Sunscreen
"His mom's best friend has a pool and a husband who's never home. She just needs help with her sunscreen. That's all. That's how it starts."
The text comes on the first real hot day of June.
Pool's open. Come swim whenever you want. I'm always here. - Diane
She's sent the same text every summer since I turned eighteen. My mom's best friend, the woman with the nice house and the nicer backyard and the husband who's never around to enjoy either. I usually ignore it. Make excuses. Pretend I'm busy.
This summer, I'm not busy.
This summer, I'm twenty-three with a useless degree and a job that doesn't start until September. I'm living in my childhood bedroom, suffocating slowly. And Diane's pool is the only escape within walking distance.
Thanks, I type back. Maybe tomorrow?
Perfect. I'll make lemonade.
She answers the door in a silk robe.
It's coral-colored, hitting mid-thigh, tied loosely at the waist. Her hair is up in a messy bun. She's wearing sunglasses pushed up on her forehead and a smile that makes something tighten in my chest.
"Tyler! Look at you." She pulls me into a hug, and the robe shifts. Underneath, I catch a glimpse of red fabric. A bikini. "Your mom said you were home, but I didn't believe her. Come in, come in."
I follow her through the house I've known since childhood. It's different now that I'm looking at it through adult eyes. The wedding photos on the mantle—Diane and Greg, twenty years ago, both of them thinner and happier. The empty wine glass on the coffee table from last night. The silence of a house where only one person lives most of the time.
"Greg's in Singapore," she says, catching me looking at the photos. "Or Tokyo. I honestly lose track."
"How long this time?"
"Three weeks. Maybe four." She shrugs, but there's something underneath it. Something tired. "He's very important. Very busy. Very—" She stops herself. Smiles. "Anyway. Pool's out back. I'll bring drinks."
I change in the guest bathroom, then step out onto the patio.
Diane is already on a lounge chair, and the robe is gone.
The bikini is red. Barely there. Two triangles struggling to contain breasts that are full and heavy, straps digging into soft shoulders. The bottoms are tied at the sides, sitting low on wide hips, her belly soft and round above them.
She's not skinny. She never was, even in those old photos. But now, at forty-six, she's settled into her body in a way that makes my mouth dry. Thick thighs spread slightly on the cushion. Curves that don't apologize. Skin that glows golden in the afternoon sun.
She catches me staring. I look away too fast.
"There's sunscreen on the table," she says. Her voice is casual. Too casual. "I can never reach my back properly. Would you mind?"
I should say no.
"Sure."
The bottle is slick in my hands.
I squeeze some onto my palm, rub them together. She's sitting up now, her back to me, the strings of her bikini top a red X between her shoulder blades.
"Just get it even," she says. "I burn so easily."
I put my hands on her shoulders.
She sighs.
It's a small sound—barely audible—but it shoots straight through me. My hands move on autopilot, spreading the lotion across her upper back. Her skin is warm. Soft. She smells like coconut and something floral underneath.
"Lower," she murmurs. "Please."
I move lower. The curve of her spine. The small of her back. The flesh there is softer, giving way under my fingers. I can feel the waistband of her bikini bottoms, can see the swell of her ass just below.
"That feels nice." Her voice is different now. Thicker. "Greg never—he hasn't touched me in so long."
My hands stop. "Diane—"
"Sorry." She laughs, but it's hollow. "Sorry, I shouldn't—ignore me. I've just been... it's been a long time."
"How long?"
She doesn't answer right away. My hands are still on her lower back. I should move them. I don't.
"Eight months," she finally says. "He came home for Christmas. We tried. He couldn't..." She trails off. "After that, he stopped trying."
Eight months. I can't imagine.
"That's not okay," I say.
"It is what it is." She turns her head, looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are wet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't dump this on you. You're here to swim, not listen to a lonely old woman complain about her marriage."
"You're not old."
"I'm forty-six."
"And?"
She's fully turned now, facing me. Her breasts shift in that red bikini, heavy and full. Her eyes search mine.
"And you're twenty-three. And your mother is my best friend. And—" She stops. Swallows. "And you should get in the pool before I do something I'll regret."
