California Dreamin'

God, has anyone ever been more handsome than Dean Collins?

Or larger and broader and so fucking amazing that when he reaches me he casts a shadow over me, over my tiny body and shields me from the one thing I don’t really like, the glaring sun.

In fact, he makes it rain for me, those droplets from his body dripping over me.

We’re at the beach and I’m lying in my recliner, reading Harry Potter.

Dean and I, we have a rule.

Every month I put aside my aversion to the sun and we come out to the beach.

I very rarely go in the water though. It’s not that I can’t swim but I’m not such a fan of the water. So I sit here, with my straw hat and sunglasses on, pretending to read Harry Potter while I watch my handsome boyfriend swim in the blue ocean.

I put aside my book and prop myself up on my elbows. “Did you have a good swim?”

He keeps staring at me, at my bikini-clad body. Well, it’s more a white bikini top and a pair of jean shorts but still. A lot less than what I usually wear every day.

“It could’ve been better,” he murmurs, his gaze sliding down to my fluttering chest.

Taking my sunglasses off, I sit up because it’s getting hard to sit still and I have to move and do something with my body or I’ll catch fire or something.

“How?” I ask, looking up at him.

After making a thorough journey of my body while I’ve been digging my toes in the sand, he comes back to my eyes. “If you’d been there.”

I shrug sheepishly. “Well, you know I don’t go in the water.”

Smiling slightly, he nods. “I know. I’ve been trying to teach you to surf for a year now.”

Yeah, surfing.

I don’t think I’m made for that. It takes a lot of coordination and I’m not so good with that either. Although I did buy a very kickass red surfboard that’s lying next to my recliner. I even decorated it with all the Harry Potter insignia.

“I know. But I love my surfboard.” I smile up at him.

He watches my goofy smile with a little too much intensity and I’m trying to figure out what’s going through his mind.

But I only get maybe a second or two of pondering before he suddenly bends down, showering me with ocean droplets, and grabs my hand in a tight grip.

Then he yanks me up, toward him, and I go flying. I don’t even have time to squeal or to do much else before he maneuvers me and I’m sitting on his lap. I’m actually straddling him and my book is lying on the sand somewhere.

“Dean!” I say, outraged, looking at the crowd surrounding us.

No one is really paying attention though. They’re all in their own worlds.

He simply smirks. “It’s funny when you get mad.”

“You’re an animal,” I accuse, not that I really mind but still. He needs to know he can’t just put me wherever he wants. “Why do you always have to manhandle me?”

“Because you’re tiny,” he says, pulling off my straw hat.

“It’s not nice to keep bringing that up all the time,” I tell him, trying to hold on to my ire.

He’s making it difficult though.

Especially when he puts his splayed palms on my waist, all wet from the ocean, making me gasp and shift in his lap.

He grazes his wet lips against mine. “And because I can.”

“That doesn’t mean that you should,” I whisper, sliding my mouth over his in return, tasting the sea salt and his sharp flavor.

“And also because you’re mine.”

I don’t think anyone says ‘mine’ like Dean does.

He makes it so… layered.

In his mouth, ‘mine’ sounds protective and possessive and sexy and safe, all at the same time. So many nuances in a four-letter word that I have no choice but to melt and drip like the water clinging to his skin.

“I am,” I whisper, winding my arms around his shoulders and plastering my chest to his.

My nipples pucker up as soon as we make contact, my white bikini top soaking up all the water from his skin and turning almost translucent.

Or at least, I think it is.

Because I can’t look away from his gorgeous face.

“And because it wasn’t working for me,” he continues, flexing his grip on my small waist.

“What wasn’t working for you?”

“You, lying there looking sexy as fuck when I want to have a serious discussion.”

I shift in his lap when he calls me sexy and he clenches his jaw and stops me from moving around in his lap.

“Sorry,” I whisper when he gives me a look. “What serious discussion?”

His eyes go back and forth between mine and he murmurs, as if to himself, “I thought about doing this on my knees but let’s face it, I was down there just this morning. I would live down there if I could. On my knees. With my mouth on your pussy.”