We pulled into The Meridian just after ten. Already the sky was too blue, too cloudless, the kind of morning people post online with casual captions like escape or earned it.
We arrived in a black SUV—rented, but dressed up with a driver, because appearances mattered. Always had.
A valet opened the door and said, “Welcome back, Dr. and Mrs. Saroyan,” like it was muscle memory.
I stepped out last.
My sneakers hit the drive awkwardly. My shirt was creased from the three-hour ride, and I already hated the way the air clung to me—perfumed, manufactured, expensive. There were white umbrellas dotting the pool deck, sleek electric carts ferrying guests past water features and manicured palms, and bellboys in pressed linen moving like ghosts through glass.
I was overdressed. Underdressed. I didn’t know which. Probably both.
My mother’s heels clicked beside me.
“Smile, sweetheart,” she said. “You look sullen.”
“I am sullen.”
“Then be sullen quietly.”
She kissed my cheek like a finishing move, then turned toward the concierge with her practiced, gracious smile. My father was already halfway through a conversation about the wine list. I stood there for a moment, feeling like luggage they hadn’t meant to pack.
When I finally followed them inside, the air was cold and clinical and smelled like eucalyptus.
Check-in was fast. Efficient. No one made a scene—not even when my mother turned to me and said, all sweetness and light, “We’ve booked you private tennis training. Their top coach. You’ll love him.”
I blinked. “You what?”
“He’s very good. We met him last summer.”
“I don’t play tennis.”
“You’ll learn. That’s what lessons are for.”
She smiled like it was a gift, not a bribe.
And that was that.
I spent the rest of the morning trying to memorize the resort map and avoid eye contact with the other guests. There were too many of them: barefoot kids with yacht-club tans, couples in matching linen, men in salmon shorts laughing too loud about things that probably weren’t funny.
By the time noon rolled around and I made my way to Court 3—sunscreened, begrudging, and quietly plotting revenge—I already knew I wasn’t going to like this summer.
Then the coach turned around the corner.
And everything after that got...complicated.
He was taller than I expected. Athletic, but not in that rigid, gym-perfect way—more like he’d grown into himself outdoors, under the sun, all quiet muscle and easy movement. His shirt was faded and fitted, sleeves pushed up like he hadn’t thought twice about it. His skin was tan, his hair sun-lightened, and when his eyes swept the court and landed on me, I forgot how to hold my breath.
He didn’t smile right away. Just tilted his head a little, like he was reading me. Like he already knew I didn’t want to be there and didn’t care—or maybe cared more than he should’ve.
I straightened instinctively. Too fast. My grip on the racket felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.
He crossed the court toward me, and every step sent a strange pulse up the back of my neck. I hated that I noticed. I hated even more that I didn’t want to look away.
Part of me wanted to pretend I didn’t know why I couldn’t look away. But I did. I’d spent years circling the truth, calling it confusion when it was really just fear. Girls had always been easier to explain—I could appreciate them, even date them, without ever crossing into anything that felt real. But with guys? It wasn’t appreciation. It was heat. It was want. It was the kind of tension I couldn’t dress up or disguise. I’d kissed girls, sure, but I’d never gone further. Not because I was shy—because it never felt right. And now, nineteen and still technically a virgin, here I was, heart pounding over a guy I couldn’t stop watching. A guy I knew I shouldn’t want.
And there he was—tanned arms, crooked ease, that quiet confidence that made something in my chest lock up. Whatever I’d been trying to downplay, bury, ignore—none of it stood a chance now. Not with him walking toward me like that. Not with me wanting him the way I did.
He stopped a few feet in front of me and gave a small nod. "You Gabriel?"
His voice was lower than I expected. Calm. Like nothing could shake him.
I swallowed. "Yeah. Gabe, actually."
He extended a hand. “I’m Wilder Higgins. But most people just call me Wiles."
I shook it before I could think too hard about it. His hand was warm, his grip easy. Not too firm, not too soft. Perfect, basically. Which only made me more aware of my own clammy palm and awkward stance.
"You play much?" he asked.
I gave a short laugh. "Not unless Wii Sports counts."
He grinned, and it hit me like a second sun.
