Riptide

Her heart stuttered when she saw him. He lounged on a poolside chair, book in hand and unconcerned with the party of which he was ostensibly a guest. He turned a page languidly, as if he had the rest of his life to sit in the sun and bask in those words.

His shirt was almost open, the loose fabric held together by a single button. The fingers of his free hand played at it, flirted with the thought of undressing. They moved away, removed his sunglasses and carefully folded them on the table beside.

His eyes danced about the party with amused interest until they met her own. They were a warm rock just above the waterline, just out of reach of the crashing surf.

And then she was next to him, with no memory of the journey. For all she knew, her feet skipped across the pool’s surface like a stone winging into the unknown.

Those eyes never wavered. She found herself pulled into their depths by a gentle current until she was lost in an endless sea.

His shirt vanished, revealing soft muscle beneath glowing skin. A sheen of sweat glimmered across his alabaster chest. Tears burned at the sight of him, this Adonis made flesh, this Icarus cresting.

When his lips parted she imagined a voice like oak, but it was really birch – dry, brittle, and blindingly white.

“Have you ever seen Star Trek?”