Chapter 8: Poolside Introduction
The water was cool, but everywhere Zane’s leg brushed against hers, it burned. Ryan floated on his back a few feet away, eyes closed against the sun, smiling. Oblivious. Always oblivious.
“So, Zane,” Ryan said, voice relaxed. “You just moved in last month, right? What do you do?”
Zane’s hand drifted under the water, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of Stone’s inner thigh. She jerked, swallowing a gasp.
“I build things,” Zane said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the water between them. His eyes never left Stone’s. “Motorcycles. Custom frames.”
“No shit? That’s awesome.” Ryan paddled a little closer. “I’ve always wanted a bike. Stone thinks they’re too dangerous.”
“They are,” Stone whispered, her voice tight.
“Only if you’re afraid of them,” Zane countered. His foot hooked around her ankle, pulling her a subtle inch closer through the turquoise haze. The movement was hidden, intimate. A secret in broad daylight. “Fear makes you clumsy. Respect keeps you alive.”
Ryan laughed. “Sounds deep, man.” He hoisted himself out of the pool in one easy motion, water sluicing off his tanned back. “I’m gonna grab more beers. You want one, Zane?”
“Sure.”
“Stone?”
She shook her head, unable to form words. Ryan padded across the hot concrete, the sliding door hissing shut behind him.
Silence, except for the drip of water and the buzz of insects. The world seemed to narrow to the eight feet of space between her and Zane. The chlorine scent sharpened, mixing with the darker, muskier smell of him.
Zane moved then. Not a drift, but a deliberate push through the water. He closed the distance until he was right before her, the sheer bulk of him blocking out the sun, the house, everything. Water beads clung to the silver in his stubble. His gray eyes were like smoked glass.
“You’re sore,” he stated, his voice barely audible.
She nodded, a frantic little motion. The memory of his hands, his belt, the crushing fullness of him was a live wire in her belly. The soreness between her legs was a constant, thrilling ache.
“Good.” He reached out and a single, calloused finger traced the line of her jaw, down the column of her throat. He paused at the hollow where her pulse hammered like a trapped bird. “This is where a collar would sit. You think about that? When he’s on top of you?”
Tears pricked her eyes. She hated how well he saw her. “Yes.”
“Do you pretend it’s me?”
She couldn’t answer. She just stared, drowning in him.
His hand slid lower, beneath the water, over the slick fabric of her bikini top. He palmed her breast, his thumb rubbing rough circles over her nipple. It peaked instantly, painfully. A shot of pure, unadulterated need clenched low in her stomach.
“He doesn’t know what you are,” Zane murmured, leaning in. His lips were close to her ear. His breath was hot. “He doesn’t know the hunger in you. I can smell it. It’s like rust and rain.”
From inside the house, the faint clink of bottles. Ryan was coming back.
Zane’s hand retreated. The sudden absence was a physical pain. He drifted back an inch, his expression shifting back to that of a casual neighbor, but his eyes remained a storm.
“You’ll come to me,” he said, a simple, terrifying fact. “Tonight. After he’s asleep. Or I’ll know you’re not the thing I thought you were.”
The sliding door opened. Ryan emerged, balancing three bottles. “Got the local IPA, hope that’s cool.”
“Perfect,” Zane said, taking a bottle. He took a long swig, his throat working. His eyes, over the bottle’s rim, held Stone’s. A promise. A threat.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a sun-dazed blur. Ryan talked about work, about maybe getting a grill. Zane offered short, polite replies. His leg stayed pressed against Stone’s under the water, a brand that never cooled.
When Zane finally hauled himself out of the pool, water streaming down the carved channels of his abdomen, the defined V that disappeared into his low-slung swim trunks, Stone felt a dizzying loss. He grabbed his shirt but didn’t put it on, just slung it over his shoulder.
“Thanks for the swim,” he said to Ryan. Then he looked at Stone. “Stone. Always a pleasure.”
He walked away, the muscles in his back shifting with each step. Stone watched him go, the phantom weight of a collar snug around her throat, tighter than any embrace Ryan had ever given her.
Later, after burgers Ryan charred on the grill, after the sun sank and the yard was lit by citronella torches, after Ryan fell asleep on the couch during a movie, Stone stood at their bedroom window.
Her body still hummed from Zane’s touch. The soreness had deepened into a persistent throb. She looked across the dark divide between the houses. A single light was on in Zane’s workshop, a bare bulb above a workbench.
She saw his silhouette. He was standing at the window, too, looking right back at her.
He lifted a hand. Not a wave. A slow, deliberate crook of a finger.
Come here.
Stone’s breath fogged the glass. She glanced at Ryan, snoring softly on the couch, his face peaceful in the blue TV light. She thought of his gentle morning kiss, the hollow, aching dissatisfaction that followed. She thought of the click of a belt buckle.
She turned from the window. She didn’t grab a sweater. She didn’t write a note. She just walked to the back door, her bare feet silent on the cool tile, and stepped out into the waiting dark.