“You,” he says, standing in front of me. His head is above the surface, while I have to tread water. “And me.” He looks around him. “This.”
I’ve never been so aware of my skin—the water touching every inch, the clean air against my face, the tight pinch of my nipples. I eye the beads of water that slide down Charlie’s chest. My leg brushes against his hip, and his gaze returns to me.
“Let’s swim,” he says.
So we do, in a slow crawl deeper into the lake. I try to memorize the sensations—the sounds of our bodies swishing through the water, the slippery feel of our legs sliding against each other, the smile Charlie gives me when I turn onto my back, arms splayed. The happiness that spreads through me when he does the same and our fingers find each other. I’m not sure how long we float before we swim back to the dock. I pounce on Charlie as soon as the water is shallow enough that he can stand, wrapping my arms around his neck and legs around his middle.
I kiss him with a hunger that grows every second. I wanted to make Charlie fall apart, but I didn’t anticipate how good this would feel—our slick skin and the cool water. Charlie meets every searching stroke of my tongue, but I can feel the tension in his body. He holds me tight so that I’m clamped against his waist.
I bring my mouth to his torso, collecting a droplet with my tongue and following its path up to his collarbone. He tilts his head back so I can taste the skin at the base of his neck, hissing when I pull his ear between my teeth. My nipples graze his chest, and I moan. His grip on me falters, and I slide down his hips. We both groan at the feeling of the hard, hot press of him between my legs. Charlie swears, then walks us to where it’s not as deep,so that my upper half is out of the water. His mouth drops to my breast, flicking his tongue over a tightened, aching peak, then the other, drawing it into his mouth.
“Is this what you want, Alice?” he asks, moving to the other nipple.
I shake my head, and his hand finds the swollen flesh between my thighs. We stare at each other as he strokes me slowly.
“This?”
I shake my head again, then gasp as his fingers plunge inside me. I hold on to his shoulders for balance.
“Better?”
“Much.”
But it’s not enough for Charlie. After I shudder around his hand, biting my lip to keep myself from calling out his name, he pulls me out of the water, and we dart into the boathouse. We’re kissing before we have the door open.
“There’s something I want before I go,” he says, sitting me at the end of one of the beds. He kneels at my feet, and with both hands on my legs, pushes them apart.
Charlie kisses the inside of one thigh, and then the other. He looks up at me from under his fair lashes, and his palms smooth over the backs of my calves. His pupils have almost swallowed up the green. I try to squeeze my thighs together, but they meet Charlie’s shoulders. His eyes flare.
“Impatient?”
“No,” I say, althoughimpatientdoesn’t begin to describe how badly I want Charlie’s mouth on me.
Charlie’s tongue travels up my inner thigh, and then moves to the other leg. I squirm, and he sits back on his heels, surveying me. He wraps a fist around himself. “This is what I do when I think about going down on you.”
“Charlie.” I’m seconds away from tackling him to the ground.
He hums, and then dips his head between my legs. With no searching, he brings his mouth exactly where I want it.
This time, I let myself scream his name.
We’re curled together on the sofa on the screened porch, my feet in Charlie’s lap, listening to loon calls. We have about thirty minutes before he needs to pick up Nan, and we’re mostly sitting in cozy silence. My hair is still wet, dripping onto my sweatshirt. His is dry. The way it’s buzzed so close to his head emphasizes his jaw, and if I didn’t know him better, I’d find him intimidating. But now I know there’s no reason to be intimidated. His tenderness coincides with all the hard lines and wisecracks.
Charlie’s looking at his phone, and I’m fiddling with my camera. He doesn’t even blink when I take his photo anymore. I’m not the only one who’s grown more comfortable this summer.
“What are you looking at?” I lean closer and find him slowly scrolling through my Instagram. I know he’s seen what I’ve posted from the lake, but watching him study my work so closely stirs up a specific concoction of nerves and squeamishness. I care about what he thinks. It’s an effort not to put a pillow over my head.
“Fuck, you’re good,” Charlie murmurs, and my cheeks go hot. “Look at this.”
He holds up a shot I took a few years ago of a florist in Leslieville. She’d asked me to take photos of her and the space for her website after she redecorated. This was my favorite. She’s arranging flowers at a large table, and the surface and floor are carpeted with petals and twigs and leaves. Her hair is braided in a crown around her head, and it’s a little mussed. Hazy light streams through the window, and there’s a timeless quality to both the subject and the shot that I love.
Charlie scrolls some more. He’s going deep.
“You have no photos of yourself,” he says after a little while.
“Why would I?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
