slid back into itself. On the shoulder of the beach was the deposit line, where shells and other little sea things had been washed up.
Lillian found a driftwood stick.
She removed her shoes, trousers, and shirt. All she had on then was a pair of white bikini underpants. She was neither shy nor shameless. Her attitude was one of unconforming independence, a confidence in herself that included her body. Hers was hers. Provocation wasn’t her intention, or at least it wasn’t uppermost in her mind.
Wiley managed not to look at her as she undressed, told himself he’d see her soon enough. He kept his undershorts on. He looked up to see her, faced away, walking toward the water. She had the stick in hand. She used it to scratch a line in the sand from the shoulder of the beach all the way to the reach of the surf.
She turned, told him, “That side of the line is your beach. This side is mine.”
Wiley nodded.
This was the first time he’d stood beside her. She was taller than he’d thought. About five-eight barefoot.
“And, remember, the line goes out for a long ways,” as she indicated the sea.
Wiley tried not to look directly at her breasts. Her skin was equally suntanned there. Pink nipples. He’d never known a brunette with such pink nipples. It made them look innocent, like the tips of a baby’s fingers.
She strode to the water. It came to meet her. She went right in, swam straight out until she was over her head, had to tread. She looked back to the beach. Wiley was still standing there.
“Can’t you swim?” she shouted.
He didn’t reply. He’d been caught up by the sight of her.
“At least you can wade.”
He ran into the surf, dove in and swam to within twenty feet of her. They treaded and swam and floated, keeping their distance.
“You’re a good swimmer,” she said.
“I guess.”
They swam to shore, dropped onto the sand, respecting the line she had drawn between them. She lay prone, her position like an embrace, one leg straight, the other angled up. Her arms and hands seemed to be hugging the warm sand, while one cheek rested upon it. She was looking at Wiley.
He lay face up, his forearm shading his eyes. He got a Jennifer thought—but only a tiny one. Surprising how much she was reduced now, to practically nothing, when just yesterday she had been so magnified. He blinked. Jennifer had become that easy to erase.
This woman, Lillian, Wiley thought, he had known her little more than an hour and the effect she was having on him was way out of honest proportion. He was just lonely, raw lonely, and badly in need of a refill of self-assurance. He wanted to cross the line, hold her, press full length against her, arouse her with his arousal, be mouth to mouth with her.… Perhaps not take it all the way, just to know the willingness was there.… It meant nothing really. By tomorrow he would see her differently. Timing was everything. She had just happened into his rawest moment.
He probably wouldn’t be seeing much of her once they got to Las Hadas. So, he might as well see as much as he could of her now. He stopped stealing, looked directly at her, wherever he wanted. Her, rolling over onto her back now, with her hipbones sharply defined and her stomach concave. Sand on her skin. It seemed cruel on her breasts, the sand. Through her soaked panties he could see the dark triangle.
“How long have you been a mercenary?” she asked.
Mercenary? It took him a moment to get it.
“Since yesterday.”
She thought he was being facetious.
She told him: “I might be able to help you in Las Hadas. Listen around, talk you up, steer some likely ones your way.”
“You’d expect me to return the favor, of course.”
He took her silence to mean yes. He detested the idea.
She sat up. “I suppose you know women are going for much younger men these days. Not even men, as a matter of fact. Boys. Seventeen-, eighteen-year-olds.” She shrugged, looked off down the beach, so he couldn’t
Lillian found a driftwood stick.
She removed her shoes, trousers, and shirt. All she had on then was a pair of white bikini underpants. She was neither shy nor shameless. Her attitude was one of unconforming independence, a confidence in herself that included her body. Hers was hers. Provocation wasn’t her intention, or at least it wasn’t uppermost in her mind.
Wiley managed not to look at her as she undressed, told himself he’d see her soon enough. He kept his undershorts on. He looked up to see her, faced away, walking toward the water. She had the stick in hand. She used it to scratch a line in the sand from the shoulder of the beach all the way to the reach of the surf.
She turned, told him, “That side of the line is your beach. This side is mine.”
Wiley nodded.
This was the first time he’d stood beside her. She was taller than he’d thought. About five-eight barefoot.
“And, remember, the line goes out for a long ways,” as she indicated the sea.
Wiley tried not to look directly at her breasts. Her skin was equally suntanned there. Pink nipples. He’d never known a brunette with such pink nipples. It made them look innocent, like the tips of a baby’s fingers.
She strode to the water. It came to meet her. She went right in, swam straight out until she was over her head, had to tread. She looked back to the beach. Wiley was still standing there.
“Can’t you swim?” she shouted.
He didn’t reply. He’d been caught up by the sight of her.
“At least you can wade.”
He ran into the surf, dove in and swam to within twenty feet of her. They treaded and swam and floated, keeping their distance.
“You’re a good swimmer,” she said.
“I guess.”
They swam to shore, dropped onto the sand, respecting the line she had drawn between them. She lay prone, her position like an embrace, one leg straight, the other angled up. Her arms and hands seemed to be hugging the warm sand, while one cheek rested upon it. She was looking at Wiley.
He lay face up, his forearm shading his eyes. He got a Jennifer thought—but only a tiny one. Surprising how much she was reduced now, to practically nothing, when just yesterday she had been so magnified. He blinked. Jennifer had become that easy to erase.
This woman, Lillian, Wiley thought, he had known her little more than an hour and the effect she was having on him was way out of honest proportion. He was just lonely, raw lonely, and badly in need of a refill of self-assurance. He wanted to cross the line, hold her, press full length against her, arouse her with his arousal, be mouth to mouth with her.… Perhaps not take it all the way, just to know the willingness was there.… It meant nothing really. By tomorrow he would see her differently. Timing was everything. She had just happened into his rawest moment.
He probably wouldn’t be seeing much of her once they got to Las Hadas. So, he might as well see as much as he could of her now. He stopped stealing, looked directly at her, wherever he wanted. Her, rolling over onto her back now, with her hipbones sharply defined and her stomach concave. Sand on her skin. It seemed cruel on her breasts, the sand. Through her soaked panties he could see the dark triangle.
“How long have you been a mercenary?” she asked.
Mercenary? It took him a moment to get it.
“Since yesterday.”
She thought he was being facetious.
She told him: “I might be able to help you in Las Hadas. Listen around, talk you up, steer some likely ones your way.”
“You’d expect me to return the favor, of course.”
He took her silence to mean yes. He detested the idea.
She sat up. “I suppose you know women are going for much younger men these days. Not even men, as a matter of fact. Boys. Seventeen-, eighteen-year-olds.” She shrugged, looked off down the beach, so he couldn’t
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