The Tide Between Us

The first time I saw her, she was ordering a gin and tonic at my bar, wedding ring glinting under the low lights of the Sea Breeze Hotel. Her name was Mira. She was alone, which at eleven p.m. in a honeymoon resort meant either she was waiting for someone or running from them.

"You're good with that shaker," she said, nodding at my hands. Her voice had a rasp to it, like she'd been yelling at the ocean.

"Twelve years of practice," I said. "What's your story?"

She laughed, short and bitter. "My husband's passed out in our room. Second bottle of wine before dinner. Every vacation, same thing."

I poured her another. The ice cracked. "That sucks."

"Yeah." She held my gaze a second too long. "It does."

The bar emptied around midnight. I locked the front door but left the back light on. She was still there, three drinks in, tracing the rim of her glass with her finger.

"You should go to bed," I said, knowing I didn't mean it.

"I should," she said. But she didn't move.

I came around the bar, close enough to smell her perfume—something floral, with salt underneath. Her hand found my wrist, fingers warm and sure.

"Don't make me go back up there," she whispered.

I kissed her. It tasted like gin and want. Her teeth grazed my lower lip, and she let out this tiny sound, half gasp, half moan, that went straight to my cock.

We didn't make it to the staff quarters. The storage room was small, smelled like lime juice and cardboard. I pressed her against the shelves, and bottles clinked behind her back.

"Quiet," I breathed against her neck. "Walls are thin."

She hiked her dress up without breaking the kiss. No panties. I nearly came right there.

I dropped to my knees, spread her legs. Her pussy was already slick, glistening under the dim light from the crack in the door. I licked her clit slow, once, twice, and she bucked against my mouth, biting her own hand to stay silent.

"Fuck," she hissed. "Right there. Don't stop."

Her taste was sharp and clean, like the sea. I worked her with my tongue, two fingers sliding inside her, curling. She came with a shuddering breath, her thighs clamping around my head, and I felt every pulse of her against my mouth.

I stood, unzipped my pants. My cock was hard, aching. She reached down, stroked me once, then guided me inside her.

We both froze. She was tight, hot, perfect.

"Move," she whispered. "Please."

I fucked her slow at first, deep strokes that made her gasp into my shoulder. Her nails dug into my back. The shelf rattled with every thrust. She wrapped a leg around my hip, pulling me deeper.

"Harder," she said. "I won't break."

I pinned her wrists above her head and drove into her. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the tiny room. She was wet, so wet I could feel it running down my thighs. Her eyes were closed, lips parted, and she looked like she was praying.

I turned her around, bent her over a crate of lemons. The position was new, raw. I entered her from behind, one hand on her hip, the other tangled in her hair. She pushed back against me, meeting every thrust.

"I'm close," she gasped. "Don't stop."

I reached around, rubbed her clit in tight circles. She came with a choked cry, her whole body trembling, her pussy clenching around me. That was it. I buried myself deep and came inside her, hot and long, my forehead pressed against her shoulder blade.

We stayed like that for a minute, breathing hard, the only sound the hum of the walk-in fridge.

She straightened her dress, kissed me softly on the cheek. "Thank you."

"Anytime."

In the morning, I saw her at breakfast. Her husband was nursing a coffee, looking pale. She caught my eye and smiled—just a little, just for me.