Sunbathing | NEON LIT

The gap in the fence is maybe three inches wide.

A slat came loose in the storm last spring, and neither of us has fixed it. I've been meaning to. I've been telling myself I'll get around to it.

I'm lying to myself.

The gap gives me a perfect view of her backyard. Of her lounge chair. Of her.

Mrs. Hartley—Cynthia, not that I've ever called her that—is forty-nine years old and spends every sunny afternoon sunbathing in a bikini that should be illegal. She's thick in all the ways that make my hands itch. Wide hips, soft belly, breasts that spill out of her top. Her ass alone is the size of two throw pillows.

I watch her through the gap. I've been watching for three weeks.

Today, she catches me.

She's on her stomach, untied bikini straps hanging loose, when she turns her head and looks directly at the fence. At the gap. At me.

I freeze.

She holds my gaze for a long moment. I can't see her expression from here, but I can imagine it—disgust, anger, the prelude to a restraining order.

Then she smiles.

She reaches back, refastens her top, and stands. Walks toward the fence. I'm too paralyzed to move.

"Daniel," she calls through the gap. "Why don't you come over instead of peeping like a teenager?"

My face burns. "I wasn't—"

"You were. For weeks." She leans closer to the gap. I can see one eye, the curve of her cheek. "The question is what you're going to do about it. Keep watching? Or come over?"

She walks back to her lounge chair. Sits down. Waits.

It takes me thirty seconds to make it to her back gate.

She's still sitting there, legs crossed, watching me approach. Up close, she's even more devastating—skin gleaming with oil, curves everywhere I look, that bikini straining to contain her.

"Sit," she says, gesturing at the lounge chair next to hers.

I sit.

"How long have you been watching?"

"Three weeks. Maybe four."

"And you never thought to just... say hello?"

"I didn't know how." I swallow. "You're married. I'm just the guy next door. What was I supposed to say?"

"Married." She laughs bitterly. "Robert's been sleeping in the guest room for two years. We're roommates who share a mortgage."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." She turns to face me, pulling her legs up onto the chair. "Be honest. What were you thinking about when you watched me?"

"I—"

"The truth."

I take a breath. "I was thinking about what it would be like to touch you. To put my hands on your hips. To bury my face between your thighs." The words come out in a rush. "I was thinking about fucking you on that lounge chair while the sun went down."

She stares at me. Her chest is rising and falling faster now.

"Robert won't be home until seven," she says.

I check my watch. "That's three hours."

"Then we'd better get started."

She tastes like coconut oil and sweat.

I'm between her thighs, bikini bottoms pulled aside, my tongue working her clit while she grabs my hair and moans. The lounge chair creaks beneath us. Anyone in the neighboring houses could look out and see.

Neither of us cares.

"God—yes—right there—"

She comes fast—two years of frustration pouring out. I don't stop. I push two fingers inside her and keep licking, make her come again, make her shake.

"Inside me," she gasps. "Please—I need—"

I strip off my shorts. She pulls her bikini top off, and her breasts fall free—heavy and full, nipples hard. I position myself over her.

"You sure?"

"I've been sure for three weeks." She wraps her legs around me. "I was just waiting for you to make a move."

I push in.

I fuck her on the lounge chair in her backyard.

The sun beats down. Sweat drips. The chair groans and squeaks with every thrust. She's tight and hot and clenching around me, her whole body shaking.

"Harder—don't stop—"

I go harder. Her breasts bounce. Her belly ripples. She grabs the sides of the chair for leverage and meets every thrust.

"You feel amazing—*fuck—*better than I imagined—"

"You imagined this?"

"Every night." She pulls me closer. "Watching you work in your yard. Shirtless. Sweating. I've been touching myself thinking about you for months."

That sends me over. I bury myself deep and let go, filling her while she screams loud enough to alarm the birds.

Afterward, we lie tangled together. The sun is lower now. We have maybe an hour before Robert gets home.

"This can't be a one-time thing," she says.

"What about your husband?"

"What about him?" She traces circles on my chest. "He stopped wanting me when I gained weight. Stopped touching me. Stopped seeing me." She looks up at me. "You see me, Daniel."

"I do."

"Then keep seeing me." She kisses my jaw. "He works late every Tuesday and Thursday. Golf on Saturdays. Poker on Sundays."

"That's a lot of opportunities."

"That's the point." She climbs on top of me. I'm already getting hard again. "I'm done being invisible. I'm done waiting for permission."

She sinks down onto me, and I groan.

"Fix the fence," she whispers. "I don't want you watching anymore. I want you here."

I fix the fence the next day.

Then I come over and we christen every room in her house that Robert hasn't touched her in.

By the time he gets home, everything looks normal.

Everything except his wife, who can't stop smiling.