“Something on my mouth?” He sets his glass down on the patio table and swipes at his lips.

“Not that I can see.”

“Oh no? Then why were you staring?”

I feel the flush spreading across my face and chest. “Sorry, I didn't realize.. I was lost in thought.”

“Really?” His tone is lightly teasing. “What were you thinking about?” He picks up his glass again and the ice chatters briefly as he raises it to his lips.

Now the blood is rushing in my ears, and the heat of my embarrassment and the heat of the day make it a good thing I am already in a chair. “I.. I don't remember. “ Fuck.

Amusement in his eyes as he drinks.

Uni's been good to him: his voice is deeper than I remember, his chest is deeper.. The charming, clever boy I remember is still there, but now there's.. more to him. He's grown since the days I sat for his mom. And she's still my friend- I shouldn't be looking at her son, thinking about her son like this..

But I can't help noticing how.. wet his mouth sounds as he speaks after each drink he takes: the firm, full look of his lips as they perform their work of articulation and I wonder how they look doing other things- how they feel.

And there's an assurance to him now, a combination of knowledge and confidence that makes me curious as to what he's learned.

He takes his drink, returns the glass to the table and resumes eye contact. Then, quite deliberately, his gaze leaves mine and drops to the precariously low neckline of my shirt. I feel my nipples tighten at his brazenness and it's all I can do not to shift in my seat. I don't dare look down to check, but the subtle change in his expression tells me that they've stiffened visibly. His eyes return to mine.

He's picking up the glass again- don't look at his lips again, don't look, don't stare at his sexy fucking mouth-

He drags the tip of the straw briefly across his bottom lip before taking it between his slightly parted lips and I have to stifle a moan.

So hot now.. I suddenly have a very bad idea. I hold out my hand for his glass. “Please..”

He hands it over, the interested, amused expression on his face again. My hand trembles as I raise it to my lips, eschewing the straw to draw a piece of ice into my mouth over the side of the glass. I swallow the drink, trapping the piece of ice between the roof of my mouth and my tongue. I take the piece of ice off my tongue and hold it to the back of my neck under my hair, feeling it send freezing tendrils of water skating down my spine. My posture straightens, my back arches, my nipples sting. I can't meet his eyes as my tightly- tipped breasts thrust toward him.

I hold the ice to the nape of my neck for a few moments, then slide it along my skin around my neck with my fingertips to the hollow at the base of my throat. The last few runnels of frigid water slip down my clavicles and pour down my cleavage, between my breasts, soaking my shirt betwixt and below.

Only when the ice is gone and my hand drops back down to my side do I dare look over at him.

He's kicked back in his seat, legs stretched out, one hand supporting the back of his neck and suddenly I can see him in repose, shirtless in my bed. I straddle him as I draw his other hand into place above his shoulder, holding his wrists while I lean down over him, my barely covered breasts threatening to spill out of my shirt into his face. He parts his lips and takes a bite of my shirt and the bra beneath, then twists his neck sharply and suddenly his face is sandwiched between my naked breasts‐

Or-

Or he's just sat back, watching me. No amusement in his face now. There's a coolness, a detachment. One might mistake it for disinterest, or recognize it as a measure of self control. The thoughts I refuse to let play over my face may be looping through his mind as well, or ones much the same.

It seems to take real effort for him to drag his eyes from my sodden shirt to my face. “Better,” he asks, in a low voice and without a trace of a smile, “now that you're wet?”

And he looks up at me unabashedly through those thick lashes.

My voice is low and strengthless as I say “yes,” and before I can stop myself I've whispered his name. The word passes between my lips with a breathy sound it's never had before and his eyes close.

Seemingly without any prompting from me, my gaze trips down his body, along the curved flex of his arm and pec, down his chest and belly to his lap where-

Fuck- his eyes are open again and he's caught me staring. Suddenly, I am up and out of my chair. “Oh, honey- I should.. I have to..” and with no idea how to finish the sentence, I'm making for the backdoor of the house, away from his searing gaze, away from his matured- as- of- late body and all the things I can think to do to it if only it were naked and moving sinuously beneath me.