A moment of realisation

James' retreating footsteps thudded against the patio stones—too quick, too heavy—before the garden door slammed behind him. I waited exactly eight heartbeats before rolling onto my stomach again, pressing my thighs into the sun-warmed lounger. The fabric of my bikini bottoms clung damply between my legs, the realization sending a fresh wave of heat through me. *God.* If he'd touched me just two inches lower—

The blinds in his office twitched. I bit back a smile, arching my back in a slow stretch that made the loose bikini top gape dangerously. Next time, I'd leave the ties undone completely. Let the triangles slip free when he reached to adjust them. His hands had been shaking—*actual tremors*—when they'd skimmed the edge of my bottoms. That vein in his temple had looked ready to burst.

Older men knew things boys didn't. Like how to slide a thumb under fabric without hesitation, how to press a girl into the mattress with the full weight of experience. James would pin my wrists while his mouth mapped every inch he'd pretended not to stare at. No fumbling. No asking *is this okay?* Just that low growl in my ear as he spread me wider—*Christ*—his wedding ring cool against my thigh while his other hand—

I shifted on the lounger, pressing my thighs together. Boys my age treated sex like a video game, all frantic button-mashing and premature victory laps. James would pace himself. Draw it out until I sobbed for it. That vein in his forehead would throb when I arched against him, when my nails raked down his back hard enough to leave marks Sarah would question later. He'd hiss through his teeth, grip my hips hard enough to bruise—then slow down just to watch me unravel.

My fingers stilled against my collarbone. Thinking about Sarah felt different now. Not like a faceless obstacle, but... real. The way he'd hesitated when I asked if he rubbed her down. The brittle edge to his voice when he'd muttered *she's not into sunbathing*. The pieces fit together with sudden, vicious clarity: *they weren't fucking.*

The lounger creaked as I rolled onto my side, letting sunlight pool in the hollow of my throat. Inside, the office blinds were drawn tight, but the garden door stood slightly ajar. My nail traced idle circles around a bikini string. *He wanted me.* Not just in that abstract, frustrated way. Not just as some teenage fantasy. He'd *touched* me. His hands had trembled against my skin like a man starving.