"Alright then," he said, turning toward the rack of spare racquets. "Let’s start from the beginning."
The lesson itself was... rough. Not because he was harsh—he wasn’t. If anything, Wiles was patient to a fault. But I couldn’t stop overthinking every movement, every glance, every time he adjusted my grip. My forehand was a disaster. My backhand was worse. He made me run drills, chase down balls I missed by feet, and walk through my stance like I was learning to walk all over again.
Still, he never made me feel stupid. Just corrected gently, over and over, until something started to click.
“Better,” he said once, after I finally landed a serve that didn’t embarrass us both.
I wasn’t sure if he meant the serve or the way I’d stopped flinching when he stood too close.
By the end of the hour, I was drenched, breathless, and sore in places I didn’t know had muscles. But I didn’t hate it. Not entirely.
And the worst part?
I wanted another lesson.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I blurted—too quickly, too brightly.
The words hung there, and I instantly regretted them. But if he noticed, he didn’t show it. He just gave a small nod and turned away, already walking off like he hadn’t just short-circuited my entire day.
I made it back to the room on autopilot, still half-wired from the lesson. My shirt clung to my back, my hair stuck to my forehead, and I couldn’t stop replaying the way his hand had settled over mine—confident, casual, like it belonged there.
The resort bathroom was ridiculous. All glass and stone and water pressure that could strip paint. I stepped into the shower and let the heat scald me clean, but it didn’t do a damn thing to clear my head.
Wiles had barely touched me. But somehow, every part of me felt rearranged.
I leaned against the tile and let the water hit the back of my neck. My mind kept returning to the sound of his voice, the way his eyes flicked down when he thought I wasn’t looking, the low heat in his grin when I cracked that Wii Sports joke.
It wasn’t just attraction—it was spark. Immediate. Disarming.
And dangerous as hell.
Before I could stop myself, my hand was already around my cock—stiff, aching, embarrassingly eager. The rush of the shower only made it worse. Every drop hit like a memory: the way his hand closed over mine, the heat of his body behind me, that low, steady voice telling me to loosen my grip. I stroked once, then again—slow, uncertain, like I could still pretend this was just about the tension. But it wasn’t. I wanted him. Wanted the way he looked at me like he could see something I hadn’t dared say out loud. I bit down on a groan and kept going, chasing the edge like it might tell me something true.
I couldn’t keep quiet—not with the way it built, fast and hot and everywhere. I was moaning now, breath hitching with each stroke, and all I could think—through the fog and the steam and the aching want—was thank God my parents had sprung for my own suite.
After a few more desperate strokes and the image of Wiles pressed behind me flashing like lightning in my mind, I came hard—spilling my load across the tile as the water caught it, swept it down the drain, and left me breathless and trembling in the steam.
Eventually, I rinsed off, stepped out, and toweled down in the oversized bathroom that looked more like a spa than a hotel room. My hands still shook a little as I dressed—casual clothes, linen shirt, loafers with no socks. It felt like a costume, like I was trying too hard to look like I belonged here.
I checked my reflection twice before I left. Tried not to look like someone who had just gotten off in the shower thinking about his tennis coach.
My parents were already waiting downstairs in the dining lounge—drinks in hand, napkins perfectly folded, smiling like they were auditioning for their own vacation brochure.
"How was the lesson?" my mother asked the moment I sat down.
I froze for a half second, just long enough for her to notice.
"Good," I said, maybe too fast. "It was... a workout. He’s thorough."
She arched a perfectly plucked brow. "‘Thorough’ sounds promising. Is he nice?"
I reached for my water, stalling. "Yeah. Seems like a good guy. Patient."
My dad was already looking at the wine list again, but she kept her gaze on me—reading too much, as usual.
"Well, just try to enjoy it, darling. It’s good to be coached by someone who knows what they’re doing."
I nodded and kept my face neutral. Said nothing about the way Wiles’ hands had felt on mine.
As we ate, my dad launched into one of his cheerful monologues about all the things we’d get to do this summer—sunset sailing excursions, private art tours, a beach bonfire hosted by one of the resort’s celebrity chefs. My mom nodded along, already mentally color-coding the itinerary.