I don't move.
"What if you wouldn't regret it?"
The air changes.
She stares at me. I can see her pulse in her throat, watch her chest rise and fall with quickened breath.
"Tyler. You don't mean that."
"I do."
"You're—this is—" She stands up abruptly, putting distance between us. Her hands are shaking. "I've known you since you were seven."
"I'm not seven anymore."
"I know." The word comes out strangled. "Believe me, I know. I've been trying not to notice for years. Since you turned eighteen and suddenly you were taller than me and broader than Greg and I couldn't stop—" She cuts herself off. Wraps her arms around herself like armor.
"Couldn't stop what?"
"Looking." It's barely a whisper. "Thinking. Wondering what it would be like to—" She shakes her head violently. "No. This isn't happening. I'm not that woman."
I stand up. Cross the patio slowly, giving her time to back away. She doesn't.
"What woman?"
"The desperate housewife who fucks her friend's son." Tears are spilling now. "The cliché. The joke."
I stop in front of her. Close enough to touch. I don't. Not yet.
"You're not desperate," I say. "You're neglected. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yeah." I reach out, brush a tear from her cheek. She flinches, then leans into the touch. "Desperate is wanting anyone. You're not wanting anyone. You're wanting to feel something. To be touched by someone who actually sees you."
Her breath hitches. "And you see me?"
"I've always seen you."
She kisses me.
It's tentative—a question, not a statement. Her lips are soft and taste like lemonade. Her hands flutter at her sides, like she doesn't know what to do with them.
I answer by pulling her against me.
She gasps into my mouth as our bodies meet. Her soft belly against my abs. Her breasts crushed against my chest, spilling against me through that tiny bikini. My hands find her hips—so wide, so much to hold—and grip.
The kiss deepens. Her tongue slides against mine, hesitant at first, then hungry. Her hands find my shoulders, my back, pulling me closer. She moans—low, desperate—and grinds against me.
I'm hard. There's no hiding it. She feels it against her belly and pulls back, eyes wide.
"Oh my god," she breathes. "You're—"
"I told you. I see you."
Her hand moves down. Presses against me through my swim trunks. Her eyes flutter closed.
"Diane—"
"Inside." Her voice is raw. "Take me inside."
We don't make it to the bedroom.
She pulls me through the sliding door, and I pin her against the kitchen counter. My mouth finds her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. She arches into me, her hands fumbling with my trunks.
"Off," she demands. "I need—I need to see you—"
I step back, strip. Her eyes go wide.
"God." She reaches for me, wraps her hand around my cock. "You're so—he was never—"
"Don't think about him."
"I'm not." She strokes me, slow and firm. "Not anymore."
I reach behind her, untie her bikini top. It falls away and her breasts spill free—heavy and full, nipples dark and already hard. I cup them, feel the weight overflow my hands. She moans, head falling back.
"So beautiful," I murmur. "He's an idiot."
"Yes—" She's stroking me faster now, her hips rocking unconsciously. "He is—he's a fucking idiot—"
I drop my head, take a nipple in my mouth. She cries out, her hand tightening on my cock. I suck, tongue circling the stiff peak, then switch to the other. Her moans fill the empty kitchen.
"I'm going to—" She's panting now. "I need you inside me. Please. It's been so long."
I spin her around.
She braces her hands on the counter.
I yank down her bikini bottoms—those red ties giving way easily—and she steps out of them. Her ass is round and full, two soft globes that jiggle as she spreads her legs. I grab a handful, squeeze, watch the flesh give way.
"Tyler—"
I drop to my knees.
She wasn't expecting it.
Her whole body jerks when my tongue finds her pussy from behind. She's wet—soaked—and I lap at her like I'm dying of thirst. Her taste is musky and sweet and I want more.
"Oh God—oh fuck—"
Her legs are shaking. I grip her thighs—so thick, so soft—and hold her steady while I eat her. I trace her folds with my tongue, circle her clit, push inside her. She's grinding back against my face now, shameless, desperate.
"I'm going to—Tyler—I'm—"
She comes with a wail that echoes off the tile. I feel her thighs clamp around my head, feel her pussy pulse against my tongue. I don't stop until she's shaking, whimpering, pushing me away.
