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I put my glass down in the sand. “Mateo. How long is your break, really?”
He looked at his watch, then at me, and a slow wicked grin spread across his face. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Nobody checks.”
“Excellent,” I said, and kissed him.
We fell back on the sand, under the shadow of an upturned catamaran, with a beach towel half pulled over us. The sarong went first, hitched up around my waist. His shorts came down. I took his cock in my hand, hot and heavy, and he pressed his face to my neck and whispered a string of filthy Spanish I really hope was a compliment.
“Quiet,” I whispered. “People are walking past.”
“You’re the loud one.”
He disappeared under the towel and I felt his tongue go to work on me, flat and slow and so good that I had to bite my own wrist. Footsteps passed. A couple walked by, arguing about dinner. Mateo never stopped, and I came silently, rigid, shaking, thighs clamped round his ears, while a stranger said, “Look at that sunset, darling.”
Then he rolled on a condom and slid into me, and we fucked in the dusk in total silence, in tiny hard thrusts, mouth to mouth, sand in places no one should have sand. I came again. He came with his face in my hair and a stifled groan.
Nineteen minutes, give or take.
He smoothed down his shirt, stood up and strolled back to the bar. I found sand in my bikini for four days. Every time I did, I smiled.
Ending 16 of 16: Sand in Everything. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.