Page 4 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

"Sometimes I forget the world can be this stunning," I admit.

We walk in silence for a while, letting the vastness of the ocean and the whispers of the tide speak for us. These are perfect moments in life that I enjoy.

"Spring break, huh? It feels so... collegiate." Marina says as we stroll back from the beach, our footprints trailing behind us like breadcrumbs.

"Yeah, but with less keg stands and more sleep." I chuckle.

"Hey, I wouldn't mind a healthy mix of both. Maybe throw in a couple of those hot guys on the beach," she winks.

"Marina!" I feign shock, but the truth is, the idea sends a flutter through my stomach that's half nerves, half excitement. "I thought we were here to recharge, not chase after guys."

"Who says we can't do all of it? A little eye candy might be just what Dr. Kay prescribes for relaxation," she retorts.

"Fine, but I'm setting boundaries at drooling from a distance."

"Agreed. Drooling only," she echoes.

We reach the house, and Marina heads straight for the kitchen.

"So, chef Harmony, what's on the menu tonight?"

"Something easy. How about pasta with whatever mystery sauce the closest store has?" I suggest.

"Sounds perfect. Carb-loading for all the absolutely nothing we're going to do," Marina chimes in.

The next few hours, we check out the local small store, feed our bellies, and chat about randomness.

Before I curl into bed, I step into the steam filled shower. I close my eyes, letting the water flow over my shoulders and slowly exhale.

It's been two years—two years since I've felt the touch of a man, since I've allowed myself the pleasure of being wanted, of wanting in return. My hand, almost of its own volition, drifts lower, past the flatness of my stomach to the place between my legs to my sensitive nub.

I think of those tan, toned men tossing a frisbee on the beach that Marina and I giggled about earlier. Their broad shoulders and the way their muscles stretched as they leaped in the air to catch the round disc have had my thoughts running with what one of them would feel like on top of me.

My fingers find the rhythm I’ve perfected for release over the last few years. The tall one with brown hair and tan skin stays at the forefront of my mind. I can imagine the press of his lips, the grip of his hands. Mmm.

God, I need this.

Scientifically speaking, sexual release is beneficial, right? Endorphins, stress relief—it's practically health maintenance.

As my movements become more deliberate, more insistent, I let go of the analytical and just feel.

Every stroke coils the tension tighter, and I chase the approaching climax.

"Ah," I gasp as it hits its peak pressure point. My body quakes, my knees weaken, and I ride my hand until my pussy’s last pulse against my fingers dissipates.

The water continues to pour as I lean against the cool wall, catching my breath before dressing and getting a great night’s sleep.

Chapter 4-Dakota

The ceiling fan whirs above me, doing nothing to cool the heat that's pooling low in my belly. I'm slick with sweat and lube, my hand moving in a steady rhythm that's got me teetering on the edge of oblivion. My other arm is thrown over my head, fingers gripping the edge of the pillow while my hazel eyes are screwed shut, images of scantily clad women from last night's party at The Sand Dunes Bar & Grill flickering behind my eyelids.

"Come on, Lucky," I mutter to myself, a nickname that's more about scoring on the ice than in the sheets—though it applies to both, if I'm honest.

My phone is somewhere on the floor, discarded along with the rest of my clothes. I don't need porn when my own fantasies arevivid enough, replaying every flirtatious smile, every accidental brush of skin against skin. But as I'm about to cross the finish line, as the tension coils tighter and I'm ready to let go, there's this godforsaken racket coming from next door.

"Son of a..." The words die on my lips as I force my eyes open, the orgasm that was just within reach slipping away. Hell, I grip myself harder, trying to stay in the zone, but the commotion isn't letting up. It sounds like someone's trashing their place or... something worse?

"Fucking hell." I release my cock. Can't even get five minutes of peace in my own home. My pulse is still racing, but now it's laced with irritation instead of impending pleasure. I push off the bed, already knowing that I’m going to be left with an ache only a guy can understand.

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