I normally dress more conservatively than a sundress, even when not at work, but that’s nothing compared to what I’m about to do. This isn’t about a bathing suit anymore; it’s about redemption! I turn right and keep marching, determined to do this.
The last dregs of my pep talk fade when my feet hit the beach again, but I hold my head high and keep going. The key to survival is to block everyone else out. But try as I might not to look, ignoring blatant nudity is not in my wheelhouse.
I spread out my towel so my feet are pointed at the water and jam my umbrella into the sand at eleven o’clock, covering one side.
There. Simple.
I angle the wide brim of my hat down and pull out my e-reader to focus on instead. Even with oversize sunglasses and a hat hiding most of my face, I can’t look at other people’s bodies. It’s rude.
And I don’t want to get squawked at for being a creeper.
Soon I don’t have to pretend to focus on my book. The story sweeps me up, and I chuckle at the woman going on an unexpected solo trip. Like me, but less tragic. Little by little, my muscles relax as the fresh air and soft crash of the waves work their magic. My legs stick out from the shade of the umbrella and start to warm from the sun, so I turn onto my belly to give my calves some tan time. Maybe I’ll go home with a sun-kissed glow instead of a computer-screen pallor.
Not that it’s likely to happen hiding in the shade. I tweak my umbrella, exposing more skin to the sunshine, and I sigh happily at the warmth on my back. The sun feels different in Florida, more direct. In New York, the sun has to flirt with you, draw you out from the buildings to kiss you with its rays. Here, your body is frenched with heat. Everywhere.
How would it feel to let the sun touch me everywhere? Nothing between the light and my skin but a thin sheen of sweat, right here on this beach.
What’s really stopping me from being a little more…adventurous? I bite my lip, and exhilaration tingles through me. Could I strip down? I’m twelve hundred miles from home and leaving in a couple weeks. No one will ever know I got naked in public, surrounded by strangers.
But I’ll know.
My fingers fumble with the button on my e-reader, and I close the case and set it on the towel near my hip before flipping over once more.
I could have this experience living inside me when I return home, something secret I did for myself. A taste of being someone like Shelby—self-assured and confident. Doing it just to do it, not to impress anyone.
Not scared or inhibited. Not worried about what everyone’s going to think and fretting over appearances.
To get my cover-up off, I have to remove my hat, but I leave the glasses on to hide behind. I slip the fabric over my head and fold it, hoping I look casual even while cringing toward my umbrella.
Sitting up and semi-hiding behind bent knees, I slowly slide the straps of my tankini top down my shoulders. Shit—that hinders rather than helps, so I pull them back up and grab the hem of my top, smoothly pulling it over my head.
Or try to, at least. The bottom of the shelf bra’s elastic catches on my boobs, and a wrestling match ensues between the spandex and me. My shoulder twinges in protest as I finally wrench free and cover my boobs with my forearms, quickly flipping to lie on my stomach.
I’m really doing it. Nudity is happening!
OK, partial nudity, but still.
I squeeze my eyes shut behind my glasses. The towel is a little scratchy against my nipples when I shift my arms above my head to rest my head on them. No one would believe I have this in me. I hide my grin in the towel.
It’s so audacious.
Well, it would be, if I opened my eyes and had more than my bare back exposed. People expose more on regular beaches wearing skimpy thong bikinis. My bottoms are boy-short style, maximizing coverage of my ample assets, but they might as well be a poncho compared to everyone else here. The point of this is to do something outside my comfort zone.
One, two, three. I turn and sit up before I have time to talk myself out of it. I fix the tankini top and fold it neatly over my cover-up, trying to focus on something other than the nearby beachgoers.
The blush scorching my face is so hot that I’m surprised it doesn’t fog up my sunglasses. What would Shelby do in this situation? I don’t know if nudity is her thing, but somehow I know she’s brave and adventurous—even when other people are looking. Maybe especially then.
If I could survive the day from hell that drove me here in the first place, I can be shameless about taking my top off at a perfectly respectable nude beach. For heaven’s sake, I’m not dropping trou on Fifth Avenue.
I turn toward my bag as though searching for sunscreen, surreptitiously checking over my shoulder to see if anyone’s noticed the world’s most awkward striptease.
Thankfully, no one’s looking.
At all.
Huh. Come to think of it, I was probably more conspicuous covered up. The breeze feels incredible—maybe because I’m drowning in self-awareness, making my skin sensitive with adrenaline. Tiny champagne bubbles of giddiness rise inside me as the realization hits: I actually like this.
Pretending to look for sunscreen was a good idea now that more of me is exposed—tender parts that have never seen the sun. I take the sunscreen from my bag and slather more on my shoulders and belly. Then I’m rubbing lotion on my nipples. In public. But somehow it doesn’t feel sexy or pervy. It just feels nice, and the coconut scent adds to the tropical escapism of the moment.
I lie back, taking in the surreal blue of the sky, and a ridiculous grin pulls at my lips. I’ve taken my top off, not discovered a miraculous cure for the common cold. As accomplishments go, it’s nothing I’d speak of. Ever. And yet, it’s so far from myself, it’s like I’ve discovered a new person inside me. Someone who can do things she never thought herself capable of.
