Page 68 of The End of Summer

“Are you the manager here?” I ask.

“I do a little bit of everything,” he replies.

I raise my eyebrows. “Where is everyone?” I wonder aloud, as Gabe motions for us to follow him into the dining room. The room is empty, except for one lone table against the window, offering a stunning view of Race Point Beach.

“We’re closed on Mondays and Tuesdays,” Gabe explains. “But Brady’s hooked me up before, so I was happy to return the favor. Anyway, please sit. I’ve prepared a menu for you, curated by your date here. Your hors d’oeuvres will be out momentarily. Enjoy the view.”

Brady pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down. My eyes take in everything – the insane view of the endless sand with the blue waves breaking in the distance beyond it, the lavender hue of the sky just above the water, the ambiance of the room itself, with its cathedral ceiling and pristine wainscoting. Not to mention Brady himself. He’s sparkling. It’s almost like he’s giddy with the excitement of having brought me here. I can only imagine what the meal is going to taste like.

To exactly no one’s surprise, it’s a feast for the senses. Hors d’oeuvres are a combination of charcuterie, apple-baked brie with a honey-balsamic reduction, and lobster crostini with rosemary butter. It’s paired with Bollinger champagne, which goes down very smoothly. We toast to summer. I’m so overwhelmed that if the night ends right here, it’ll still be the best date I’ve ever had by a long shot.

But it turns out we’ve barely scratched the surface. Salads arrive: watermelon and feta cheese over microgreens with bacon-infused house made croutons, topped with lime vinaigrette. Next, the main course is delivered: New York strip with roasted lemon-thyme carrots and scalloped potatoes. Each part of the meal is more decadent and spectacular than the next, and we have time to enjoy without rushing, leaving plenty of space for conversation, laughter, and gazing at each other in the setting sun, wondering how we got so lucky.

And then, it happens. Brady asks me to be his girlfriend. I lean in and kiss him, and we toast once more. We’re so cute it even embarrassesme.

After dessert (a white chocolate mousse that is literally to die for), Brady excuses himself from the table. I assume he’s going to the restroom, but again, I’m incorrect. Instead, he sneaks out to his car and gets a blanket and a Bluetooth speaker, which he’s brought so that we can sit outside on the sand and watch the fireworks.

He sets us up about 20 feet back from the ever-changing bend of the shoreline where the ocean waves crash down on the beach. There’s a bonfire quite a way down on one side, and several smaller scattered parties in the other direction. The noise of happy people carries on the breeze with the salt from the sea. I’m not sure if I’m buzzing off the food, the champagne, the general vibe of this perfect night or all of the above, but I feel amazing. It’s only 8:30, so we’ve still got about 30 minutes until fireworks will begin, and on this private stretch of sand, I decide now is as good a time as any to finally finish what we started weeks ago.

Brady secures the blanket with a few rocks and oversized clam shells. He takes off his shoes and socks and sets them on the edge of the blanket as well. “Wait – don’t sit down,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Can you play some music on your phone?”

He smiles. “Of course. That’s why I brought the speaker.”

I look up and down the beach once more, just to be sure we’re really alone. My eyes finally settle on Brady. “Put on the song we were dancing to in my apartment.”

“Dip It Low?” he asks.

“Yeah.” My voice sounds far away, as if it belongs to someone else. My gaze feels misty. I'm trapped inside a cloud. Everything inside of me is soft and warm.

“I’ll have to dance with you if I play that song,” he says. He’s flirting with me.

I like it.

“Good,” I say, my lips upturned slightly into a hint of a smile.

He smirks, then slides his hand into his pocket to take out his phone. He searches for the Christina Milian song and tosses the phone on the blanket when the music starts. Stepping towards me, he says, “You sure you want to start this here?”

Instead of answering, I kick off my sandals, place my hands on his hips and pull him into me.

He groans quietly.

Maybe I’m drunk. I don’t think I am, but this behavior is not exactly on-brand for me. I consider the fact that I might end up losing this dress in the minutes to come, and realize that I don’t care. It’s P-Town, one of the sexiest places on earth. Nobody will even bat an eye if my ass cheeks are on full display.

Brady spins me around, then, with the exact right amount of force, pushes on my upper back so that I bend over and touch the floor. He pushes himself into me from behind, and –wow –I can already feel his rigid erection. I keep my palms in the sand while he slides his hips forward and back a few times, imagining how it might feel without all this clothing in the way. Slowly, I flip my head back up so my hair cascades down my back and I raise my upper half back up to a standing position. His lips find my neck, his breathing fills my ear, and his groin continues to press against me as we rock together. I twist my fingers around his and encourage him to explore my upper half, all the while continuing to match his hip action with my backside. When his hands reach my breasts, I exhale, arching my spine to lean further into his touch. I scan the beach again quickly. Still empty.

“I want to look at you,” Brady implores me. “Turn around.”

I do.

His hands slide my straps down over my shoulders, and he tugs the elastic top of my sundress down to reveal my bra. He plants a kiss on my collarbone, then another, and another, working his way down my body until he arrives at the upper edge of my bra cups. His hands squeeze my breasts from the bottom up, giving him the opportunity to catch a glimpse of what's under the fabric in the space that appears. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, and slides his fingers beneath the lace, working the undergarment down around my ribcage, revealing my top half to the humid night air. His lips surround one nipple while his fingers tweak the other, and before I can even process how wet this makes me, Brady’s tongue sends waves of pleasure between my legs by alternately sucking and licking the hardened peaks of my flesh.

By the time we reach the bridge of the song, I need to feel him. I glide his face back up towards mine so he’s standing upright, and I snake my hand between us, wrapping my fingers in a semicircle around his straining bulge. I stroke up and down, appreciating his length and imagining him filling me. He kisses me, hums of pleasure choking in the back of his throat. I can’t help myself. With my top half still exposed, I tug at his belt. Brady opens his eyes and sweeps the area. “You sure?” he whispers.

“I want to see it,” I reply.

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