a curtain of fire in the sudden horizontal light, and kissed the center of his chest. A slow, open-mouthed kiss over his sternum. She felt his heartbeat kick against her lips.
Her mouth began a slow descent. Down the flat plane of his stomach, tracing the defined lines that led south. She tasted salt and sleep and him. His breathing hitched, his abdomen clenching. His hands came up, not to guide her, but to bury themselves in her hair, his fingers spreading, gripping loosely.
When she took him into her mouth, he let out a long, shuddering sigh that misted in the chill air. He was fully hard, thick and velvety against her tongue. The sun was rising in earnest now, a blazing orange dome climbing fast, pouring light and warmth over them. It illuminated every detail: the pearl-pink tip of him, the flutter of her own eyelashes, the tight, rough weave of the lounger’s fabric under her knees.
She took her time. This wasn’t the desperate, public frenzy of the silent disco. This was a slow, private claiming. A ceremony. She used her tongue, the flat of it, the tip, tracing veins, circling the sensitive head. She used her lips, applying pressure, then releasing. She took him deep, until her nose brushed the coarse hair at his base, her throat relaxing, then pulled back with a soft, wet sound that seemed obscenely loud in the morning quiet.
“Cara.” His voice was shattered glass.
She hummed in response, the vibration making his hips jerk. One of his hands left her hair, fumbling beside him, finding her wrist. He guided her hand down, pressing her own fingers against herself. She was already slick, swollen. A low moan escaped her as she touched her own clit, the dual sensation of pleasing him and pleasing herself winding her tighter.
The pace was agony. Delicious, sun-warmed agony. She could feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his fingers tightened and released in her hair. The sky was a full riot of color now—pink, gold, violent purple—the day announcing itself with trumpets of light.
“I’m close,” he gritted out, a warning and a plea.
She doubled her efforts, her head bobbing faster, her hand working in tandem between her own legs. The world narrowed to the sounds of his ragged breaths, the lap of the distant waves, the feel of him pulsing on her tongue.
His climax when it came was silent, profound. A deep, inward gasp, then a series of sharp, helpless jerks of his hips. He spilled into her mouth, hot and bitter, and she took all of it, swallowing, her own orgasm crashing over her a second later, a sharp, stunning wave that made her back arch and her muscles clench around nothing.
She collapsed forward, her forehead resting on his thigh, breathing hard. The sun was fully above the horizon now, a fierce, clean ball of heat. The balcony was bathed in gold.
For minutes, there was only the sound of their slowing breaths and the crying of gulls.
His hand, trembling slightly, smoothed her hair. “Good morning,” he whispered.
She turned her head, her cheek against his damp skin. “It is now.”
Later, showered and wrapped in fluffy white robes, they sat at the small balcony table. Room service had delivered a tower of fresh fruit—mango, papaya, starfruit, pineapple—a basket of pastries, a carafe of coffee, and a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket.
Jeff speared a piece of mango, holding it out to her. She took it from the fork with her teeth, the juice running down her chin. He leaned over and licked it away.
“So,” he said, pouring orange juice into two flutes, then topping them with champagne. “Touristy couple day. Agenda stands?”
“The agenda is fluid,” she said, taking the mimosa he offered. “But it definitely involves that swim-up bar and those sugary drinks of doom. And volleyball, shuffleboard, ping pong, and any other touristy games they have.”
She laughed, stretching her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. The robe fell open slightly. He watched the line of her thigh, his eyes warm, no longer hungry in the same desperate way, but appreciative. A man looking at his favorite view.
They fed each other strawberries. They shared a chocolate croissant, flaky crumbs falling onto the table. It was stupidly domestic. It should have felt trivial. It felt like the most intimate thing they’d done all weekend.
It felt like the most intimate thing they’d done all weekend. The silence between them was no longer just comfortable, but filled with a new, humming understanding. He watched her lick champagne from the rim of her glass, and something in his chest turned over, fragile and undeniable.
“We should probably put on actual clothes,” she said, breaking the spell with a smile. “Before I decide the robe is resort wear and we never leave this balcony.”
“Tempting.” He stood, stretching, the robe gaping open. “But you promised me cutthroat pool volleyball. I need to mentally prepare for the humiliation of losing to retirees in visors.”
They dressed in a companionable clutter of sunscreen and searching for lost sandals. She chose a high-cut emerald bikini and a sheer white kaftan. He pulled on navy board shorts and a faded grey tee shirt that had a hole near the hem. Seeing it, that small imperfection in his usually curated look, made her smile.
The path to the main pool was a winding mosaic-tiled trail through manicured jungle. The scent of chlorine and coconut oil grew stronger, mingling with the percussive thump of a DJ mixing Top 40 remixes. The scene unfurled before them: a vast, crystalline infinity pool merging with the ocean horizon, packed with beautiful people on pink floaties. The swim-up bar was a thatched-roof island in the center, stools submerged in water, already crowded.