But I barely heard any of it.
I was still stuck on the hour I’d just spent on the court, on the way Wiles had looked at me like I wasn’t just another rich kid burning daylight.
And then—
I saw him.
Just a few tables over, walking with a group of other staff in resort polos and name tags. He wasn’t looking for me, but my heart still jumped like he had. Like the entire dining room had shifted sideways.
He caught sight of our table—just barely—and his eyes brushed mine for the briefest moment before he looked away.
I stared at the rim of my water glass, trying not to smile.
"We could always look into something else," my dad was saying. "If you’re not feeling the tennis thing—there’s sailing, or diving lessons. No pressure."
I snapped back to the conversation too fast. "No, I—I want to stick with it. Give it a real go."
He looked mildly surprised, then pleased. "Alright then. Good to see you open to something new."
I nodded, trying to play it cool while my pulse betrayed me completely. I wasn’t thinking about tennis. Not really.
The next morning, I showed up ten minutes early.
Court 3 was still empty, the sun barely cresting over the line of palms beyond the fence. The air was heavy with salt and warmth, but the heat hadn’t settled yet. It was quiet—just the faint hum of resort sprinklers and the distant clink of breakfast silverware drifting from the dining terrace.
I paced a little. Stretched. Tried to look casual.
I hadn’t even told myself I was going to be early. I just...was. I’d eaten fast, thrown on the first clean clothes I could find, and practically speed-walked my way down to the courts like some overeager freshman with a crush on their TA.
The worst part was, I knew that’s what this was now. I wasn’t pretending it was just about the sport anymore.
I sat on the bench near the back fence and drank from my water bottle, watching shadows creep across the clay. I kept checking the path that wound up toward the staff housing, looking for movement. Looking for him.
Every second ticked louder than it should’ve.
Then he showed up.
Wiles rounded the far corner of the court with his racket bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp like he’d just showered, eyes catching mine immediately—like he’d been looking for me too. For a split second, I pictured him naked in that same shower, water sliding down his chest, and felt a sharp tingle in my shorts that made me shift where I stood.
“Hey,” he said, flashing that easy, sun-warmed grin. “You came back.”
I stood too fast. “Yeah. Of course.”
He dropped his bag by the bench and stretched his arms overhead. “A lot of people bail after the first lesson. Blisters, bruised pride, or just bored.”
“I’m not most people,” I said before I could stop myself.
That made him pause. Just for a second. Then he smiled again—smaller this time. Like he was trying not to let it mean too much.
“Good,” he said. “I was hoping you’d show.”
We got started quickly after that. Wiles tossed me a racket and motioned for me to take the baseline while he retrieved a hopper full of balls. The sun was climbing fast, warming the court, and I could already feel sweat gathering at the back of my neck. But I welcomed the burn. It gave me something to focus on that wasn’t the way his shirt clung to his back when he moved.
He fed me balls, one after another—clean, efficient, rhythmic. I wasn’t great, but I was better than yesterday. My footwork still sucked, and I kept overthinking the swing, but something about his calm, clipped feedback made it easier to try without spiraling.
“Looser on the follow-through,” he called out. “You’re muscling it.”
I nodded, exhaled, and tried again.
The ball flew wide.
He walked over.
“Here,” he said, stepping into my space before I could think too hard about it. “It’s your grip. You’re tensing before contact.”
He reached down, hands closing around mine—adjusting the angle of my wrist, shifting my fingers just slightly along the handle.
It was professional. Quick.
But his skin was warm. His touch firm and focused.
And when I looked up, his face was closer than I expected.
We both went still for half a breath.
“Like that,” he said quietly, letting go.
My racket hand felt like it was still holding him.
We kept going for another twenty minutes before Wiles called for a break.
I dropped to the bench, dragging the hem of my shirt up to wipe sweat from my face. Wiles tossed me a cold bottle from the cooler, then sat on the court beside the fence, arms resting loosely over his knees.
“Not bad,” he said. “You’re picking it up quicker than most.”
“That a compliment or just something you say to keep people from quitting?”
He grinned. “Little of both.”
I took a long sip of water, letting the silence settle for a beat before I spoke again.
