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The water rushed around them, chasing their ankles, its fervent pursuit matched by the coursing of blood in their veins.
Hannah couldn’t have said if he pulled her to the sand or if she pulled him, but she was lying down then, her back against the cold ground, her legs bent, Leonidas’s body on hers, just as she’d fantasised about, his weight sheer bliss.
His kiss didn’t relent, even as his hands pushed her shirt up, revealing the scrap of her underwear.
He disposed of them and then his own shorts, lifting himself up to look at her, his eyes piercing her, confusion and something else moving through him.
‘I told myself we wouldn’t do this,’ he groaned, his voice tormented.
She bit down on her lower lip, her own heart tripping in her chest as his arousal nudged at her sex.
‘Why not?’
His answer was to nudge his arousal inside her, and she moaned low in her throat as she felt the power of his possession. It had been five months but her body welcomed him back as though he were her saviour. She arched her back instinctively, needing more, and he drove himself deeper, pushed up on his elbows so he could see her, watch her, as well as feel her reactions.
Her insides squeezed him tight, muscles convulsing around him as he stretched her body to accommodate his length.
‘What are you doing to me?’ he groaned, and then said something in his native tongue, the words, spiced and warm, flickering inside her blood.
‘I don’t know but you’re doing it right back,’ she whispered, digging her nails into his shoulders before running them lower, finding the edge of his shirt and lifting it, trailing her fingertips over his back, feeling his smooth, warm skin beneath her and revelling in the contact.
Higher the shirt went, until he pushed up off one arm, ripping it from his body and casting it aside, so that he was naked on top of her. She wanted to stare at him, but she was incapable of forming the words to demand that when he was moving inside her, his body calling to hers, demanding her response, invoking ancient, soul-deep rhythms and needs.
‘Christós...’ The word was dark, a curse and a plea. His expression was taut as he looked down at her, unable to fathom her, this, them. ‘Who are you?’
There was no answer she could give; the question made little sense.
He didn’t require an answer, in any event. He moved faster then, his hands cupping her breasts, his mouth possessing hers as he kissed her until she saw stars and his hard arousal thrust deep inside her and everything she was in the past and would be in the future seemed to be coalescing in that one single, fragile moment.
She dug her nails into the curve of his buttock as pleasure pounded against her, like one of those waves from her faraway childhood, incessant, demanding, ancient. She cried his name and he stilled, his body heavy on hers, but as she exploded with pleasure her muscles squeezed him tight and Leonidas dropped his arms to his side, holding himself steady above her, staring down at her, watching every last second of delirium take over her body.
He stared at her so that when she blinked her eyes open, her own disorientation at what had just happened filling her with uncertainty, he saw it and he dropped his head, kissing her again, as though he knew how much she needed it.
It was a brief reprieve, nothing more. She’d been drowned by their passion and then emerged for air, and now Leonidas was taking her back under with him, tangling her in his limbs, his hands roaming all of her body now, until he curved them behind her bottom and lifted her a little off the sand, so his arousal reached even deeper and she found insanity was once more in pursuit.
His name tripped off her tongue, pushing into his mouth. With every thrust of his arousal, his body tightened, his buttocks squeezing, his muscles firm. She felt him beneath her palms, all of him, and then he moved faster, deeper and she was lifting into the heavens again, her body weightless and powerless to resist.
He moved inside her and she called his name as she burst apart at the seams, Leonidas, over and over. She called to him—willing him to answer—and he did. He tangled his fingers through hers, lifting Hannah’s arms up above her head, his eyes on hers intense as his own explosion wracked his body, his release simultaneous with hers.
Their breath was frantic, louder than the ocean and the flapping of birds overhead, their exhalations thick and raspy, drenched in urgency. Pleasure had made her lungs expire. He lay on top of her and she ran her fingers down his back, still mesmerised by the feeling of his skin, and this: the closeness, the weight, the intimacy.
It lasted only seconds, and then Leonidas was rolling off, beside Hannah, onto his back on the sand beside her, staring at the dawn sky.
‘Christós...’ He said the word low and thick. ‘What are you?’
Again, a question that was almost impossible to answer. He turned his head to stare at her and there was confusion in his eyes, and a look of resignation.
‘What do you mean?’
He reached out as though he couldn’t help himself, his fingers catching a thick section of her hair and running through it, his eyes on the brassy tones.
‘Are you real?’
The question made no sense.
She raised an eyebrow, propping up on one elbow, a smile tugging at her lips. ‘I’m pretty sure I am.’
He didn’t smile. ‘I swore we wouldn’t do this.’
