Saltwater

The pool at the Hotel Marisol was a rectangle of impossible turquoise, and I was drowning in my own sweat before I even touched the water. My boss, Elena Vasquez, had called a "team-building retreat," which was corporate speak for "watch me swim laps while you pretend to enjoy the chlorine." She emerged from the shallow end, water streaming down her shoulders, her black one-piece doing nothing to hide the curve of her hips.

"Martinez," she said, her voice crisp even in the heat. "You're not in the water."

"Forgot my suit, ma'am."

She raised an eyebrow. "There's a gift shop. They sell suits. Go."

I knew better than to argue. Ten minutes later I was standing at the edge of the pool in a pair of board shorts that were two sizes too small, watching her glide through the water like she owned it. Which, technically, she did. The whole hotel was hers.

"You're staring," she said, not looking at me.

"Sorry. Just... impressed."

She stopped at the edge, gripping the tile, looking up at me with those dark eyes. "Get in. The water's perfect."

I slipped in, and the cold hit me like a slap. She laughed — a real laugh, not the tight one she used in meetings. "You look like a startled cat."

"I feel like one."

She swam closer, close enough that I could smell the salt on her skin, the faint coconut of her sunscreen. "Relax, Martinez. I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."

My cock twitched in my too-tight shorts, and I prayed the water hid it. It didn't. She glanced down, then back up at me, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"Well," she said. "That's... encouraging."

"Elena, I—"

"Shh." She put a finger to my lips. "We're off the clock. Call me Elena. And stop apologizing."

She ducked under the water, and I felt her hands on my waist, pulling me deeper. When she surfaced, she was pressed against me, her breasts soft against my chest, her thighs brushing mine under the water.

"I've been watching you for a month," she said. "The way you bite your pen when you're thinking. The way you loosen your tie when you're frustrated. You think I don't notice?"

"I think you notice everything."

"I do." Her hand slid down my stomach, fingers finding the waistband of my shorts. "And right now, I'm noticing that you're very hard for your boss."

"Technically you're off the clock."

"Technically." She laughed, low and throaty, and tugged my shorts down under the water. My cock sprang free, and she wrapped her fingers around it, stroking slowly, the water making everything slick. "God, you're thick. I could feel it through the fabric."

"Elena—"

"Shut up and kiss me."

I didn't need to be told twice. I pulled her against me, my mouth crashing into hers, tasting chlorine and salt and something sweeter underneath. She moaned into my mouth, her hand working my cock faster, and I grabbed her ass, squeezing through the thin Lycra.

"Not here," she breathed, pulling back. "My suite. Now."

We stumbled out of the pool, dripping, her hand gripping mine like she was afraid I'd run. The elevator ride was torture — she pressed against me, her hand on my chest, her lips on my neck, whispering things that made my ears burn. The door to her suite barely closed before she was on me, tearing at my shirt, buttons scattering across the floor.

"Fuck the shirt," I said.

"Fuck me," she shot back.

She pushed me onto the bed, straddling me, her suit still wet, her hair a dark mess. She reached behind her back, unclipping the top, and her breasts fell free — full, heavy, tipped with dark nipples that were already hard. I sat up, taking one in my mouth, sucking hard, and she gasped, grinding against me.

"More," she demanded. "I need more."

I flipped her onto her back, pulling her suit off in one motion, tossing it aside. She was already wet — I could see it glistening between her thighs, could smell her arousal mixing with the saltwater. I spread her legs, running a finger through her slick folds, and she bucked against my hand.

"Stop teasing," she hissed. "Put your cock in me. Now."

I didn't argue. I positioned myself at her entrance, and she reached down, guiding me in. The first push was heaven — tight, hot, wet — and she cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders.

"Yes," she moaned. "Fuck, yes, Martinez. Don't stop."

I fucked her hard, fast, the way she begged for it. Her legs wrapped around my waist, her heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper with every thrust. The bed creaked beneath us, her moans filling the room.

"Look at me," she demanded. "I want to see your face when you come."

I looked into those dark eyes, watching her mouth fall open as I hit deeper, watching her lose the control she wore like armor in the boardroom. She was beautiful like this — undone, desperate, mine.

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

I didn't. I drove into her harder, feeling her walls clench around me, feeling her body shake as she came with a scream that was half my name, half something I couldn't understand. And then I was coming too, buried deep inside her, my forehead against hers, both of us shaking.

We lay there after, tangled in sheets that smelled like chlorine and sex, listening to each other's breathing slow. She traced a finger across my chest, drawing lazy circles.

"That was..." I started.

"Unprofessional?" She smiled, eyes closed. "Completely."

I laughed, pulling her closer. "Best mistake I've ever made."

She was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "Don't call it a mistake."

I didn't. I just held her, feeling her heartbeat against mine, the ocean whispering outside the window. In the morning, we'd have to face the boardroom. But for now, there was only this — salt on her skin, her breath in my ear, and the promise of more.