“So… do you teach all summer?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Since I was seventeen. Helps cover school and keeps me from losing my mind in the off-season.”
“Where do you go?”
“Stony Brook. Junior year coming up. Kinesiology.”
I nodded, surprised at how normal that made him feel—less untouchable, more real.
“You?” he asked.
“Columbia. Rising sophomore.”
“Big city,” he said. “You like it?”
“I think so. Sometimes it’s too much. But other times it’s… exactly right.”
He gave me a look that was hard to read. Curious, maybe. Or just thoughtful.
“Never been,” he said. “City like that, you either get eaten alive or figure out how to run the place.”
I smirked. “What if you’re doing both?”
That made him laugh—quiet and honest—and something in my chest eased.
“So does that leave you time for a personal life, ya know friends, dating?” I asked changing the subject. “You must get hit on constantly down here.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “What makes you think that?”
I shrugged. “You’re tan, patient, good with your hands. It’s not exactly a mystery.”
Wiles shook his head, still grinning. “You’re definitely single.”
That caught me off guard. “What gave it away?”
He peeled at the label on his water bottle. “Most of the couples here are off doing couples things. You wouldn’t be sweating through backhand drills if you had someone waiting in a cabana with cocktails.”
I laughed. “Fair.”
He gave me a quick look, half-teasing, half-searching. “You seem more interested in the drills anyway.”
My throat went dry. “Something like that.”
He smiled again—slow, quiet—and I couldn’t look away.
Wiles stood, brushing his hands off on his shorts. “Break’s over.”
I groaned lightly, mostly for show, and followed him back onto the court.
The sun was higher now, the court hotter, the air thicker—but none of it mattered. Not with him just a few feet away, calling out cues, tossing balls with that easy precision.
We worked on volleys this time. Footwork, angle, control. He didn’t go easy on me, and I liked that—needed it. Needed to push my body until my head quieted.
Still, I couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of my eye—how he moved, how he watched me. Like he saw everything. Like he didn’t miss a single thing I gave away.
A few volleys later, he paused and ran a hand through his hair, squinting up at the sun.
“Mind if I lose the shirt?” he asked.
I blinked. “Why do you need permission?”
He grinned, already tugging at the hem. “Just being cautious. Don’t wanna make you uncomfortable and have you rat me out to my bosses for indecent exposure or something.”
My mouth went dry as the fabric peeled over his head, revealing sun-bronzed skin, sweat-slick and lean.
“Pretty sure that’s not in the handbook,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice steady.
He just laughed and grabbed another ball.
We volleyed a bit longer—him shirtless and loose, me trying not to let it show how distracted I was—until I finally called out, “So when you’re not out here teaching people with no hand-eye coordination, what do you do?”
He caught the next ball cleanly and leaned on his racket. “You mean when I’m not single-handedly shaping the next generation of tennis greats?”
I smirked. “Exactly.”
He thought for a second, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Honestly? Not a whole lot,” he said. “Gym, ocean when I can sneak down to it, books if I can stay awake long enough. Sometimes I drive into town just to sit somewhere that doesn’t smell like sunscreen.”
“Thrilling,” I said.
“You’d be amazed,” he replied. “This place can get... quiet. Even when it’s packed. You start to crave anything that doesn’t feel curated.”
I nodded, and for a beat, neither of us said anything.
“And you?” he added, bouncing the ball once. “What’s a Columbia sophomore do when he’s not pretending to hate tennis?”
I laughed. “Read too much. Overthink things. Get tongue-tied around people who look like they belong in cologne ads.”
That made him snort. “You seem to be managing just fine.”
“Barely.”
His eyes caught mine again, steady and warm. “Still showing up, though.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Still showing up.”
We hit for a few more minutes after that—nothing too intense, just an easy rally to wind things down. My limbs were sore, my shirt clung to me, and the sun had officially taken over the court. Wiles finally raised a hand to call it.
“Let’s pick it up tomorrow,” he said, voice light but a little rough from the heat.
I nodded, trying not to stare as he packed up. He grabbed his shirt but didn’t put it on, just slung it over his shoulder like an afterthought.
