Chapter 4: The Hand Slides Higher
The weight of his hand on my knee was an anchor, holding me in this impossible moment. His thumb kept moving, that slow, maddening circle on skin so new to me it might as well have been someone else’s. The heat of the water, the thrumming jets at my back, the beer humming in my head—it all coalesced into a thick, drugging haze.
His fingers tensed. Then his whole hand slid upward, breaching the waterline.
It was a slow, deliberate migration. The rough pads of his fingers pressed into the soft, giving flesh of my inner thigh. I felt every ridge of his fingerprint. My leg, so smooth and hairless, seemed to amplify the sensation, transmitting it directly to my spine. A sharp, startled breath hissed between my teeth—a high, feminine sound that made me cringe.
“Just relaxing,” Mark murmured, his voice a low rumble that competed with the jets. His gaze was fixed on my face, watching for permission, for protest.
I said nothing. My tongue felt like a dead thing in my mouth.
His thumb continued its work, now tracing circles on the incredibly sensitive skin just an inch from the taut edge of my turquoise bikini bottom. Each circuit sent a fresh, shocking pulse of electricity directly to the core of this unfamiliar body. A deep, internal clenching happened, a muscular spasm I couldn’t control. A slick, hot wetness bloomed between my legs, utterly separate from the chlorinated water around us. It was a biological betrayal so complete it left me dizzy.
His face was close now. I could smell the beer on his breath, mixed with his clean sweat and the sharp, expensive scent of his shampoo. This body’s senses were heightened, acute. The smell was overwhelmingly male, and some ancient part of my new wiring recognized it, responded to it.
He leaned in. The coarse hair of his chest brushed against the side of my floating breast, a whisper of contact that made the nipple pull tight into a painful, aching point. His lips grazed the shell of my ear. The warmth of his breath was a shock in the humid air.
“You’re so beautiful, Sabrina.”
The name.
It was a shard of ice plunged directly into my chest. Sabrina. Not Justin. Not my name. He was seeing her, talking to her, wanting her. I was a ghost in my own life, a voyeur in this delicate, treacherous skin.
But my body didn’t get the memo.
A full, uncontrollable shudder wracked my frame. My back arched, pushing my chest more firmly against his. A small, pathetic sound escaped me—not a word, just a muted gasp of acknowledgment. His hand, encouraged, slid further up my thigh, his big fingers now curling over the crest of my hip, dipping just beneath the elastic of the bikini bottom. The pressure there was immense, claiming.
“Mark,” I finally managed. It came out a strangled whisper, barely audible over the water.
“Yeah?” he breathed against my ear, his other hand coming up to cradle the side of my neck. His thumb stroked my jugular, where my pulse hammered like a trapped bird. His touch was possessive, sure. This was Mark, the guy who negotiated million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. He saw something he wanted, and he was moving in with calm, assured focus. He didn’t know he was dismantling his best friend.
I was fracturing. Justin was screaming inside, a silent, raging protest. But Sabrina’s body was singing a different song, a tune of hormones and nerve endings and raw, physical feedback. The pleasure from his touch was direct, uncomplicated, terrifying in its intensity. The ache between my legs had become a throbbing, central fact of my existence. The slippery wetness made me feel exposed, even hidden by the churning water.
His lips left my ear and trailed down my jaw. The stubble on his chin scraped the impossibly soft skin of my cheek, a sharp, delicious friction. I turned my head, a feeble attempt at evasion that only offered my mouth to him.
He didn’t hesitate.
His kiss wasn’t like any I’d given or gotten. It was consuming. His lips were firm, demanding. The taste of him—bitter hops, warmth, maleness—flooded my unfamiliar mouth. My smaller lips were engulfed. The kiss was deep, and a tongue I knew from years of friendship now sought entry into my mouth. I froze for a second, then some latent instinct took over. My lips parted. My own tongue, smaller and more agile, met his in a shy, hesitant dance. A moan vibrated in his throat, and he kissed me harder.
One of his hands left my hip and rose from the water, dripping. It cupped the side of my breast, his thumb sweeping over the straining nipple through the soaked fabric. The sensation was so acute it was like a white flare behind my eyes. My whole breast felt heavy, hot, hypersensitive. He squeezed gently, testing the weight, and a jolt went straight to my gut.
This was really happening.
His other hand finally, irrevocably, slipped fully beneath the string of my bikini bottom, his fingers sliding through the coarse, wet curls that felt so alien to me, and then lower, finding the slick, swollen folds beneath.
I jerked as if electrocuted.
A sharp, involuntary cry was muffled by his mouth. It wasn’t pain. It was a sensation so intense, so shockingly specific, it short-circuited every coherent thought. The direct contact was a revelation and a violation all at once. This was a part of me I’d barely begun to comprehend, a landscape of nerve endings I had no map for, and he was navigating it with a terrifying, practiced ease. A single finger pressed inside, just slightly, and the fit was tight, startling. My inner muscles clenched around it, a spasm of pure biological welcome.
He broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His breath came in short, hot puffs against my wet face.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice gravelly. His finger didn’t move.
I stared at him. My best friend’s face, etched with a desire I’d never seen there before. For this. For what I appeared to be. The jazz from the outdoor speakers sounded like a deranged laugh track. The fairy lights in the hedges blurred into streaking golden lines.
My body, thrumming and aching and wet, gave the answer for me. I felt my hips make a tiny, infinitesimal rock forward, seeking more pressure from his hand.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Mark’s face. He misread my silence, my paralysis, for breathless anticipation.
“Yeah,” he whispered, answering his own question. “You’re okay.”
He lowered his head again, capturing my mouth, and his finger began to move.