"Fuck," she gasps. "I haven't—that was—"
I stand up, press against her from behind. My cock slides between her ass cheeks, slick with her arousal.
"More?"
"Yes. God yes. Please—"
I line up and push inside.
She's tight.
Tighter than I expected after two kids and twenty years of marriage. Her walls grip me as I slide in, inch by inch, until I'm buried to the hilt.
"So full," she breathes. "You feel so big—"
I pull out slowly. Push back in. She moans, her back arching, her ass pressing against my hips.
"Harder," she begs. "I won't break. Give me—give me what he can't—"
I give her harder.
I grip those wide hips and pound into her, the kitchen filling with the slap of skin on skin. Her breasts swing beneath her, her belly ripples with each thrust. She's loud now—so loud—screaming my name, begging for more.
"Fuck me—Tyler—fuck me—"
I lean over her, change the angle. She wails as I hit something deep inside.
"Right there—don't stop—don't fucking stop—"
I reach around, find her clit, rub in tight circles while I fuck her. She shatters almost immediately—her whole body seizing, her pussy milking my cock. I follow her over, spilling inside her with a groan I couldn't contain if I tried.
We collapse against the counter.
Panting. Sweating. Satisfied.
"Oh my god," she finally says.
"Yeah."
"We just—"
"Yeah."
She turns around, and I see her face for the first time since we started. Her mascara is smudged. Her hair has fallen loose. She looks wrecked.
She looks happy.
"Your mother can never know," she says.
"Obviously."
"And Greg—"
"Can go fuck himself."
She laughs—a real laugh, bright and surprised. Then she pulls me down for a kiss.
"You should probably go," she murmurs against my lips. "Before I ask you to stay."
"What if I want to stay?"
She pulls back. Searches my face.
"Tyler..."
"You invited me to use the pool whenever I want. You said you're always here." I run my hands down her sides, feel her shiver. "So I'll come back tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that."
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"If anyone finds out—"
"They won't." I kiss her forehead. Her cheek. Her lips. "Let me take care of you. For as long as you'll let me."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she smiles—slow, shy, beautiful.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"I'll bring my own sunscreen."
She laughs. Kisses me again.
August
Greg comes home for a weekend.
I don't see her for three days. It's the longest we've gone since June.
When he leaves again, she texts me immediately.
He didn't touch me once. Not even a kiss.
I'm at her door in ten minutes.
We don't pretend it's about the pool anymore.
We fuck in every room of her house. The bedroom she shares with her husband. The guest room where I've slept on family visits. The couch where I've watched movies with my mom on Christmas Eve.
She's insatiable. Years of neglect poured into every encounter, every orgasm, every whispered confession.
"I think I'm falling for you," she says one night, her head on my chest.
"I know," I say. "Me too."
"It's crazy."
"I don't care."
She lifts her head, and her eyes are wet.
"What happens in September? When you leave?"
"I'll come back. Every weekend I can. Every break. Every chance."
"Promise?"
I kiss her. Long. Deep. Full of every word I can't say.
"Promise."
September
My mom hugs me at the door.
"Visit Diane before you go," she says. "She's been so lonely with Greg traveling all the time. I think your visits meant a lot to her this summer."
"Sure, Mom."
I walk next door. Diane opens before I can knock.
She's wearing that same coral robe. Nothing underneath.
"One more time?" she whispers.
I step inside. Close the door.
One more time becomes an hour. An afternoon. I almost miss my flight.
December
I come home for Christmas.
Greg is there—forced family cheer, awkward small talk. I shake his hand and hate him.
Diane catches my eye across the room. A small smile. A secret.
Later, when everyone's asleep, I slip out the back door. Across the yard. Through her gate.
She's waiting in the pool house. Naked. Hungry.
"I missed you," she says.
I show her how much I missed her back.
Some secrets live between houses.
Some burn brightest when they shouldn't exist at all.
Ours has been burning since June, and I don't think either of us wants to put it out.
I know I don't.
And as long as she keeps the pool open, I'll keep coming back.