Something about him made me ache. Ache to be touched, needed, taken. He ran a hand through his wet hair, slow, splashing water over the edge of the pool. Part of me wanted him to see me there, naked and watching him, and for a second I thought maybe he had; his gaze slipped towards my window and lingered for a moment before moving away. But the sun was in his eyes and my room was dark, and his expression hadn’t changed much at all.
I retreated to my bed again, crawled up the mattress. The alcohol and the afternoon nap had made my head thick, I felt uninhibited, languid. Tired and wide awake at the same time. I thought of his hands, his suntanned thighs, and wondered what each of those things might feel like wrapped tightly around me. What it would be like to have his palm press against my throat, his breath in my ear.