Then he turned and started walking off the court, heading toward the far side gate. I watched every muscle shift under his skin as he moved—shoulders, back, the line of his waist disappearing beneath those loose, low-slung shorts.
Just before he reached the corner, he glanced back.
It wasn’t casual.
Not exactly a signal—but close. A flicker of something that felt like invitation. Or permission.
I blinked, caught between impulse and heat. Then I followed him.
The narrow space behind the courts was shaded and quiet, lined with a row of locked bins and an open shed where they stored the extra racquets and ball carts.
Wiles was already there—back to me, still shirtless, still not pretending to be in a rush.
When he heard me step inside, he didn’t turn around right away.
He just waited.
The shed smelled like sun-warmed rubber and clay dust, the kind of air that clung to your skin. I hovered near the entrance for a second, unsure if I should say something—or touch him—or just walk away like none of this meant anything.
But he turned, finally.
His expression was unreadable. Not surprised. Not inviting, either. Just… open. Like he was letting me fill the silence.
“You didn’t have to follow me,” he said.
“I know.”
We stood there, neither of us moving.
“Thought you’d want to cool off,” he added.
“I’m not really in a hurry,” I said. “Are you?”
His eyes scanned mine. “Depends.”
I shifted closer. “On what?”
He let out a slow breath. “On what this is.”
I didn’t answer right away. My heart was too loud in my chest, my mouth dry. But then the truth pushed up, simple and raw.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.
Because Wiles did.
“I think about you,” he said quietly. “Too much. More than I should.”
I blinked.
He ran a hand through his hair, not looking at me. “I’m not supposed to. You’re a guest. You’ve got your whole life mapped out, probably. And I’m just—here. Sweaty, underpaid, temporary.”
I took a step closer, heart hammering.
“It’s not just a crush,” he said. Then, softer, “I don’t really know what it is yet.”
I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was in shock—like I’d misheard him, like there was no way this moment was real. But the other part… the other part felt the kind of relief that hits so hard it almost hurts.
Because I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t alone in it.
I nodded once, careful, like anything louder might break whatever this was. “Yeah,” I said. “Me neither.”
Wiles shifted, suddenly a little restless. He scratched the back of his neck, glanced toward the open door, then back at me.
“I mean—we only just met,” he said, words spilling fast now. “You’re here for, what, a week? Two? I should know better. I do know better. I’m not—”
I didn’t let him finish.
I stepped forward, closed the space between us, and kissed him.
It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real. And when his lips caught mine—hesitant for half a second, then sure—he kissed me back like he’d been waiting for it.
His lips were softer than I expected.
Not tentative—just careful. Like he didn’t want to rush something that had already burned through every boundary.
My hand found his waist. Warm skin, tight muscle, the kind of contact that grounded me even as everything else felt electric. He pressed closer, just enough to let me know this wasn’t one-sided, that the heat between us wasn’t imagined.
His breath caught when I kissed him harder. That sound—quiet and real—slipped straight down my spine.
I could taste the salt on his skin, the faint sharpness of Gatorade on his tongue. Everything about him was warm, sunlit, alive.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t step away.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” he said, voice low.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Me neither.”
We stayed close. Barely touching, but still tethered.
He glanced toward the doorway, then back at me, quieter now.
“If we get caught,” he said, “I’m getting fired.”
The words weren’t angry. Just honest.
I held his gaze. “I know.”
He nodded once, almost like he regretted saying it. But then he didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.
“Just… had to say it out loud,” he added.
I didn’t answer. Not with words.
I stepped in again and kissed him—deeper this time. Slower, but with more behind it. My hands slid to his waist, then up, mapping the shape of him. Wiles leaned into it without hesitation, one hand curling lightly at the back of my neck, the other pressing to my side.
His skin was warm and slick under my fingertips. He tasted like heat and salt and something that had nothing to do with summer and everything to do with want.
The kiss stretched—messier, hungrier, no longer just curiosity or impulse. It felt like permission finally given. Like we’d both stopped pretending there was a line we weren’t going to cross.
Then his phone buzzed.
He pulled back with a soft groan, forehead resting against mine for a breath before he reached for it.
