One Long Hot Summer

by Antonia Adams

  ‘You know when I asked what was for supper, I was joking, right? Honestly, I don’t expect you to feed me while I’m here.’

  I returned his grin with one of my own. ‘I’m feeding myself. If you want to join me, you’re more than welcome.’

  Though I’d been relishing the chance to be on my own when I took on the job of house-sitting for Amanda, it somehow felt right to have Ryan sitting at the table, piling his plate high with salad and spreading a generous amount of butter on a slice of home-made granary bread.

  ‘This is fantastic,’ he said, clinking his wine glass against mine. ‘Thanks, Lily. I was expecting to have to open a can of beans when I got in.’

  ‘You’re not much of a cook, then?’

  ‘I can find my way round a grill pan, but most of the time, I live on takeaways. Mum always despairs that I never inherited her love of cooking, but maybe you could give me a few lessons, if you have the time?’

  Oh, there are plenty of things I’d love to teach you, and cooking’s pretty low down the list, I thought, but I answered him with a simple nod. ‘Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem. So how was Weymouth?’

  ‘Great. Turns out Charlie and Giles are staying with a real old battle-axe. She’s got strict mealtimes and curfews, so there’s no chance of them sneaking girls up to their rooms, which is what they were hoping for.’

  ‘I thought they were just here for the surfing?’

  ‘Well, yes, but there are some girls who really go for a man on a surf board. Maybe it’s the wetsuit, maybe it’s the danger and the adrenalin rush, who knows?’ Ryan made to top up my glass; I let him pour a couple of inches of wine into it before stopping him, not wanting to drink too much tonight. My tongue had a tendency to run away with me when I’d been drinking; it was how I’d first found the courage to tell Alex exactly how attractive I found him, and all the things I’d like to do to him if I ever got him alone.

  Forget about Alex, a little voice in the back of my head warned me. You’ll never be able to move on if you can’t stop dragging him into every situation, and after all, isn’t that why you’re here? To leave the past behind, once and for all?

  As if to make up for his outstanding lack of culinary ability, Ryan offered to do the washing up. I left him up to his elbows in hot, soapy water, scrubbing the roasting tin clean of chicken grease, and went to curl up on the living room sofa. Amanda wasn’t a great one for gadgets, as Ryan had implied with his comment about Facebook, but she had treated herself to satellite TV, and I flicked through channel after channel in search of something to watch. By the time Ryan joined me, I’d settled on an old Woody Allen film, in which a couple become convinced their neighbour has murdered his wife. I’d seen it before, but I loved the sharp, bantering dialogue – like all writers, I was a sucker for lines I wished I’d written – and the central performances from Allen and his leading lady that really did make you believe they were a long-married, indulgently bickering couple. I wondered if Ryan might prefer something with a few more special effects and car chases, but he settled down in the armchair opposite me and quickly became engrossed in the increasingly ludicrous events on screen, laughing along in all the right places.

  When the end credits rolled, I turned to Ryan, to ask whether he fancied a coffee. He shook his head. ‘I’m off to bed, if it’s all the same to you. I got a text from the boys while I was in the kitchen. Apparently the weather forecast for tomorrow is perfect for surfing, so I’ll be away from here at the crack of dawn.’

  ‘OK. Sleep well.’

  Ryan pulled the living room door shut behind him as he left. I wandered through to the kitchen, stifling a yawn as I did. Grabbing an early night suddenly sounded like a really good idea, so I reached for the jar of hot chocolate lurking at the back of the cupboard and made myself a cup to take up to my room.

  As I passed Ryan’s room on the way to my own, I thought I could hear a low, groaning sound. Pausing on the landing, wondering if I’d been mistaken, I heard it again, a little louder this time. It sounded as though he was in serious pain. If that was the case, did he need me to call a doctor?

  The door to his room was slightly ajar. Peering round it, the most unexpectedly erotic sight met my eyes. Ryan lay on his bed naked, the covers pushed down past his ankles. One hand gripped his cock, shuttling rapidly up and down its length, which glistened with some kind of lubricant. In the other, he clutched a dog-eared paperback book. He must have been close to coming, for his breath was laboured and from time to time he let out a groan, just like the ones I’d heard before. Groans that, far from being a sign of illness, showed just how aroused he was.

