Just for Her

The waterfall trickles behind them, a constant whisper against the stone. Jack's hand is still covering hers on his chest. He can feel her heartbeat through her palm—fast, uneven, a bird trapped in a cage of ribs.

“Here,” she says. “Not inside.”

She pulls her hand back. Steps to the lounge chair—the one she usually sits in, the one in the shade. She doesn't sit down. She stands beside it, facing him, and reaches for the hem of her sundress.

The fabric is light blue, dotted with small white flowers. She pulls it over her head in one motion. No hesitation. The dress pools at her feet.

Beneath it, she's wearing a plain cotton bra—white, functional, the kind you'd buy in a three-pack. Her shorts come next. She undoes the button, pushes them down her thighs, steps out of them. Her underwear matches the bra. White cotton. High-waisted. The kind of underwear a woman wears when she isn't planning to be seen.

She stands there in the late afternoon light, arms at her sides, watching him watch her. The bougainvillea casts purple shadows across her collarbone.

“This is for me,” she says. “Not him.”

Jack steps forward. Slowly. He keeps his hands visible, open, the way you'd approach a deer at the edge of a clearing. When he reaches her, he doesn't grab. He touches her shoulder with two fingers, tracing the strap of her bra.

“You're beautiful,” he says.

She makes a sound—a breath, almost a laugh. “You don't have to say that.”

“I'm not saying it because I have to.”

His fingers trail down her arm. Her skin is warm, slightly damp from the heat. She shivers. The sensation is small, just a ripple across her surface, but he catches it. Files it away.

He hooks a finger under her bra strap and pulls it down her shoulder. She doesn't stop him. He pulls the other strap down. The bra loosens, gaps, and she reaches back to unhook it herself. The clasp releases with a soft click. She lets it fall.

Her breasts are full, pale, the nipples a soft brown. She crosses her arms for a second—instinct, reflex—then uncrosses them. Lets him see.

“Lie down,” he says.

She lies back on the lounge chair. The cushion dips under her weight. Her hair fans out across the armrest, dark against the pale fabric. She looks up at him, her eyes wide, her breath shallow.

Jack kneels beside the chair. Not on top of her. Beside her. He runs his hand down her stomach, over the white cotton of her underwear, and stops at her hip.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

“I want to feel it.”

“Feel what?”

“Wanted.” She swallows. “I want to feel wanted. By someone who's here because he wants to be, not because he's watching through a lens.”

Jack's hand slides lower. His fingers trace the waistband of her underwear, dipping just beneath the elastic. She lifts her hips—an invitation, unspoken.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pulls. The cotton slides down her thighs, past her knees, off her ankles. She's bare beneath. Completely bare. The hair between her legs is dark and neatly trimmed, a small triangle above the wet gleam of her.

“Look at you,” he says.

She doesn't look away. Her hands grip the edges of the lounge chair. Her thighs press together, then relax. She's trembling, but she's not hiding.

Jack stands. Unbuckles his belt. The sound is loud in the quiet yard—metal against metal, the rasp of denim. He pulls his shirt over his head, drops it on the patio stones. His shorts follow. Then his boxers.

He's hard. She looks at him—at the length of him, the curve, the way he stands there without covering himself—and her breath catches.

“You're sure?” he asks.

She pauses for a moment, thinking about, then nods once, decicively. “I'm sure.”

He lowers himself onto the lounge chair, over her, bracing his weight on his forearms. The cushion groans. Her legs part to make room for him, and he settles between them, the heat of her thighs against his hips.

She's wet. He can feel it against his stomach, a slick warmth that makes his jaw tighten. He doesn't push inside. He waits. Looks at her face, at the way her eyes have gone dark, at the slight part of her lips.

“You're in control,” he says. “You tell me when.”

She reaches down between them. Her fingers close around him—hesitant at first, then firm. She guides him to her opening, presses the head against herself, holds him there.

“Now,” she whispers.

He pushes in. Slow. An inch, then another. Her body resists for a moment, then opens, and he slides deeper. She gasps—a sharp, surprised sound—and her hands fly to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Don't stop.”

He doesn't. He pushes until he's fully inside her, until his hips press against hers, and then he stops. Just stays there. Lets her feel the fullness of him, the weight of him, the reality of this moment that belongs only to her.

Her eyes are closed. Her mouth is open. A single tear escapes from the corner of her eye, rolling down her temple into her hair.

“You okay?” he asks again.

“Yes.” Her voice cracks. “I just—I didn't know it could feel like this.”

He starts to move. Slow, easy strokes, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in. The lounge chair creaks beneath them. The waterfall keeps its steady rhythm. A bird calls somewhere in the distance, but the world has shrunk to the space between their bodies.

She wraps her legs around his waist. Pulls him deeper. Her hands slide up his back, her fingers tracing the muscles that flex with each thrust.

“More,” she says.

He gives her more. Harder. The rhythm quickens. She arches beneath him, her head thrown back, her breasts pressing against his chest. She's making sounds now—small, breathy moans that she tries to swallow, that escape anyway.

He drops his head to her neck. Breathes her in. She smells like sunscreen and sweat and something underneath, something clean and warm. He kisses her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the soft skin below her ear.

“I wanted this,” she says, the words tumbling out. “I wanted this for weeks. I hated myself for wanting it. But I wanted it.”

“You don't have to hate yourself.”

Her hips meet his thrusts. She's matching him now, moving with him, her hands tangled in his hair. The tension builds in her body—he can feel it in the way her thighs tighten around him, in the way her breath catches and stutters.

“I'm going to—”

“Yes.”

She comes with a cry that she muffles against his shoulder, her body convulsing around him, her fingers gripping him like she's afraid he'll disappear. He keeps moving, slow and steady, drawing it out until she collapses beneath him, gasping, her skin flushed.

He pulls out. She makes a sound of protest, but he's already shifting, turning her onto her side, sliding behind her on the narrow chair. His chest presses against her back. His arm wraps around her waist. He enters her again from behind, slow, gentle, and she sighs.

“That's—that's good,” she murmurs.

He moves with her, a languid rhythm, his lips on her shoulder, his hand splayed across her stomach. She reaches back and grabs his hip, pulling him deeper, and he lets her set the pace.

The second time, she comes silently—a long, shuddering release that she rides out with her eyes closed. He follows her, burying his face in her hair as he spills inside her, the pleasure pulling through him in slow waves.

They lie tangled on the lounge chair, the afternoon sun falling in stripes across their bodies. The pool is still. The waterfall trickles. Somewhere inside the house, the camera sits in its hiding place, recording an empty room.

Corinne turns her head. Looks at him over her shoulder. Her smile is small, crooked, full of something she hasn't let herself feel in a long time.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asks.

Jack laughs. Quiet. Worn out. He presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“Wednesday,” he says. “I'll come Wednesday.”

She nods. Settles back against his chest. The bougainvillea petals fall, one by one, into the still blue water.