“Shit,” he muttered. “I’ve gotta go. Staff meeting. I’m already late.”
I nodded, trying not to look as dazed as I felt. “Yeah. No, go. I, uh… probably need a shower anyway.”
That made him smirk as he stepped back, slipping his shirt over one shoulder.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You will.”
He hesitated for a second longer, then turned and disappeared around the corner. I didn’t want to leave. And judging by the way his fingers brushed my wrist, neither did he.
And I stood there alone, heartbeat still racing, lips still warm from his.
Back in my room, fresh out of the shower, I collapsed onto the bed with a towel still hanging around my shoulders. My hair was damp, my skin clean, but nothing about me felt settled.
On one hand, that had been... incredible. Charged. Real in a way I hadn’t expected.
On the other, this was still vacation.
A place I’d leave. A life I’d go back to.
And I didn’t know what to do with any of that.
On one hand, Wiles was easily the hottest guy I’d seen in a long time—maybe ever. But it wasn’t just about looks. It was the way he talked, the way he moved, the way he made space feel different when he was in it. He was the kind of guy I always noticed but never let myself linger on. Until now.
And that was the thing—the elephant in the room.
I’d never done anything like that before. Never kissed a guy. Never touched one like that. Never wanted someone like that and actually acted on it.
It wasn’t fear, exactly. Just… new. Huge. Real in a way that felt too big to fit inside this rented room with its hotel linens and perfect air conditioning.
Lunch was on the terrace with my parents, under a canopy of white umbrellas and the low hum of polite resort chatter. My mom spent twenty uninterrupted minutes describing the chakra cleanse she’d done that morning. Something about sound bowls and eucalyptus and a practitioner named Jasper who’d told her her sacral energy was blocked.
I nodded in all the right places, chewed slowly, and scanned the resort staff like it was a reflex.
I didn’t see him.
Every time someone in a polo passed, my pulse ticked up a little. And then fell again.
It wasn’t like I expected him to drop a tray and run over. But still—I was looking. Hoping.
And I couldn’t decide if that made me eager or just pathetic.
Later that evening, as the sun was setting, I sat on the beach with my legs stretched out and the tide rolling in just far enough to kiss my ankles. The sky had gone full watercolor—blush and gold smudging into blue. The breeze smelled like salt and sunscreen and driftwood, and for the first time all day, it was quiet.
Just me and the water.
I curled my toes into the sand and watched the waves crawl up and retreat again, slow and deliberate like the ocean didn’t care who was watching. I’d spent the whole day trying to distract myself. Now there was no one left to pretend for.
And then I heard footsteps—slow, steady, crunching over the sand. I didn’t turn right away. Something in me already knew.
Wiles sat down beside me without a word. Close, but not too close. Just enough that I could feel the warmth of him beside me, even with the breeze.
Neither of us said anything at first. We just stared out at the water like it might explain something we couldn’t.
Finally, I glanced over. "Hey."
He gave me a small smile. "Hey."
I let a few more waves pass before I spoke again. "I don’t get it," I said quietly.
He turned to look at me. "Get what?"
"You. This. The way I feel when I’m around you. I’m... really attracted to you." I exhaled. "And I don’t totally understand it. It doesn’t make sense—not in the way I thought things like this were supposed to."
Wiles didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to fill the space too fast. He just nodded, like he already knew.
"You don’t have to explain it to me," he said. "I get it."
I looked at him—really looked—and for the first time all day, I felt something steady in my chest.
He understood me.
I hesitated, then added, "There’s something else."
He waited.
"Today... that kiss—that was the first time I ever kissed a guy."
Wiles’ expression didn’t change much. Just softened.
"Yeah?"
I nodded, heart thudding.
"You didn’t seem like it," he said gently.
"I was faking it. Mostly."
He gave a quiet laugh. "You didn’t have to."
I looked down at the sand. "I know."
He bumped his shoulder lightly against mine. "You did good."
And just like that, I could breathe again.
Wiles was quiet for a moment, then asked, "So you’ve only been with girls?"
I swallowed. "Not exactly."
He glanced at me, curious.
"I’m a virgin," I said. "In every way that counts."
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t look surprised. Just nodded, thoughtful.
