We lay like that, curled into each other, our dirty dishes off to the side, for several more minutes, before the chill settled over our skin and we moved inside. After his declaration, after mine, I never didn’t want to be touching him. I felt like we’d just crested some hill, and we were absorbing each other in the delicious aftershock.
I leaned against the kitchen island and drank my wine as Dylan dealt with the dishes—I had that post-beach loose feeling in my limbs. My jeans felt good on my sunned legs, and my new blousy cotton camisole felt like air on my shoulders, which had gotten a little burnt. The edge of the butcher block dug into my hips, and I suddenly felt Dylan’s hands slide down my arms and land on top of my own hands, one wrapped around my wineglass, the other resting on the warm wood. My breathing deepened, and as it had since the first time I’d laid eyes on Dylan, the world got fuzzy. The only things in focus were him and me.
He lifted my wineglass and brought it to my lips, feeding it to me. I drank obediently, and he ran his lips along my neck and shoulder. We were in some kind of dance—I relaxed my body into his and took another swallow.
“Good girl,” he said as he put my wineglass down.
Then his hands were around my waist, under my top, the backs of his knuckles caressing, exploring, eventually grazing the undersides of my breasts. “No bra. Very good girl.”
“Mmm,” I said partially as a question—what had he said?—and partially as a moan, a plea to just keep touching me.
“Your skin is so warm from the sun.”
“Mmm.”
“Are you incoherent?”
“Mmm.”
Dylan chuckled and kissed my other shoulder. “I love you like this,” he added, settling his hands on my hips, the very tips of his fingers inside the waistband of my jeans. “Agreeing to move in with me has made you so pliant, soft, ready.”
“I said soon.”
“You said yes,” he whispered as he held out his hand, and I took it.
I followed him up the stairs and into the master bedroom, already feeling submissive to his desires, trusting him to know mine. I stood in the doorway, leaning, as Dylan shut the large windows, protecting us from the cool breeze. I walked to him, to the center of the room, and put my arms around him, going in for the kiss. But Dylan pulled my arms down and shook his head. He gave me a quick conciliatory peck on the nose before stepping back to sit on the bench at the end of the bed.
I stood there just a few feet from him, the windows at my back, the moonlight reflecting off the ocean below and illuminating his face in the dark room.
“Take off your shirt, Lydia.” My pulse quickened at his commanding tone, and my skin became tight, ready, sensitive even to the particles in the air.
I slid the shirt over my head and smiled at Dylan’s approving gaze.
“Your jeans.”
I shimmied out of the pants and kicked them aside. I hadn’t been wearing shoes or panties, so that was it. There I was, backlit, goose bumps rising to the surface, breaths getting shallower. I reached back and twisted my hair, letting it fall over one shoulder. It was just getting long enough to do that.
Dylan crooked his finger, summoning me towards him. I stepped up to him, loving the feel of the soft rug between my toes. When I got to him, he remained seated and placed his hands on my hips, wrapping them around me, drumming his thumb on my hip bone.
“Lie down, baby,” he said. I looked at him, curious. Where? He patted his lap, and I understood.
I climbed onto the bench on my knees and slowly lowered myself over his lap, he shifted me so my ass was front and center, and I lay my cheek on the soft linen of the bench. He stroked my back, running his right hand over my ass while his left rested between my shoulder blades.
He leaned over and kissed me sweetly on the lips then reached between my legs with his fingers, first finding my pussy and then dragging the wetness back up between my cheeks. “You’re ready for this?” he asked.
I shuddered a little but managed a nervous smile. “I trust you.” Because I did.
Dylan reached behind him and I heard the pop of a bottle top. Then he dragged well-lubricated fingers down, settling on the tender opening. He eased his finger in and out, fucking me tenderly. Then there were two fingers, working me open and massaging me. My chest was working itself up and off the bench with each deep breath. His fingers were so different from a plug, softer, moving. More than anything, they were him. I squirmed and tensed, suddenly nervous.
