Nude at first sight (Margot )

I own the place.

That’s the first thing that lands when I push the sliding door open and step onto the back deck. Six-something in the morning. Salt in the air. Ocean still loud. A few bodies still passed out inside like the party didn’t get the message that it’s over.

I expected quiet.

Instead I get her.

She’s already out of the pool. Completely naked. Standing there with water still running down her skin, cigarette in one hand, coffee mug in the other. No towel. No shirt. Nothing. Just sun-kissed skin and the kind of body that looks like it was built to be used and still ask for more. Blonde hair wet and messy. Freckles across her nose and shoulders. Full tits, tight waist, strong thighs. Marks on her hips and the inside of one thigh from whoever had her last night.

She looks straight at me.

Doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t even shift her weight to close her legs.

Most women fold by now. Cover up. Laugh. Get small. Perform shyness they don’t feel. She just stands there like the deck is hers and I’m the one who wandered into the wrong morning.

I stop a few metres away. Hands in my pockets. I don’t look away. Neither does she.

“You’re late,” she says. Thick Aussie drawl, still rough from the night. “Place is yours, yeah? Good. The last one couldn’t finish what he started.”

I study her. The way the early light hits the water still sliding between her breasts. The casual way she brings the cigarette to her mouth. The fact that she’s clearly been fucked and is still standing here like it wasn’t enough.

She’s the most fascinating creature I’ve ever seen.

I don’t say that. I don’t say anything at first. I just let the silence sit between us while I take her in properly. Used. Wet. Completely unashamed. Still hungry. There’s a restless energy under her skin, like last night left her wound tighter instead of looser.

She takes a slow drag, exhales smoke, and looks me up and down with open interest. No performance. No attempt to make herself smaller.

“You going to stand there all morning,” she asks, “or are you going to do something useful?”

I should already have her on her knees. That’s the usual script. I own the house. She’s naked on my deck. Most girls would’ve folded the second they realised I was looking. She hasn’t. Not even a flicker.

Something about that holds me still.

I take one step closer. Then another. Close enough to see the goosebumps on her arms from the morning air. Close enough to smell the chlorine and sex and cigarette smoke on her skin. She doesn’t move back. She doesn’t drop her eyes. She just tilts her head slightly, like she’s waiting to see if I’m going to disappoint her the same way the last one did.

“You always this comfortable naked in front of strangers?” I ask. Voice low. Even.

She smirks. “You’re not a stranger. You’re the guy who owns the place. And I’m not comfortable. I’m unfinished.”

The honesty is blunt. Filthy. No games.

I let my eyes drag over her again — slower this time. The marks. The way her nipples are still tight. The slight shine on her inner thighs that isn’t just pool water. She lets me look. Doesn’t pose. Doesn’t hide. Just stands there and takes it like the attention is hers to give or withhold.

Most women would have broken the silence by now. Asked what I wanted. Tried to touch me. Tried to take control back with noise.

She doesn’t.

She just waits.

I realise I’m still standing here, hands in my pockets, not touching her. That’s new. I don’t usually give this much space. I don’t usually get caught looking this long. But there’s something about the way she holds the moment — naked, used, still dripping, and somehow still in possession of herself — that keeps me from simply taking.

She’s fascinating.

And she knows it.

I finally speak again, quieter.

“Come here.”

Not a request. But it isn’t the usual command either. There’s a fraction of interest under it I don’t usually allow.

She doesn’t move right away. She takes one last drag of the cigarette, flicks it over the railing into the sand, and sets the mug down on the table. Then she walks toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Water still beading on her skin. She stops close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her.

Still no flinch.

Still no fold.

She looks up at me, blue eyes half-lidded and sharp, and says, almost soft,

“Your move, house-owner.”

I stare down at her.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t immediately take what’s in front of me.

I just look at the most fascinating creature I’ve ever seen… and let the morning stretch while I decide exactly how I’m going to break the standoff she thinks she’s winning.