The house was spare but beautiful, arched doorways, thick walls that kept the heat out, polished wood beams overhead. From the balcony I saw the whole island sprawled beneath us, the labyrinth of streets, the glittering water, windmills perched on the ridge like ancient sentinels.
The wind off the water carried salt and the faint sweetness of wild thyme. The island glowed in that late-afternoon sun, whitewalls blazing against the wine-dark sea. Ferries cut across the water, their wakes trailing behind like chalk marks.
For a moment, it felt like freedom, and then I wondered how long it would be before this place, too, started asking what it would cost to stay.
Jonathan stirred when I came back into the bedroom, blinking awake with a sleepy grin that made my chest tight. “Dinner?” he murmured.
“Dinner,” I agreed.
We pulled on shorts and polo shirts, baseball caps tugged low, sunglasses hiding most of our faces. Jonathan took my hand as we walked down into the town, through winding alleys lit by strings of fairy lights. No one gave us more than a glance.
We found a taverna by the water, tables spilling out onto a patio where the surf practically licked the floorboards. The air smelled of grilled fish and garlic, of sweet wine and cigarette smoke. We ordered calamari, tomato salad, lamb souvlaki, plates that kept arriving until the table was full.
Jonathan poured us wine, his grin soft behind his sunglasses. “You know, after the summer break we hit the Asian leg. Singapore, Japan, China. Whole different world.”
I speared a piece of lamb, chewing thoughtfully. “Do you like the travel?”
“I love the tracks,” he said without hesitation. “But the travel…it blurs together. Hotels, airports, private transfers. I want to show you Singapore, Waldo, not the paddock, but the real city. Night markets. Gardens. Marina Bay lit up like a spaceship.”
His hand brushed mine under the table, casual, but it set my pulse racing.
Later, full of food and wine, we walked back up the hill to the house. The island was alive with music, bass thumping from beach clubs, laughter spilling into the streets. But up here, thenight was quiet, just the sound of waves and the distant call of gulls.
Inside, Jonathan tugged me close and kissed me, slow and deep, tasting of wine and lamb and the sweetness of honey from dessert. We stumbled back to the bedroom, shedding clothes as we went, until we landed on the bed in a tangle.
This time I rolled him onto his back, straddling him. His eyes widened, then softened, and he spread his arms out over the sheets like an offering.
“My turn,” I said, voice rough.
I kissed my way down his chest, tasting salt and sweat, teasing his nipples until he gasped. His cock was already hard, straining against his stomach. I slicked my fingers, worked him open slowly while he writhed beneath me, every sound he made pushing me closer to the edge.
When I finally slid into him, the heat nearly undid me. He clutched at my shoulders, gasping my name as I bottomed out. I held still, letting him adjust, kissing him until he moaned into my mouth.
Then I began to move. Slow at first, savoring every drag, then harder when he begged for it, his legs wrapped around my waist pulling me deeper. The rhythm built until we were both panting, sweat slicking our bodies, the bed creaking under us.
He stroked himself in time with my thrusts, his moans ragged. “God, Waldo, fuck, don’t stop.”
I didn’t. I drove into him until the pressure broke, spilling hard inside him with a groan that echoed off the stone walls. He came on top of me, spurting across his chest and stomach, his body convulsing around mine in a way that made me shudder all over again.
We collapsed together, sticky and spent, tangled in the sheets with the sound of the sea through the open shutters.
35
BORROWED DAYS
Time loosenedits grip on us in Mykonos.
We woke late, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, Jonathan heavy and warm against me, his breath slow and steady on my shoulder. Sometimes we didn’t get out of bed right away. Sometimes we didn’t get out of bed for hours. When we finally stumbled into the kitchen, the air was already humming with cicadas.
Breakfast was coffee so strong it jolted me awake, fruit so ripe it dripped down my chin. Jonathan sliced figs and peaches, fed me bites with a grin, then licked the juice off his fingers before kissing me slowly. From the terrace, the sea stretched in every direction, so blue it looked painted.
I followed him past souvenir shops crammed with evil-eye charms, down narrow alleys where bougainvillea spilled pink and purple over crumbling stone walls. Every surface was sun-bleached, every corner smelled like salt and thyme and dust. A donkey clopped past with a rider perched sideways, phone in hand. Music drifted from a café where men smoked and argued in rapid-fire Greek, laughter rising above the clatter of cups.
And somewhere in the middle of it, it hit me.
I’d been sprinting, no, flying, through weeks that felt like they belonged to someone else’s life. From dingy Philadelphia government offices to Formula 1 paddocks, London boardrooms, champagne toasts, now this island where the light itself seemed to hum. I should have been back in my cramped apartment, writing newspaper copy few would read. Instead, I was here, chasing after a man who kept rewriting what I thought was possible.
The days melted one into another. We wandered through whitewashed alleys so narrow our shoulders brushed the walls. Bougainvillea spilled over balconies, and stray cats watched us with lazy contempt. Jonathan bought me a bracelet of knotted cord and beads from a man who spoke no English but winked when Jonathan slid it onto my wrist.