  My pussy quivered with desire, and I fought the urge to slip a hand up my denim skirt and massage it through my panties. I shouldn’t be spying on Ryan at such an intimate moment, I knew that, but I just couldn’t help myself. I’d never seen anything so horny in my life.

  It wasn’t as though the sight of a man wanking was alien to me. I’d watched Alex make himself come on a number of occasions, but then he’d been putting on a deliberate show for me, just as I – and now I didn’t try to submerge the memories that pushed, hot and enticing, to the front of my brain – would use my Rabbit vibrator on myself for his viewing enjoyment. What I watched now was all the more horny because it was private, Ryan pleasuring himself for no one’s gratification but his own.

  His hand moved faster, the pumping motion more desperate now, and I couldn’t help myself. My fingers snaked under the hem of my skirt, making contact with the damp crotch of my underwear and pushing it to one side, so I could stroke a finger over the slick, hot flesh beneath. Ryan’s back arched against the mattress and he let out a despairing shout, as though he couldn’t hold his climax back a moment longer. Clearly unable to concentrate on anything but the orgasmic sensations pulsing through him, he tossed the paperback to one side.

  Despite my lust-fuelled haze, I wondered what he’d been reading that might turn him on quite so powerfully. Catching sight of the book jacket where it had fallen, I fought to stifle a whimper of my own. The Gothic lettering in which the title was rendered and image of a black-haired woman, face contorted with lust, dress falling to bare one shoulder, was all too familiar.

  Pagan Instincts; the first novel I’d had published and still one of my favourites. It told the story of an archaeological dig on the site of an old Viking burial ground, and the relationship that developed between Scarlett, one of the students on the dig, and her course tutor, Professor Archer, a man with a taste for bondage and submission games. Ryan had obviously borrowed it from Amanda’s bookshelves, curious to learn the secrets of my fiction following our earlier conversation. I wondered which scene he’d used to get himself hard and horny; maybe the one where Archer had bound Scarlett’s wrists to the bedposts for the first time, and repeatedly brought her to the verge of orgasm, until she was begging him to let her come. Or perhaps the one where she’d allowed him to slowly strip her naked in front of the other male members of the dig, as proof of her willingness to submit to him.

  There wasn’t time to dwell on the many thrilling possibilities, as at that moment Ryan’s pleasure crested and he cried out as he came. I couldn’t be sure, but the word he uttered at the peak of his ecstasy sounded an awful lot like “Lily”.

  That seemed to break the spell. Certain if I stayed where I was any longer I’d do something to draw Ryan’s attention to me, and not liking to think what the consequences might be if he caught me peeking, I tiptoed away down the landing to my own room.

  Making sure the door was securely shut behind me, I undressed, not bothering to slip into my nightdress. The mug of hot chocolate was left to go cold on the nightstand. All I could think of was the sight of Ryan, fist a blur on his thick, luscious cock as he brought himself off, spurred on by the erotic power of my writing. Had he been imagining me in the same position as Scarlett, hands tied behind my back and my mouth full of virile man-flesh? Did he long for me to bare myself for his hungry gaze, just as Scarlett
had bared herself for the professor and his colleagues? Or was I simply reading too much into the situation, and if he hadn’t had my book to hand, he’d simply have conjured up a memory from his own private wank bank to satisfy his urges?

  I didn’t care. All I knew was my pussy was suffused with prickly heat, and I needed to come. Plunging two fingers up into my juicy channel, relishing the liquid heat I felt there, and the way my inner muscles gripped them tightly, I stroked my clit with the pad of my thumb. Shivers of lust coursed through my belly with the delicious friction. I didn’t need to weave an elaborate fantasy to take me over the edge; mind flashing back to the sight of Ryan, naked and abandoned as he writhed against the bedsheet, I sobbed with the sweetness of the orgasm that rippled through me.

  I’d never tell him what I’d seen, of course, and as I gave in to the pleasant sleepiness that followed my orgasm, I made a mental vow to keep my distance. Desire had struck me hard – but I told myself firmly that desire was misdirected. Cute as Ryan was, he was too young for me, strictly off-limits, and refusing to acknowledge that could only lead to heartache.

