It wasn't entirely my fault. Well, I'd like to argue that it wasn't my fault at all, though I don't think I'd get away with it. But seriously, I was innocently floating on my back, gazing up at the perfect blue of the sky and I would probably have been happy to stay there all morning and all afternoon.
The problem, though, is that bathing suits don't leave much to the imagination; the Speedo, for example, gives far too much away, but even a relatively baggy pair of shorts is not the most modest item of clothing. And it doesn't matter if you're in the most public place; it's not ever easy to tamp down the natural human reaction to seeing a perfect specimen of the opposite sex, though at least as a woman it's not as embarrassing as it could be.
It had been a quiet week -- boringly so. I guess that is the reward for spending a holiday in a huge resort filled to overflowing with tourists. The locals stay away as much as they can -- they have more interesting things to do -- and too often the tourists are exactly the people one was trying to escape from in the first place.
It was, I had come to realise with regret, the kind of place that deliberately tried to keep its residents -- or inmates, so it felt -- from having to realise they were in a different country. Certainly it had not yet lived up to my colleagues' promise of beautiful men and unbridled sex on the beach. And it seemed like even my quite tame fantasy of a snog or even a dance with some gorgeous Adonis, some tall dark stranger, was more than I could expect to have fulfilled. I was fast running out of time.
The pool water was warm and the sun was just hot enough on my skin for comfort, without feeling like it would bake me to a crisp. My newly purchased string bikini had not attracted the attention I had secretly hoped it would, despite its (for me) daring brevity, but it had at least contributed to my having a nice even tan, even on my belly. I'd braved the topless beach one afternoon, but had been so intimidated by the confident, botoxed, tummy-tucked crew there that avoiding tan lines on my back had just become another unfulfilled fantasy. It had been bad enough being fully dressed at that end of the resort, never mind baring myself to a bunch of strangers.
At least the pool was quiet today, the consequence of a day trip that most of the hotel's residents had taken up; not from some great desire to see the local culture, you understand, but because today's trip was to an enormous mall rumoured to have duty free booze.
Floating in my private, tranquil world, my eyes half closed against the light, I was convinced that if nothing had happened so far, my last couple of days in the place were unlikely to make any difference. So when a shadow fell across my face and I opened my eyes, I didn't immediately imagine that it was a harbinger of change.
I squinted up to see an undefined shadow on the diving board.
"This is dangerous," insisted a voice, the accent proclaiming its owner a native. "You should be paying more attention, I would have landed on you."
As my vision focused and my eyes adjusted to the brightness I squinted up at the figure towering above me.
"I'm not doing anything wrong," I grumbled. I opened my mouth to continue and then stopped dead as I finally took in a little more of the man who was glowering down at me.
The few local guys I had previously come into contact with had all been either ancient taverna landlords or callow pool boys. The youths were undeniably beautiful, but so young that it was easier to want to mother them than to lust over them; and the elderly men were just as sexy as elderly men at home -- that is, not at all. I had despaired, and reluctantly concluded that they must flip from one state to the other with no intervening period of gorgeous manhood, but the evidence to disprove my theory stood over me looking angry and almost painfully hot.
I have to admit that for a few moments what he was saying did not sink in at all; I was too busy catching up on all the ogling I had missed out on for the rest of the week. I was captivated by the long, well muscled thighs, the lean torso, the smooth but firm looking chest; I tried very hard not to check out the bulging package that his relatively modest but still brief and, crucially, wet swimming trunks utterly failed to disguise. Against the bright sky it was impossible to make out the detail of his face, but it was impossible to think that the owner of such a physique would be less than ravishing from the neck up.
It took me a second to realise fully that I was staring -- well, gawping really -- and then I realised that he had asked me a question and that I had entirely missed it.
"I'm sorry, I... what?"
I flushed; OK, so I was starved for eye candy, but I really should be slightly more able to control myself, and being so bedazzled that my ears had actually shut down... well, kind of embarrassing, no?
"I asked, if you are only wishing to sunbathe, why do you not use a sun bed?" he repeated, sounding exasperated. "The swimming pool is for swimming."
He gestured at the array of white plastic loungers, today miraculously free of German and British tourists trying to re-enact vital wins and losses from the second world war by means of the skilful deployment of beach towels.
