Chapter 6: Scene 2
The hike back from the dunes had been a silent, mutual punishment. Grit coated their skin, a fine layer of sand in every crease and seam. It was in their hair, gritty between their teeth, a persistent scratch in their shoes. The sun, now lowering, did nothing to ease the sticky sweat that plastered Matt’s t-shirt to his back.
Sarah unlocked the cottage door and leaned against the frame, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes. “I feel cured. Like I’ve been exfoliated by the entire eastern seaboard.”
“In a good way?” Matt asked, toeing off his sneakers. A small avalanche of sand spilled onto the woven mat.
“In a necessary way.” She kicked her own shoes off and made a beeline for the bathroom. “Me first. Don’t you dare sit on any fabric.”
The bathroom was still warm and damp from her when he finally got his turn. The floral wallpaper seemed to sweat. He peeled off his clothes, leaving them in a gritty pile on the tiles. The shower water ran brown at first, swirling down the clawfoot drain. He scrubbed hard, the heat easing the ache in his calves from climbing sandy inclines. Her scent was everywhere—the coconut shampoo, a cleaner, lemony soap. He tried not to think about it too much, and failed.
He was quick. A practical scrub, a rinse. He dried off with a towel that already smelled like her.
Back in the living room, he pulled on clean shorts and a soft, grey tee. The silence from the bedroom was a palpable thing. He could hear faint movements. A drawer closing. The soft whisk of a hairbrush.
He walked to her half-open door and pushed it gently with his fingertips.
She was standing by her dresser, her back to him, wearing just a simple, thin cotton bralette and a pair of soft, loose shorts. The evening light through the window gauzed her in gold. Her hair was damp, dark against her shoulders. She was applying lotion to her arms, the motion smooth and absent.
He didn’t speak. He crossed the room, the old floorboards whispering under his feet. She saw him in the mirror’s reflection but didn’t turn, her hands stilling on her forearm.
He reached out and took her hand, the one holding the lotion bottle. His fingers laced with hers, gently prying it free to set it down on the dresser with a soft click. He brought her now-empty hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, his eyes holding hers in the glass.
Then he turned her, just a little. He bent his head and pressed his lips to the sun-warmed skin of her shoulder, just above the strap of her bralette. A kiss so soft it was almost a breath. He felt her shiver.
“Matt,” she said, but it wasn’t a stop. It was an acknowledgment, a low note in her throat.
He kissed the line of her neck, up to the delicate spot behind her ear. His hands came to rest on her hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin above her shorts. She leaned back into him, her head tilting to give him better access. The scent of her clean skin, the lotion, the residual heat from her shower, it was an intoxicating mix.
He turned her fully then, his mouth finding hers. This kiss wasn’t like the soft one from the night before. This was hungry, immediate, a direct continuation of every charged look on the dunes, every accidental brush of hands. It tasted of toothpaste and the faint, metallic hint of the ocean.
Her hands came up, one tangling in the still-damp hair at the nape of his neck, the other fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt. She kissed him back with equal urgency, a small, desperate sound escaping her as his tongue slid against hers.
His hands slid under the back of her bralette, palms flat against the smooth, hot skin of her back. He pulled her tighter against him. The evidence of his wanting was immediate and obvious, a hard pressure against the softness of her lower belly through both their clothes.
She gasped into his mouth, arching into him. And then he felt it too—a corresponding heat, a dampness seeping through the thin cotton of her shorts where they were pressed intimately together. The sensation was unmistakable. A current, live and raw, jolted through him.
A current, live and raw, jolted through him. His hips stuttered forward involuntarily, seeking that damp heat, and she moaned, a low, ragged sound that wasn’t playful at all. It was all happening too fast, a cliff edge rushing up, and he knew it.
She broke the kiss, breathing hard, her forehead pressed to his. “We can’t,” she gasped. Her fingers were still clenched in his shirt, holding him close even as she said the words. “We can’t go any further, okay? Not yet.”
He nodded, his own breath coming in short pulls. The denial was a physical pain, a sharp twist below his belt.
“But this,” she whispered, her lips brushing his as she spoke. Her hand slid from his shirt to his cheek, her thumb stroking his jaw. “Just this. I want to keep doing just this.”
He didn’t hesitate. He took her hand again and walked them backward, his mouth never leaving hers, a clumsy, connected shuffle. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the quilt-covered bed from the night before, and he let himself fall, pulling her down on top of him.
They landed in a tangle, all limbs and heated skin. She drew him in for a deeper kiss, her tongue sweeping against his, and the moan she let out was one of pure, frustrated pleasure. It vibrated through his entire body.
He shifted, intending to roll over her, to settle his weight between her thighs. She stopped him with a firm hand on his chest. “Nope,” she murmured against his mouth, a sly, breathless smile in her voice.
In one fluid motion, she pushed and he yielded, letting her reverse their positions. Then she was straddling him, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. The view was devastating: her flushed skin, her dark eyes, the damp ends of her hair brushing her shoulders.
She leaned down, holding his face, and kissed him deeply, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. Then she began to move. A slow, deliberate roll of her hips, grinding the soaked, thin cotton of her shorts against the painful hard line of his erection confined in his own. The friction was insane, a torturous, perfect pressure.
“Sarah,” he choked out, his hands gripping her thighs, slipping on her skin.
She didn’t answer, just kept kissing him, swallowing his gasps. Her rhythm built, a little faster, a little harder. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing, the soft, wet sound of their kissing, and the faint, obscene rustle of fabric on fabric. The world shrank to the four posts of the bed, to the points where their bodies met and burned.
A bright, electronic chirp sliced through the haze.
It was so alien, so violently ordinary, that they both froze. Her hips stilled. The chirp repeated, insistently, from the nightstand just beside them.
She pulled her mouth from his, panting. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, flicked toward the screaming phone. The screen glowed, illuminating a contact photo: an older woman with Sarah’s smile, standing in a sunflower field.
“It’s my mom,” she said, the words hollow. The spell was shattered, the private world dissolved into the clutter of the sunlit room. “She’ll just… she’ll want to talk for a bit.”
She didn’t move off him. The heat between them was still a palpable, damp brand. The phone rang a third time, a demand.
He saw the conflict tear across her face—the desire to let it go to voicemail, the ingrained habit, the loyalty. With a sharp exhale that was almost a sob, she dropped her forehead to his chest. Then she pushed herself up, swung her legs off him, and grabbed the phone.
“Hey, Mama,” she said, her voice miraculously smoothing into something light, almost normal. She stood up and walked toward the bedroom door, running a hand through her wrecked hair.
She paused at the threshold, looked back at him lying there, achingly hard and utterly abandoned. Her expression was a complex map of apology, residual want, and sheer inconvenience. She gave him a faint, crooked smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Then she stepped out, pulling the door mostly closed behind her. He heard her footsteps retreat down the hall, her voice softening as she said, “Yeah, just got back from the dunes. It was gorgeous.”
Matt lay perfectly still on the rumpled quilt, staring at the ceiling where a small hairline crack meandered toward the light fixture. The throbbing in his groin was a dull, relentless echo. The air in the room still held the scent of her lotion and their sweat. He listened to the muffled, melodic cadence of her voice talking about the weather, about her drive, about nothing at all.