  Chapter Four – Sweltering

  JUST AS HE’D PREDICTED, when I woke the following morning, Ryan had already left to meet his friends. They’d been right about the weather; pulling open the bedroom curtains, it was to see that, at last, summer had arrived in a glorious blaze of sunshine. Already the day held the promise of heat to come, and I decided that, rather than stay cooped up indoors, I’d take my notebook and a cool glass of lemonade outside. Inspiration was bound to strike in the shade beneath the apple trees at the bottom of Amanda’s garden.

  It shouldn’t have come as any surprise that instead of picking up where I’d come to a shuddering halt in the manuscript of Seafront Attraction, I found myself scribbling down notes about a character who was thoroughly at home on a surfboard. Resisting the temptation to make him lean and blond, with a crooked grin and the ability to charm the birds down from the trees, I made him a professional surf champion, self-sufficient and focused on nothing but winning. At the top of his game, he’d suffer a potentially career-threatening injury taking part in a competition. Of course, there’d be a sympathetic nurse on hand to look after him – no, I could almost hear Robyn’s voice telling me just how clichéd a combination that was. So maybe a physiotherapist, whose job was to help him learn to walk again? Now, that had promise; his spiky personality would rub against hers, but somewhere among their battling and her refusal to give up on him, love would blossom …

  Dexter’s tongue licked the back of my hand. I glanced at my watch to see I’d been working for the best part of two hours, and I had a more than serviceable outline to send to Robyn. It didn’t help me meet my overdue deadline, but at least it proved I hadn’t lost my creative abilities. After the frustrations of the last couple of months, it counted as serious progress.

  ‘You hungry, boy?’ I asked, patting Dexter’s shaggy back. ‘OK, let’s go feed you.’

  Spooning a tin of gravied chunks into Dexter’s bowl, I heard the front door slam, followed by a babble of loud male voices. The kitchen door was flung open and Ryan bounded into the room, followed by two other lads of around his age.

  ‘Oh hi, Lily. Hope you don’t mind Charlie and Giles dropping by. Hey, Dexter …’ Ryan bent to make a fuss of the dog. His hair was damp, and he wore a short-sleeved neoprene top and matching shorts that left his tanned, muscled calves bare. His friends were dressed in similar fashion, radiating the same air of youthful energy, and I couldn’t help giving them a cursory once-over. Charlie was taller than Ryan and long-limbed, with dark hair that even the waves hadn’t been able to dislodge from its thickly gelled style and strangely delicate features for such a big man. Giles had tousled, sandy curls and an angular face, with a nose that had been broken at some point, more than likely in a tumble from his surfboard. Everything about the way they spoke and held themselves suggested an upbringing aided by quiet wealth. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that either or both of them had a trust fund providing the money to pay for this last, indulgent summer before the world of work sucked them in.

  ‘You’re back earlier than I expected,’ I commented.

  ‘Well, we’d found a great spot a couple of miles down the bay,’ Ryan replied, ‘but the wind’s dropped and the waves just aren’t forming the way we’d like. So we decided to call it day. I came to drop my board off and then we’re heading into Weymouth.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked. ‘There’s some lemonade in the fridge, home made.’

  ‘Thanks, Lily, that would be great.’ Giles was already pulling open the fridge door. ‘Ryan says you’re a bit of a star in the kitchen.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I replied, watching with amusement as the lads poured themselves glasses of lemonade and downed them with big, greedy gulps. I should have been annoyed at their sudden intrusion on my peaceful working environment, but I wasn’t. When I’d first agreed to look after the cottage, I’d never thought I’d welcome this sudden explosion of noisy masculinity, but anything that brought Ryan into my orbit for even a few minutes was fine by me.

  Drinks finished, glasses rinsed in haphazard fashion under the tap, the boys decided it was time to go.

  ‘See you again, Lily!’ Charlie waved over his shoulder at me as they left the kitchen. Dropping his voice, so I wasn’t sure whether he intended me to hear his next remark or not, he muttered to Ryan, ‘Mate, she is a total MILF!’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve fallen on your feet having her in the house,’ Giles added. ‘You know what they say about older women.’