"I am swimming, I'm... well, I'm floating," I retorted, trying to work out just who this guy was. Most of the local men who worked in the resort were incredibly deferential, no doubt used to awkward foreigners and our unfortunate tendency to get our knickers in a twist about the stupidest things whilst on holiday. After a week of living the picturesquely sanitised life of a paying customer, with the staff living only to keep me happy, it was a strange though not unpleasant experience to have someone who clearly belonged here treat me like a normal, annoying human being who was somehow in the way or otherwise doing something wrong.
"Can you not float in the shallow end?" His tone was acerbic. I decided not to push my luck.
Muttering to myself about show offs, I paddled to the side of the pool where I clambered out inelegantly, giving anyone who cared to look an eyeful of my bum, and then perched for a moment, turning round in time to see Mister Perfection perform (but of course) a textbook dive into the clear water and plough the length of the pool with a strong, efficient front crawl.
I retreated to a lounger and the book which had been sitting on my white fluffy towel (provided by the management, naturally, fresh that morning), but it was pretty difficult to concentrate even on the chick lit (fluffier than my towel) which I had deemed suitable holiday fare. For some strange reason -- who knows why? -- I couldn't help staring at the utterly delectable body powering up and down the water. Well, we all have our weaknesses.
After a while the front crawl changed to a more leisurely backstroke and then to a positively laid back breast stroke (I allowed myself a dirty little snigger and an "if only" sigh at that thought...), at which point it seemed safe (well, ish) to get back in.
Leaving my book, in which I had barely managed to read a paragraph, I made my way back to the water and gingerly lowered myself in. It would feel delicious after a while, but in this warm air it always felt chilly at first. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my gorgeous pool-mate paused at the side, watching me, and was uncomfortably aware of my nipples unashamedly poking through the thin fabric of my bikini.
"It's the cold water, it has nothing to do with you," I wanted to explain, but I was not even sure that was true. There was nothing much I could do and instead I slipped the last couple of inches down into the water more rapidly to cover up my body's betrayal.
His eyes stayed on me and I decided I should play it safe. Instead of floating along as I had before I begrudgingly fell into my own rather stately breaststroke, my head held high out of the water to save my hair from the worst of the chlorine. I had no doubt that after his swimming display he would be rather disparaging about the old-lady-style swimming, but gorgeous as he was I wasn't about to mess up my hair for him. Or so I thought.
The caress of the water against my skin and the sun reflecting off the ripples of the water was pleasant and after a short while I forgot to be self-conscious and just ambled along. I had even managed to forget about my company when, as I swam along, I felt hands on my skin -- one on my belly, one on my back -- gently but firmly tilting me forwards.
"You need to let your head under the water," said a familiar voice, but with the shock of being disturbed from my tranquil swim I lost the plot swimming wise and tried to right myself and stand up to tell this perfect stranger exactly where he could stick his swimming advice. Unfortunately I had not realised I was approaching the deep end; trying to stand up in almost six feet of water when one is barely five foot five is not something I would recommend.
After a few confused seconds I surfaced, coughing and spluttering, holding on tightly to the nearest solid object while I got my breath back. It took me a few seconds to realise that the solid object was my would-be swimming teacher, and that I had one hand wrapped tightly round a bicep and the other on his chest; it probably would have gratified me to realise that his nipple under my palm was at least as hard as my own if I hadn't just tried to drown myself in front of him.
I looked up crossly into his face. "Just what the fuck were you trying to...?"
He cocked his head to one side as I momentarily trailed off, speechless. Damn, he was fine. I had assumed that he would be beautiful; nothing had prepared me for exactly how beautiful. Unbelievably dark eyes, mid brown smooth, soft skin, sensual mouth, strong jaw, a shadow of stubble sprinkling his cheeks and chin, and a mass of black hair, soaked from the pool but curling slightly at his neck and temples where it had started to dry in the sun. He was a walking wet dream.
It struck me that no man should be allowed to have eyelashes that lustrous or a mouth that full, or at least if he did he should not be allowed to possess them and yet at the same time look so masculine and so knicker-meltingly sexy. He raised an eyebrow and half smiled, revealing a glimpse of perfect white teeth, but his obvious pleasure in my slight discomfort was the stimulus I needed to remind myself that I was furious with him.
