Miguel texted me last night with instructions to meet him here at 8 a.m. To prove I'm not as chaotic as he thinks I am, I got here thirty minutes early. There might have been some nervous energy hustling me out the door, too.
I zip the top of the new-to-me wet suit up higher. The Chicago Tri group always has posts for people looking to unload gear they don’t need anymore. It’s a treasure trove of deals. This suit is a little big, and I had to hand sew a little hole in the back closed, but beggars can't be choosers.
My toes are cold already in the sand. It's early June and we've had an especially cool spring even with the longer hours of sunlight.
The plan is to do a 1500m swim, I think it'll be two outs and back. I’m sure Miguel will wear his fancy fitness watch so we cantrack our distance. I'd have to guess how far I’ve gone based on stroke count and that's highly unreliable in the open water.
"Hey Laney!" I hear and I turn over my shoulder to see Miguel walking towards me across the sand.
It feels like the wind got knocked out of me after falling out of a tree.
I somehow forgot how hot he was in the last 48 hours.
I mean, I didn't, but I'm reminded now all the same.
Black pepper hair with hints of salt falls freely around his face. A cleanly shaved, olive toned, square jaw broadcasts a mesmerizing smile.
It’s impossible to smell the cinnamon on his breath from here but tell that to my senses because my chest burns like I’m shooting back a shot of Fire Ball.
His body almost stalks towards me. He's pure muscle and confidence. My knees wobble a little bit the closer he gets.
I wasn't kidding when I said he was too attractive to train me. But maybe I'll be extra attentive to his instructions as they caress my ears.
"Hi Coach." I give him a wave.
"Cute." He scolds and little zings of pleasure race through my body. I like being the brat to his zaddy. "Well, there's no point delaying this. It's best to dive right in."
"So you juststart?"
"Are you warmed up?"
"Yeah, I biked here." Half an hour ago.
"Me too, so yeah, let's do it."
His wetsuit hangs half open at his waist. He lifts his shirt off his body by the back of the collar and I choke on the air I hastily tried to inhale. His body is exactly as I remember it from the hotel room. Cut and defined and punctuated by ink along his ribs where his heart lies underneath.
Each muscle in my core tenses as my gaze trails from his adams apple down his pecs to his, fuck me, eight pack.
Jesus, I'm going to drown from horniness.
“What’s it say?” I ask, pointing to the lines of his tattoo on his chest.
Miguel takes a step closer and holds still as my fingertips brush the inscription.
“Mejor solo que mal acompañado.” Hey-zeus, Miguel speaking Spanish turns my bones to gelatin and I almost flop like a fish on the beach. “Means, better alone than in bad company.”
“Oh.” Is the only sound I can get out of my lust-addled brain.
He smirks as he folds his shirt and sets it on his towel. He kneels down to untie his shoes and the way he looks up at me from one bent knee makes mine quiver.
“Missing something?” He asks.
“Huh?”
“Goggles, Laney, you’re going to want goggles.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” I mutter.