“Okay,” Jeff said, squinting. “I see three distinct volleyball nets. Which circle of hell do you prefer?”
“The one with the drunk British guys,” she said, pointing to a net where a ball sailed wildly into the pool. “They look unserious. My kind of competition.”
They claimed two loungers at the water’s edge, dropping their towels. The sun was a hammer. Jeff immediately peeled off his shirt. Cara felt the weight of glances from other women, a flicker of assessment and appreciation. She felt a spike of pure, primal possession. Mine, she thought, startling herself with the force of it.
“Shirts versus skins?” a man with a London accent yelled as they waded in. “We’re skins, lads, obviously.”
“We’ll keep our shirts on, thanks,” Jeff called back, sliding an arm around Cara’s waist. His hand was warm and heavy on her bare skin.
The game was a shambolic, splashing mess. Jeff, true to his word, was intensely competitive. He dove for hopeless saves, barking good-natured taunts. Cara spent most of her time laughing, missing easy shots because she was watching the muscles in his back work as he leaped. They lost the first game 21-8.
“You’re a liability,” he gasped, treading water beside her, his face alight.
“I’m providing morale support,” she retorted, and hooked a leg around his under the water, pulling him close for a wet, chlorine-tinged kiss. The British guys whooped.
They played two more games, losing each one more spectacularly. After a failed spike that sent the ball straight into the swim-up bar, Jeff threw his hands up. “I’m hydrated only with failure. Drink time.”
They swam to the bar, hauling themselves onto submerged stools. The water was cool and lapped at their chests. The bartender, a tanned guy named Mateo, already knew their room number.
“Two painkillers?” he asked, already reaching for the rum.
“Make them doubles,” Jeff said. “Medicinal purposes.”
The drinks arrived in large, curvaceous glasses, a creamy blend of dark rum, coconut, pineapple, and orange. They were decadent and potent. Cara took a long sip, the sweet cold a shock. “Oh, that’s immediately problematic.”
“Told you.” Jeff clinked his glass against hers. “To terrible volleyball.”
They sucked the drinks down fast, the alcohol hitting their sun-warmed bloodstream with deceptive speed. A pleasant fog began to edge her vision. They ordered another round. Then, someone challenged them to water volleyball—a tiny, weighted net set up right at the bar.
It devolved from there.
They played cornhole on the lawn, the beanbags blurring. They tried giant Jenga, Jeff pulling a block with exaggerated solemnity before the whole tower crashed into the grass, making them howl. Each activity demanded a new drink: a spicy margarita, a neon-blue something, a shot of tequila with a singing waiter.
By noon, the world had developed a soft, hilarious focus. Everything was funny: the shape of a cloud, the way a man tried to pronounce “quesadilla,” the feeling of the wet pool deck under her feet. She was magnificently, gloriously drunk.
They stumbled back to their loungers, collapsing onto the sun-heated fabric. Their empty glasses made a small forest on the table between them. The sun was directly overhead, a blazing white coin.
Jeff lay on his stomach, his head turned toward her. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his smile loose and easy. “So,” he drawled, his words slightly slurred. “Touristy couple day. Verdict?”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. The movement made the world tilt pleasantly. “A-plus. Would recommend. I think I beat you at cornhole.”
“You did not. I let you win. Chivalry isn’t dead, it’s just shitfaced.”
She poked his shoulder. Her thoughts felt slow, swimming up through syrup. The alcohol had sanded down all her careful edges. The question that had been circling all morning, since the sunrise, since the breakfast, since the silent disco, slipped out.
“This thing we’re doing,” she said. Her voice sounded far away. “What is it?”
He went very still. The laughter in his eyes faded, replaced by a wary, sobering clarity. He looked at her, really looked, and she saw him deciding whether to deflect or answer. The pool noise around them—the splashing, the music, the chatter—seemed to recede.
He took a slow breath. “It’s the best thing I’ve done in a long time.” The words were careful, deliberate. “And it’s terrifying the hell out of me.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. The honesty was more potent than any drink. “Me too.”
He reached out, his fingers finding hers on the hot towel. He laced them together. His grip was tight. “I don’t have a plan past Sunday.”
“I don’t want a plan,” she said, and realized it was true. “Plans ruin things.”
He nodded, just once, his thumb stroking her knuckle. The gesture was infinitely tender. “Okay then. No plan.”
A waiter appeared beside them, holding a tray. “Another round from the gentleman at the bar?” He gestured to a smiling older couple who raised their glasses.
Jeff laughed, the tension breaking. “We are visibly a mess,” he said to Cara, then nodded to the waiter. “Tell them thank you, but if we have one more, we’ll be arrested for public incoherence.”
The waiter left. Jeff shifted, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. “I need pizza. Or a nap. Or a nap on a pizza.”
“Both,” Cara mumbled, her own eyes drifting shut. The sun baked her skin. His hand was still holding hers, an anchor in the warm, spinning world. The momentum of the day hung suspended, not in action, but in this quiet, drunken confession hanging between them in the bright, unforgiving light.