  No, I wanted to ask, what do they say? But he declined to elaborate. Instead, Ryan said, ‘Oh, come on, she’s my mum’s best friend. I’ve known her for, like, for ever.’

  ‘And that makes a difference how, exactly?’ Charlie asked. ‘Come on, Ryan, if you had the chance, would you?’

  The front door slamming shut cut off Ryan’s reply. I realised now how his friends saw me, based on their first impressions – and it was all positive. On one level, it was nice to be considered a potential bed partner; my confidence had taken a huge knock when Alex walked out on me, and I’d almost stopped thinking of myself as desirable. But some kind of lusty cougar, on the lookout for fresh young prey … That wasn’t how I viewed myself, and I suspected Ryan felt the same.

  But if that was the case, why was I suddenly so disappointed? Was I really hoping that my fantasies weren’t so wide of the mark after all, and Ryan wanted me just as much as, deep down, I wanted him?

  This was silly, I told myself with sudden firmness. Ryan might be my dream toy boy, but he certainly wasn’t the right person to become involved with, not after all the hurt Alex had put me through. I needed something simple, uncomplicated – not a summer fling with a much younger man, however enticing the thought of hot, passionate nights in Ryan’s arms might be. I’d come to the coast to work, not to party, and now I’d at least made a start at tearing down the mental wall that barred the way to completing my novel, to throw any of that progress away would be foolish.

  Losing myself in my writing didn’t prove quite as easy as I’d hoped, not with Charlie and Giles becoming increasingly frequent visitors to the cottage. While Ryan was off surfing, or taking long, rambling walks along the coastal path with Dexter at his heels, I was able to concentrate on my new work in progress, which I’d titled Off The Lip, one of the surfing terms I’d picked up from the boys’ scatter-gun conversations on the subject. Creating characters was always my favourite part of the process, and in Jayden Shaw I had the perfect alpha male hero. Successful, arrogant and, of course, almost improbably handsome with his sun-bleached hair, chiselled profile and lean surfer’s build, he was simply asking to run into a woman who could stand up to him. That woman was Meredith James, intelligent and feisty, powerfully attracted to Jayden despite professing to hate him. Their growing desire created sparks of erotic tension whenever they were together. It wasn’t a scenario that would challenge t
he boundaries of literary fiction, but it offered the escape from reality and happy-ever-after ending readers looked for whenever they picked up one of my novels.

  Every morning, I’d take up my spot under the apple trees, seeking shade. The warm weather had settled in with a vengeance, and each day the mercury in the thermometer rose just a little further, temperatures creeping higher into the eighties. Already the TV forecasters were predicting this July would be one of the hottest on record, with no sign of a break in the weather.

  The lads had settled into a routine, Ryan setting off at seven every morning to pick up his friends so they could chase the best surfing conditions along the coast. More often than not, early afternoon would see them descending on the cottage to grab a bite to eat. Their arrival usually signalled the end of my working day; by then, it was too hot to do anything but take a cool bath and settle down for a siesta. The oppressive heat was making it hard to sleep at nights.

  Or perhaps that had more to do with thoughts of Ryan, sleeping just along the landing. He still had no idea I’d seen him playing with himself the evening he arrived, or that he’d been using one of my books to turn him on, but I’d kept an eye on the bookshelves in Amanda’s room, and noticed that Pagan Instincts had been returned to its place in her collection, only for Ryan to borrow Shadow Play and Staged Seduction in turn. It seemed he liked what he’d read in that first novel enough to go back for more.

  Lying in bed, tossing and turning beneath the thin sheet that was all I could bear to cover myself with on these sticky nights, I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to push open the door of Ryan’s room, catching him in the act of stroking his cock. He’d be embarrassed at first, but I’d assure him he had nothing to be ashamed of, pressing a finger to his soft, full lips. We all do it, I’d tell him, leaning forward so he could gaze down the front of my nightdress, where he couldn’t fail to notice the way my nipples poked forward, tight and anxious for his touch. But sometimes it’s more fun to let someone else do it for you. And my hand would replace his on his thick shaft, pumping it with slow, even strokes.