“Shh,” he soothed, clearly sensing my heart rate rising, my breaths accelerating. He rubbed my back. “Let me in.” I took a deeper breath and tried to open up to his fingers. He worked me for a few more minutes. “Okay, come here, baby.”
He lifted me and moved me onto the bed behind him—I lay stretched out on my belly, ripe with anticipation. He quickly shed his jeans and came up behind me. I stared in disbelief as he stroked his long hardness with a lubricated hand. “Baby, we’re going to go slow. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He gripped my hips and pulled back. I was resting on my elbows, my forehead on the duvet. Dylan was stroking my back, positioning himself, and I was shivering with anticipation.
“Lean back into it, baby. Take me at your own pace. I want you to do this,” he instructed. Nervously, I did as I was told, anticipating the intrusion, and he guided his tip along the opening and began to feed himself into me. It was so tight and so intense. “You have to relax, baby. Breathe.” I closed my eyes and exhaled, opening myself to him. “Perfect.”
I pushed back against him, slowly meeting his own pressure and taking him in shallow thrusts.
“Oh god, Dylan. It’s so full.” I stilled and acclimated before leaning back into him, resuming.
“That’s right, baby, take your time.” His hands held my hips, supporting me effortlessly.
“You feel so deep.” The pressure was so concentrated and intense but also delicious. I slowly eased back against his enormous hardness until I felt his balls against me.
“Fuck, this is tight,” he said. “God, look at you. This is so fucking hot.” And it was, he was right. I’d never felt so possessed, so coveted. He reached between my legs and began toying with my clit and then pushed his fingers inside me. I could feel my own tightness, and I began to quiver. I could feel so much, every movement; every twitch inside me was a thousand times more intense. I could feel every clench, every movement in both places, and both were funneling me towards an orgasm at an alarming rate.
“Oh god, Lydia,” Dylan moaned. “I can feel you getting close.”
I involuntarily clenched around his fingers and his cock, and he groaned again—I couldn’t believe how much this was turning us both on. I never would have imagined the intensity of this feeling, the completeness of it, the submersion. He slowly coaxed me in a way that only he could, evoking the riotous feelings, the intense craving for the coming orgasm. The pleasure undulated through my body, intensified by having no outlet, nowhere to go. I felt both like I was trying to claw my way out of the maelstrom of sensation, to escape, and like I wanted to sink into it, praying that it would last forever. And it did. The orgasm raised me and dropped me, made colors change and my skin flash with electricity. I could actually hear how our bodies were responding to one another, dancing with one another in a way that was summoned from somewhere beyond intention, and I could barely breath.
Finally, I could feel him start to come as he arched slightly deeper into me and then retreated subtly, engaging in a gentle, shallow thrusting. Each movement was an accent of my own orgasm. After a moment, he withdrew, and I collapsed onto the mattress below me, not believing we’d just done that.
“My god, I love the way you look right now, Lydia, with my cum coming out of you.” His dirty words registered and fueled my dying orgasm, making me clench again to savor the remaining threads. Then he silently raised me up into his arms and carried me into the bathroom. I stood on weak legs as he dampened a washcloth with warm water. He returned, kneeling on the cool hard tile floor before me, and carefully cleaned me, planting sweet kisses and caresses on my flesh.
“Are you okay?” He looked up into my sated face.
“Am I okay?” I asked, raising a sleepy, skeptical eye at him. “Did you somehow miss that orgasm I had?”
“It was kind of hard to miss.” He smiled. “That one might have influenced the tides.” I braced my hands on his shoulders as he lifted my knee, exposing me further, running the warm cloth up my inner thigh. “But you liked it?” He looked up at me, a little apprehensive.
“The tides, remember?” I leaned over and gave him a reassuring kiss, and within seconds I was back in his arms and being deposited on the bed.