And it makes me want to do more. Push myself further.
My long hair is a curtain, and I gather it into a messy bun so it can’t cover anything like a psychological security blanket. Might as well do this right, since I’m already committed. I slide my glasses off, removing the last hiding place I have. I blink until I acclimate to the brightness, until I get used to the fact that my face is as bare as my upper half.
Wild delight prances in my belly. I’m not about to invite myself into that group of college guys’ beach volleyball game, or even talk to anyone, but one goal met leads to another challenge.
This sunscreen is waterproof.
I want to feel the cool water flowing over my warm skin.
Taking a deep breath, I stand and stride straight toward the water. Three steps in, I scramble back for my towel and slip my flip-flops on. Christ, the sand is hot. The fact that I’m more worried about people judging my rookie mistake than my half-naked body makes me want to skip all the way to the water this time.
Instead, I walk slowly but steadily, focusing on the way my body moves, the way a simple thing like walking feels different. At home, I don’t rush to get dressed, but even after a shower, I’m wrapped in a towel. Now, my unsupported breasts hang a little heavier, and I’m more aware of them with every footfall.
Maybe this is why some women don’t wear bras. The freedom makes me more aware of my breasts, makes me feel more…I don’t know, womanly? It certainly makes me pay more attention to my curves.
Wanting to feel the wet sand, I kick off my cheap flip-flops just before the waterline, gingerly stepping in to meet the waves that reach out to lap at my ankles. The water’s warmer than I expected, and I keep going until it swallows me up to the waist. I duck under, up to my chin, and turn back to look at the way I came—also to make sure no one goes too close to the things on my towel.
Waving my arms makes little eddies around my body, tickling my skin in a pleasant way. I realize now that we miss out on so many simple sensate pleasures because we’re always covered up
in the name of decency. But what’s indecent about the human body? We’ve all got similar parts. The same breast that a partner sucks to create pleasure can be suckled by a baby to take sustenance.
Why are women’s nipples somehow obscene when men’s aren’t? Is it because women’s can be used to create something? Are we covering our nipples to appease men’s insecurities about their own jobless ones? If anything, that should be reversed. Women’s nipples have a purpose. They’re functional. Men’s are there for decoration or pleasure. Theirs are the hedonistic ones that should be shamed into hiding.
I grin, making a mental note to suggest such an article to one of the columnists at the magazine. There was that craze too, where women covered pictures of their own nipples with cut out pics of men’s before posting online. That could be tied into it as well. I should write this down or I’ll forget. Maybe later—I’m enjoying myself too much.
I move so my breasts are bared, and rivulets of water tickle my body as they drip down. The breeze feels cooler than before, and my nipples tighten. Not every country is as prudish as America, but aren’t we supposed to be the heathen, decadent exhibitionists? Sand coats my wet feet and trickles between my toes and under my soles, gently exfoliating my heels. It’s not sexual—it’s sensual. The same as the marvelous feeling of having the water and air and sun on my full torso. Experiencing these sensations in public is a new, simple pleasure.
Other countries don’t devolve into anarchy because they’re more liberal about their bodies and who sees what. Here, no one blinks an eye at violent movies, but if a woman breast-feeds in public, it’s a scandal.
Is it all about context?
I tuck a few stray hairs behind my ear and reach up to tighten my bun.
That’s got to be part of it. I mean—
“Melanie?”
Stuck inside my train of thought, I turn toward the man, my emotional safety net of anonymity torn away as four realizations slam into me at once.
It’s my brother’s best friend, Blake fucking Wilde.
I still have a crush on him.
I’m completely topless.
And he’s staring at my tits.
I cover my breasts with my hands and spin to run away, but the maneuver fails because sand is not your friend when you’re attempting a quick getaway. I try to duck down to cover my chest and belly but go too far. Salty water splashes over my face and up my nose.
Panic sets in and I flail around, legs going rubbery at my sheer mortification.
Oh God, I’m going to die topless in front of Blake. It’s so undignified. Salt burns my sinuses and I gag. Strong, warm arms grip my hips from behind and hold me steady while I cough out the last of the stinging water and flounder in the shallow waves.
“It’s OK, Mel. I’ve got you. You OK? Let’s go sit down.”
“I’m half-naked!” Yes, point it out in case he missed your nudity the first time. Idiot. “I’m OK.” I sniffle and wipe my face. “My towel’s just over there.” I nod toward it since my hands are busy covering my assets.
“OK, let’s go. I promise I won’t look.”
Chapter 4
Blake
I totally looked.
Fuck. Me.
This is Melanie. Pain-in-the-ass, uptight little Mel…but the sun glistening off her womanly curves is short-circuiting my brain and making it rebel against seeing her as anything remotely resembling a sister. She’s soft and supple, and I want to feel her skin with my hands and mouth to see if it’s as smooth as it looks. That is not why I’m here. The fact she took a spontaneous vacation was outside the norm for her—or so we thought. Now I’m not so sure.
