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Standing in the bathtub, reaching underneath my hair and behind my neck to untie my bikini top when the sound of the mower cuts out. I finish removing my top and throw it over the shower curtain rod before peering through the window inexplicably located in the shower of the second floor bathroom.

He’s sitting in a lawn chair, dressed only in khaki shorts, his shoes discarded, feet flat on the cool grass. He’s leaned back against the chair, arms heavy on the rests, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Slowly.

His fingers are dark with dirt- the color streaks back along his hands and wrists and tapers to bare flesh along his forearms.

His body’s running with sweat: it beads at his temples, follows the ski jump where his neck meets his shoulders, plummeting down along his chest or arm. I see it glinting in his hair and along his jawline and suddenly my still sodden hands are brushing roughly across nipples quickly and sharply erect. Either the temperature difference out of the sun just registered or my body is heating rapidly. Vague hums deep in my throat turning to moans when suddenly he sits up, leans forward and props his elbows on his knees. I watch the muscles moving under the skin of his shoulders as he repositions himself.

And maybe he’s now looking directly at me.

I retreat from the window and peel off my bottoms. They too are flung over the rod; I shake off each leg like a cat as I step out of the tub and on to the mat. Suddenly, it is *vital* that I’m there to intercept him before he rises from the chair, I *have* to block his path.

I need him to stay there.

Even if he’s too hot and tired to let me touch him.

I need to *see* him.

With no time to dry off, I twist my hair up into a towel. I pull on a thin, short-sleeved, button-down top. It won’t stay buttoned over my breasts: I can fasten it, but it springs open when I bend down to slip on my shorts.

Fuck it.

I descend the stairs at a slightly giddy pace and hook through the kitchen to grab water from the fridge on my way out to the backyard.

I pull back on my sweeping open of the glass door just enough to keep it from rebounding and head straight for the figure that seems to sizzle in the sun.

I can see just the top of his back muscles working before he straightens and lifts his arm, reaching out for the chattering glass of ice water. I stand between and slightly before his knees as he drinks deeply.

Eyes closed again.

Jaw working as he pulls slowly.

His dirty fingers on the glass, now condensation trips down its surface and cuts clean streaks down his fingers and the back of his hand. I want to watch water cascading along his body til every speck of soil is washed away, I want to wipe it away with my hands over every inch of him.

My cool fingers steal out and brush down his cheek and jawline before I have the mutineers back under control. His skin is warm, smooth and wet. His eyes open languidly and he peers back directly into my eyes as though he’d been waiting for my signal. He’s enjoying the coolness emanating from the drink and the pronounced effect the sight of him is having on me.

When the water is nearly gone, he lowers the glass, inflates his lungs fully and lets out this breath in a sustained rush that breaks against my chest and chills my skin. The nerve endings therein galvanize beneath my open shirt. He holds the glass up to me.

The ice gets chattier as the water changes hands but there’s not enough to spill as I lift it to my lips. I have to tilt my head farther and farther back before it reaches my mouth.

Swallow once.

Twice.

Motion pauses with the base of the glass at its highest point; it’s about to start its descent when I feel his tongue slide up my areola, drawing my nipple between his lips and into his mouth.

NSFW: yes

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