* * *
The days that followed were just like that, the tides. We ebbed in and out. From the bedroom to the little private beach. From the kitchen to the pool. From the balconies to the hot tub. And when we came up for air, we’d walk down the long lemony driveway and the mile into town. We’d have olive oil and bread, fresh grilled fish, and yogurt. We’d stop and admire the crumbling white buildings with their bright blue doors, the ornate Greek Orthodox church with its gilded icons, and all of the accompanying smells and sounds and foreign faces. We took it all in, especially each other.
Not once did we discuss how Dylan’s new approach of essentially ignoring his father’s pressures was going to play out over the long term. Not once did we think about the paparazzi or worry about unwanted media attention. Not once did we analyze the hows or whys of the emails, happy to tuck that into the past. Instead, he dreamed up new buildings and took me on tours of them in our imagination. He showed me where his mind went when he was designing, the far-flung landscape where he made things beautiful. And I told him about the shop and my vision for it. I told him about my father. About the memories of my childhood with him, listening to him play music, having adventures along the New England coastline, being taken care of by him before he became ill. And I told him about taking care of him when the cancer came, about the stories we told each other, about how we kept our small, painful world beautiful for each other.
During those days we drank each other in. And I felt free, possibly for the first time in my life. Daphne’s words had been running through my mind: This is about letting him take care of you. Something about Greece made me feel safe to do that, even just a little, to let go, let him in. And even though every once in a while it sent a shock of panic up my spine, I felt like maybe it was part of the reason he appeared to be letting his guard down too. I kind of hated it when Daphne was right.
We would leave the next morning, a Tuesday, and so Monday we lay in bed and made our plans for a perfect last day in paradise. We stayed tangled and daydreaming, planning our meals, planning our swims and our walks, and knowing full well that we probably wouldn’t make it past the pool, we were so hungry for each other.
After Dylan threw my newly purchased bikinis over the balcony in disgust, proclaiming that he preferred me swimming in the nude, and I fake protested, which resulted in us ravishing each other shamelessly right there on the balcony chairs, I decided on a shower.
When I emerged, I was disappointed to find him gone. I slipped on a pale blue linen sundress that tied around my neck, grabbed a big straw hat, and went in search of the man I was now so firmly in love with.
He wasn’t in the house or by the pool. He wasn’t in the gardens. But I finally heard his voice as I walked barefoot down the drive towards the gate.
There he stood, looking stern even if he was shirtless and wearing only a pair of trim blue shorts, and he was talking heatedly into the phone, in what sounded like Russian. He sounded angry, disbelieving, challenging. It was only a moment before he hung up and then immediately dialed another number and put the phone to his ear.
I turned before I could eavesdrop any more. I was curious, but I didn’t want to spy or intrude. I wanted Dylan to tell me whatever needed to be told. So I retreated back to the house and began packing our bags for the return trip home the next day.
That night, as we ate our calamari and fresh tomatoes, our salty feta and herbs, I casually tried to open the conversation.
“I heard you on the phone earlier,” I said, looking at him.
“Did you?” he asked, and I nodded.
“I didn’t know you spoke Russian—is that what that was?”
Dylan nodded.
“Were you talking to someone from that family?” I asked, all of a sudden slightly nervous about this conversation.
“The Bresnovs. Yes. They deny they had anything to do with it, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. I called my father about it,” he started, taking a swig of wine, “and you can imagine how that went. He wants to meet when we get back, but he’ll have to wait until I’m done with the project I’m working on. I’m not going to let him tear me away again.”
“I’m sorry, babe,” I said, frowning in sympathy. We’d had such a nice break from all of this.
“Let’s not worry about it,” he said. “Let’s enjoy this privacy, shall we?” he added, kissing my olive-oil-coated lips. “Which is all I want with you.”
He wasn’t going to tell me the details. He was back in his mode of protecting me from information. Protecting this paradise we’d been living in. I could hear him already—he’d say trust me or you needn’t worry, and I’d be left wondering. Wondering how my whole relationship with him was about escaping secrets, then finding new ones. Tearing down walls between us, only to find others right behind them.