I see her at her parents’ house for dinners, but now it’s like I’ve never seen her before. Maybe I haven’t. Who is this fearless woman? Naked in public with the most perfect… Yeah, I’m going to hell for even looking.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She pulls away and crosses her arms over her chest, but the sight of her flesh spilling out from behind her forearms is one hell of a distraction.
I focus on her unique hazel eyes—a shade somewhere between green and yellow—but damn my peripherals and the way they show me things about her body I should not be seeing. I promised Shawn I’d check up on his little sister, not check her out. “Vacation. Shawn mentioned you were in town too, so I thought I’d find you and say hi, see what you’re up to. Didn’t know you’re a fan of nude beaches, Mel.”
“Melanie. Mel’s a boy’s name.” Her usual response is automatic, but what’s new is the way her gaze slowly crawls up my body, making me feel exposed even though I’ve got shorts on. My ego smiles when her lips curl into a smile. She nods at a towel and umbrella a little way away. “This is me.”
I grab my stuff where I dropped it on the sand and follow her.
I look away while she puts her bathing-suit top back on. It’s a relief not to have her ample tits in my face, but I can’t help regretting their disappearance.
What am I, twelve?
“How’d you find me? Miami’s a big place.”
I shake my head. “Your friend Bailey sent me Shelby’s address. I went there and you were gone, so I decided to hit the beach for a while. I called and left a message on your cell. You had a mission in your eyes when you were coming out of the water. That was how I knew it was you.”
“Same scary glare?”
I spread my large towel out beside hers while she adjusts the umbrella to give us both shade.
“You always were intense,” I say. I settle next to her on my towel, angling slightly away from her.
“I had an article idea for the magazine. Speaking of… Hang on.” Mel digs in her bag for her phone and thumbs a note into it. “Done.” She blows her nose into a tissue, grimacing before tucking it back into a pocket in her bag. “So, Shawn sent you to check up on me, huh?”
I shake my head. “No, I was just—”
“Cut the crap. You’ve been rumbled.” She stares at me with a shade less intensity than a Cold War interrogator. “You decide to drop by in Florida? My brother and Bailey are the only ones I told that I’d be here.”
“Well, I was on vacation too. Fine, he asked me to make sure you were OK.” I don’t mention the flying-me-to-Florida part.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” She bites her lip.
I tilt my head. “Swapping houses with a stranger doesn’t really sound like you, though I have to admit you look perfect… Seem fine, I mean.” Where the hell did my game go?
She hands me a new water bottle and twists the cap off her already opened one while staring at the ocean. “I guess. Nothing wrong with shaking things up, is there? Getting away from it all? Taking a break from things to try something new?”
“Nothing wrong with change.”
She regards me with that shrewd gaze. “When’s the last time we saw each other?”
I think back. We’ve both missed a couple dinners at her parents’ house, so it’s been about three months. “Shawn’s going-away party?”
She smiles. “He was so obnoxious.”
“Insufferable. He really thought he was going to stay in Australia for the rest of his life.”
“My favorite thing was how he kept dispensing advice about going for your dreams.”
I laugh. “And then a month and a half later, he slunk back home, dehydrated and peeling—”
“And arachnophobic.”
“Classic Shawn.”
“He’s always been a free spirit,” Mel says. “Even now, in a way, he plays for a living.”
“Programming isn’t playing.”
“I know.” She sighs. “He just seems to have more free time to figure things out. But no one can ever be mad at him. Things seem to click into place for my brother.”
She’s the first to celebrate Shawn’s successes, so I know this isn’t as simple as je
alousy about his freedom. His lifestyle doesn’t seem like something she’d want. Maybe she just needed a break. Does her talk about figuring things out mean she’s struggling with her job? Is that why she came here—to get away from her own life? “His job’s easier in a lot of ways,” I prompt. “He’s not managing HR for a whole company, for one.”
She tucks her legs underneath her like a mermaid sitting on a rock, which only plays up the dangerous curve of her hips. “True. I do like having that power.”
“Thanks for giving my friend Sarah a job there.”
“I gave her a shot. So far, she’s more than holding up her end of the bargain. You’d said she was in a tough place?”
I lean back on my hands. “It’s not that they’re bad people, but they’re very ‘to be here, you need to drink the Kool-Aid.’ Sarah was working reception at the spa, and trust me when I say she needed to get out of there.”
“But you’re there,” Mel points out. “Is it really that bad?”
“I’m only in on the weekends when no one else is. My interactions with the owners and other employees are minimal.”
Mel narrows her eyes. “Are you and Sarah a thing?”
“No. She’s got a boyfriend—a club owner slash DJ, Jack. He’s a pretty cool guy. We’ve met a few times. Sarah and I are just friends.”
“She’s very pretty.”
Something about the way she says that is too casual. Mel’s not one to mince words. “She’s cute, but she’s not my type.”
“Why not?” Her eyes meet mine with more heat than the hot sand.
It takes a herculean effort to keep my gaze on hers instead of it moving down her body. “I’m not really into waifs.”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. “And the spa owners are awful?”
“They’ve got some weird ideas about things and they’re extremely cliquey, but they’re harmless if you’re not a receptionist.”
Summer Indiscretions Page 3
