He gives me a challenging look that suggests he has little interest insigns. ‘Yeah but... nobody would know.’
‘They might. Also, you’re not meant to swim after alcohol. Didn’t they teach you that at medical school?’
‘I haven’t had a beer for hours.’
At that, he sits up. And before I can argue, he starts to unbutton his shirt.
‘I’ll bet you get cramp,’ I say, though he clearly is not put off. ‘Don’t come running to me if you start drowning.’
‘I’ll stick to the shallow end.’
He wrestles the shirt off his back, revealing the muscles around his shoulder blades. I feel paralysed by the sheer beauty of him.
‘Just so I know . . . are you intending to skinny dip?’
He turns round and raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, I wasn’t planning to. It’s not that kind of resort. Although you could probably twist my arm if that’s what you were suggesting.’
He stands up and looks at me, unbuttoning his fly with a mischievous look in his eye.
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Shame.’
The trousers come off next. He’s wearing a pair of black underpants, trunks that curve over his buttocks. I don’t know where to look, but I also can’t tear my eyes away. He walks towards the water and sinks in, whirling around to look at me.
‘It’s lovely and warm,’ he says.
‘I’m happy for you.’
‘Comeon. You know you want to.’
And the most ridiculous part of this statement? He’s right. I do want to.
I prop myself up on my elbows and perform a brief mental body scan to try and recall what underwear I’m wearing. A vague recollection of what I put on earlier comes to me. Had I prepared for this occasion in advance, I’m not sure what I’d have chosen. I suppose for some people, a moonlight tryst would cry out for ribbons and lace, something befitting a dangerous liaison. This is more low-key. A plain black T-shirt bra with matching bikini knickers. An acceptable alternative, I decide, and I kick off my sandals.
‘Fine.’
Before I can allow myself to even think about this, I stand up, untie the belt of my dress and begin to unbutton it from the cleavage down. When I’ve got as far as the ones just below my waist, I wriggle out of the rest until the dress pools on the floor. Then I pick it up and fling it on the sunbed, my flesh bare and pale in the moonlight.
He hasn’t made the slightest attempt to look away. I have a vague sense that, at any other time, I’d be embarrassed to the point of mortification. But right now I am intoxicated, by something more poetic than alcohol. Exercise and sea air, perhaps, or the scent of jasmine and the obsidian night sky.
From the way Sam looks at me as I tiptoe into the water, any concerns about my underwear seem unnecessary. I feellike what I’m wearing is already surplus to requirements. I get up to the top of my thighs and inhale sharply.
‘You said it was warm.’
‘It is once you get in.’
I skitter forward, sinking an inch. ‘Women have lower body temperatures than men you know.’
‘Hmm. That’s not actually true.’
‘But I read it on the internet. Surely that’s more reliable than your qualifications?’ I tease.
‘You just feel the cold more because women have more fat between the skin and the muscles,’ he replies. I make a rash decision to plunge in quickly and get this over with. ‘The skin feels colder, as it’s further from blood vessels and—’
Having got as far as my neck, I jump up again, unable to bear it. I’m now shivering, rubbing my arms to try and get rid of the goosebumps.
‘You really are making a meal of this,’ he says. ‘Come here.’
