“I’ll be that,” he says before yelling to Antonio, who’s at the DJ booth.
A chant incites around the pools and sweeps over the entire stadium.
“Mir-i-am!”
“Mir-i-am!”
Antonio grabs the mic. “Come up out that robe and dance with me. Don’t do me like that!”
“I’ll do you, alright,” I say before I catch myself.
Doing Antonio would be very bad, and probably sticky. I’m sure it would feel amazing, those hands roaming my body while his thighs smack against my skin.
Very good, but very bad.
At least twenty Kardashian replicas are here. It’s the same blueprint: bundles of long hair, breast implants, and BBLs. I shouldn’t be the center of attention, but I haven’t left Antonio’s sight since we arrived.
The corner of his mouth tilts as he pins me with a look that disturbs my breathing. “Ah, she wants a chase.”
“Don’t you dare!” I shout to his grin.
Fight or flight is an interesting phenomenon. One minute, you’re contemplating where to hide a body in the desert. The next, you’re on your feet running from a rugby player whose leg spans half your body.
The Steel make a path for me to run to the other side of the pool deck. The lifeguard blows her whistle, and I yelp when Antonio scales the steps like he runs track on the side.
His eyes are predatory. He anticipates every step I take until he flies over a row of seats and scoops me into his arms.
Bread, Quincy, and the rest of the Steel cheer like they just won the Rugby World Cup. My head tips back in a laugh that gets caught in my throat when Antonio lowers me to my feet.
The fire in his stare melts the chill creeping up my back. My anxiety from him calling me over fades at his gaze, which starts at my loose curls, wanders down my lips, and stalls at my cleavage pressing against the soft cotton of my robe.
“May I?” His voice is low, desperate for consent I give with a nod. He swallows hard and unknots my robe, gently pulling back the material to see what’s beneath.
I’m shy, but I love my body. My five-four stature of wide hips and thighs that rub together is a departure from the sea of size-two women who are model height and wearing bikinis. You’d find a needle in a haystack faster than the string in my crack if I wore one of those bathing suits.
My one-piece has a tie in the front and a keyhole above my navel. The built-in bra keeps my double Ds from touching my knees. The spandex alone is worth the money I paid. Praise be for tummy control and no material bunching in my booty.
The first notes of UCB’s “Sexy Lady” play in the background. My hips wind on their own to the DC classic that fed cookouts, clubs, and college campuses. I didn’t get out much, but I still got down to this song.
I’m so caught up in the throwback track and the functionality of my swimsuit that it doesn’t register—Antonio isn’t dancing.
“What is it?” His eyes are still on my body. The mustard stain I tried to wrestle out of my bathing suit doesn’t incite anger.
My eyes drift down to the place that has him twisting his mouth. Hamburger fiasco aside, my body is not up for debate or judgment. My stomach has a pudge, and my legs could start a fire rubbing together, and to that I say, so what? I feel good in this suit, and I won’t let him or anyone else make me feel differently.
Now I’m pissed.
“You don’t have to stare like that.” I try to close my robe, but he’s still holding the lapels. “Unhand me. I might not be your type, but you—”
Every word dies against his mouth.
Antonio’s arm wraps around my waist. His fingers trace the small of my back and down the line of my swimsuit before he squeezes my butt.
My gasp meets his moan and the tongue passing over my lips. I’ve been kissed before, but not like this. Not since the New Year’s Eve we don’t speak of for fear of reanimating dormant feelings.
With shaky knees, a tear attempts to slide from between my thighs.
Jinkies.
