Page 69 of The End of Summer

He helps me then, unbuttoning his pants and lowering his zipper so I have full access. He’s wearing boxers, a stark contrast to his usual getup of a stripper thong, and this revelation strikes me as extremely sexy because it’s soreal. There’s no alter-ego here, no showy persona. Just a beautiful man who’s hard as a rock because of me. The realization nearly sends me over the edge as his tongue resumes its residency inside my mouth.

I reach back down and tighten my grip around him. Skin against skin, I feel his heat and the anticipation pulsing through his shaft. The song ends, and a new one begins but I can’t even register it because his hand slides up under my dress and traces up my thigh. When his fingertips reach the edge of my panties, my hips grind forward, letting him know thatyes,this is good,andno, please don’t stop.He pulls his neck back for a second, long enough for me to hear him say, “I need you to lie down,” and then I do. We do, together. He lowers me onto the blanket and begins to work my panties off under my ass with one hand while cupping my face with the other. “Can you keep watch?” he asks feverishly.

“Uh huh,” I manage to mumble.

And then I lose him beneath the skirt of my sundress.

I can’t keep my eyes open; Brady’s tongue cracks me open like an oyster and I clutch the blanket and involuntarily push myself into his eager mouth. He licks me, tasting my sweetness and reminding me of his tongue on the spoon the first night we had ice cream together. My mind briefly registers that fact that I’m indecently exposed in the middle of a beach, being feasted upon in the most arousing situation my brain could ever conjure up. I surprise myself once again when, instead of being embarrassed or shutting down at the thought, I spread my legs wider, welcoming Brady’s fingers to explore me. He finds my g-spot right away and focuses his attention there while working his mouth against my starved sex.

I don’t take long to come. Bucking my hips, Brady strokes his finger back and forth to build me towards release, alternating his mouth between sucking gently and licking me with the tip of his tongue. His free hand reaches up to my chest and pinches my right nipple. I paw at my left breast and match his movements, while my other hand holds his head in place through my skirt. When I finally let go, a swell of ecstasy breaks in choppy spasms. I feel a surge between my legs as my brain floods with dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin. When I’m done, all that’s left are lingering kisses on my inner thighs and the gentle breeze off the Atlantic Ocean.

I exhale deeply, shrouded in satisfaction and relief.

Brady works his way back up beside me. “Good?” he asks.

I kiss his earlobe. “Amazing,” I reply. I close my eyes and smile.

“Good,” he says. I can hear the smirk in his voice. He’s pleased with himself.

Now it’s my turn.

“Take these off,” I say, tugging at his pants.

He laughs. “Seriously?”

I nod. “It’s a big blanket. We can wrap up in it. Take them off,” I repeat.

I inhale the briny breeze off the water and summon up a second wind as Brady follows directions and removes his pants.

“Shirt too,” I say. He dutifully works the buttons open and slides the dress shirt off his arms. I gaze upon him in his t-shirt and boxers. “You are the most intoxicating sight I have ever laid eyes on, do you know that?” I ask.

“Like this?” he asks. “In an undershirt and boxer shorts?”

“Absolutely. Can I just tell you? You’re insatiably hot when you’re doing your stripper thing, but natural Brady is fucking fire.”

He scrunches up his nose as if he’s going to question me, so I cut him off. “Take the compliment, babe. Just say thank you.” I grin, using his words against him.

“Thank you,” he says. I think he might be blushing, which strikes me as funny given the fact that he just spent the last several songs working my body into a frenzy.

“Now lie down.”

He does, and I sit up beside him. “Are you always this bossy?”

“Never,” I retort.

“Bummer,” he says, pulling me down over him. “I kind of like it.”

“Noted,” I say, pushing up his T-shirt and kissing his chest. “Cover me with the blanket please?”

“You cold?” he asks.

I kiss down his stomach. My tongue is a paintbrush, swirling color down the canvas of his torso. “No. I just don’t need all of P-Town to watch what I’m about to do to you.”

“Jesus,” Brady says, but he can’t speak after that, because the words get stuck in his throat.

I feel the blanket land on my back and his hand rests on the top of my head as I work his length in and out of my willing mouth. He’s longer and thicker than anyone I’ve ever been with, and he smells like a masculine blend of Tide laundry detergent and Irish Spring soap. Inhaling him is exhilarating up close like this, and I savor it, not caring about who might see. I am protected by this blanket cocoon, swaddled by the darkness of nightfall around me. I use my hands to stroke him while I tease his head with my tongue, then take in his full magnitude until he hits my tonsils. In and out, back and forth I devour him until I feel him constrict into his body. I slow down then, give him one final kiss, and emerge from the blanket like a butterfly.

Without a word, I straddle him and pull my dress up over my head, depositing it on the sand next to us. Brady still has on his T-shirt and I’m in a bra, so even if someone was to approach us, we’re not exactly indecent – at least not from afar. I’m about to slide him inside my body when he asks, “Do you have a condom?”

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