The Island

Lauren sighed, tipping her head back as she rubbed her hands down her face. She’d hoped coming to this writers’ retreat and getting away from the city and all her responsibilities would finally help her overcome the writer’s block which had plagued her for the last few months. But, so far she had only been able to spill out a couple rough chapters. The seminars had been interesting and educational, however, she had to admit to herself. That, at least, had made the cost of the trip worth it.

She stared out the window, watching the waves lightly lap at the shore. Her cabin overlooked the ocean, just a mere 50 yards or so from the shore. It truly was a miraculous view. It was then that she realized she had been on this beautiful island for three days and still hadn’t had time to truly enjoy the scenery. Judging from the location of the sun, she figured she had another hour or two before the sun would set on the ocean – a sight she had watched the past few nights from her window. But tonight, she decided, she would watch from the beach.

Slipping into a small black bikini and tying a sarong around her, she stepped out onto the soft fine sand. The heat felt good against her bare feet, the slight breeze smelling over salt water. She took a deep breath and slowly walked to the shore. She sat, the water just barely tickling her toes, and gazed out at the large expanse of water. She was so engrossed in the scenery she didn’t hear him approach.

“Beautiful evening.”

His voice started her and she started to rise. “Please,” he said, smiling down at her, “Don’t get up. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She lowered herself back down onto the sand, offering him an uncertain smile. “You here for the retreat?” He asked her pleasantly, his hand gesturing for permission to sit near her.

She nodded her approval at his company, and offered up a hesitant “yes” in response to his question. “I’m Lauren,” she added.

“Henry,” He offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He slid his shoes off, stretching his legs out in the sand. Lauren watched, noting his toned tanned legs. They were a bit on the slender side, but muscular. The denim shorts he wore accentuated the lines of muscles. He wore a white button-up shirt, half unbuttoned, letting her see the rippled chest beneath the small mat of hair.

“So, what do you write?” Henry broke the silence. She blushed, breaking her eyes away from his body.

“At the moment? I’d be happy if I could write a nursery rhyme.” She took a breath. “But,” she continued, “normally, I write romance.”

Henry raised an amused eyebrow. “Really?”

Lauren smiled, her nerves lessening. “Yes, really.”

“Attacked by a bout of writer’s block currently?”

“Yeah.” She let out a resigned sigh, stretching her legs out and leaning back, her hands behind her in the sand to support her. She wasn’t nearly as tan as she would like, nor as tone as the man beside her. But, she was slender, yet filled out in all the right places.

“Maybe,” Henry let his eyes wander up her form from her toes to her eyes, “Maybe, you just need some inspiration.” He gave a cheeky smile.

Lauren could feel the blush creep up her face again, but didn’t try to hide it. “I suppose you’re more than happy to lend your services?” she flirted back.

“Well, only in the name of literature.” Henry reached over, lightly brushing sand off her ribs. She sucked in a sharp intake of breath, shocked at the fire he caused with that one simple movement. Maybe it was the glass or two of wine she’d had at the cabin. She wasn’t certain. She only knew she was acting completely different – completely rashly.

“Here’s to literature,” she smirked, laying back, her hands tucked under her head, her eyes daring him to touch her again.

He raised an eyebrow at her, but the dare remained steady in her gaze. He grinned back at her, then changed position slightly, his head getting closer to her. He held her gaze until he hovered just over her bare stomach.

Her gaze faltered, uncertainty mingled with the confidence she’d felt just a moment earlier. One side of his mouth curled into a smile as he broke their stare and turned his attention to her stomach. His head moved closer. She could feel the heat of his breath against her bare skin. She shivered but didn’t try to move or push him away. A low moan escaped her lips as his finally connected with her stomach, just above her naval.

For all the experience she had, and all the erotic scenes she had written, nothing had prepared her for the instant fire she experienced. Warmth pooled between her legs, her stomach quivered, her mind felt like it had just drowned itself in a couple bottles of bourbon. She couldn’t act or react, though part of her knew she should do something.

Henry traced a line with his tongue from the bottom of her bikini top to her belly button, circling it, then sliding up. He glanced up at her, waiting for her to push him away, for her to say no. She looked back at him, knowing what he was waiting for, knowing she should. He hesitated, moving away just slightly. She could still feel his breath on her as he spoke.

“Lauren?” his voice was deep, heavy. He watched her eyes, watched the naivety and conservativeness battle the passion and wildfire. Her breasts rose and fell with each deep breath she took. She reached out a hand, coiling her fingers behind his neck. Her lips and voice were shaking as she gave a small grin.

“As you said, I could use some inspiration.” She gave just a slight amount of pressure, just enough to let him know he had permission to continue. He exhaled, relief flashing in his eyes as he lowered his head back down to her, this time catching along her rib, nipping and kissing and licking up, until it connected with the swell of her breasts. He brought up a skillful hand, quickly pushing the fabric out of his way. He flicked his tongue against the small nub, smiling at her intake of breath. His hand pushed the fabric off the other breast and he tasted that one as well.

Lauren brought her hands up, tangling her fingers in his hair, coaxing him back to her breast. He obeyed, first licking at the hardened nipple, then taking it into his mouth, sucking it. His fingers danced over to the other one, making sure that one wasn’t left out.

She writhed beneath him, the quivering in her stomach growing. “Please,” she uttered, moving her hands from his head, to the front of this shirt, undoing the few buttons. She let her hands roam over his exquisite chest, her nails raking over his taut muscles. She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt his teeth bite down on her hardened nipple, and whimpered, pushing the fabric from him, desperately seeking out the button on his denim jeans. Her breathing had grown erratic, desperate.

He quickly covered her hands with his own, moving his mouth up to hers. “Slow down, darlin’,” he whispered against her lips, trying to regain some sense of composure.