"Thanks for telling me," he said.
And somehow, that made it feel less like a confession and more like a truth I didn’t have to hide.
The tide had crept up higher, the water lapping just below my waist now, cool and insistent. A shiver chased down my spine as it seeped into my shorts. I stretched my leg out lazily, pretending it was about comfort.
Wiles looked over both shoulders, scanning the beach.
Then—quietly, like it didn’t mean everything—he draped his leg over mine.
My skin buzzed at the contact, every nerve suddenly awake. We stayed like that, still and silent, but I could feel the pulse in my throat, in my fingertips, everywhere.
When I glanced at him, he wasn’t watching the waves.
He was watching me.
Or more specifically—the growing shape in my shorts.
His eyes lingered for just a beat before he looked away, like he hadn’t meant to get caught.
But he didn’t move his leg.
“So you’ve never done anything with a guy?” he asked, voice low. “Not even a little?”
I shook my head, slower than I meant to. “No.”
His gaze held mine. “Do you want to?”
I didn’t speak. Just gave the smallest nod.
He shifted slightly, his hand finding my thigh first—testing, waiting. Then he moved higher, cupping me through my shorts. I wasn’t fully hard, but the contact sent a jolt through me.
I looked down, caught the subtle swell in his own shorts. This wasn’t one-sided. That made it more real—and somehow more dizzying.
My thoughts were a tangled blur, each one crashing into the next, but then he gave a slow, gentle squeeze.
A sound escaped me—half breath, half moan. Raw and startled.
He didn’t let go.
“Have you seen one—ya know, up close?”
“Huh?” I blinked, losing my train of thought.
“Another guy’s dick?”
“Oh—um—no, not really.”
“Do you want to see it?” he asked, voice just above a whisper.
How do you say Yeah, absolutely without sounding like you’ve been dreaming about it for years? I didn’t try to play it cool. Wiles was over six feet tall, every inch of him cut and confident—of course I wanted to see it.
I smiled, heart hammering. “Would you show me if I said yes?”
“I would.”
“Then show me,” I said. My cock throbbed under his hand.
He glanced around once more, quick and practiced. Then, without hesitation, he tugged the leg of his shorts up and out of the way.
And there it was.
It sprang free with an unapologetic twitch, hard and thick and impossible to look away from.
Damn. It had to be every bit of eight and a half inches—thick, cut, heavy enough to command attention. How the hell had he been hiding that in tennis shorts? I repeat—damn. I couldn’t stop staring. His hand never left me, now massaging my cock through my shorts with a kind of quiet intensity that made it hard to think.
Carefully—like I was trying not to break the moment—I slid my shorts down just enough to free myself, letting my cock spring out into the cool air between us.
We were half-submerged by the tide. From behind, we’d look like two guys watching the waves. But up close, it was a different story entirely.
I laid my hand on his thigh—firm muscle, warm skin—and the jolt of contact nearly stole my breath. The tension between us, already coiled tight, buzzed louder with every second I lingered. I started at the base, my fingers wrapping carefully around the thick shaft, then slid higher, feeling him twitch beneath my grip as I stroked up the length of his cock.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice ragged.
He inhaled sharply and placed his hand over mine—guiding, steadying, holding.
That simple pressure, the weight of him, the heat—we both felt it. I nearly lost it right then.
Then his hand moved—unhurried, deliberate—and wrapped around my cock, bare now, hot and certain.
"God, you feel good," he murmured, like he couldn’t help it.
It wasn’t a tease. It wasn’t cautious. It was a full claim, and my body reacted before my mind could catch up.
I pumped him slowly, feeling the tension build in his thighs. He returned the rhythm, his grip sure but careful, as if we had all night—even if we didn’t.
"This okay?" he asked, breath warm against my cheek.
I nodded. "More than okay."
Our hands kept moving, slipping and stroking in tandem. The sound of the waves masked everything but the quickening of our breath, the occasional hiss between clenched teeth.
He leaned in again, lips brushing my neck. "You’re shaking," he whispered.
"I know," I breathed. "I can’t stop."
"Don’t. I like it."
We kept stroking—slow, steady, careful.
The tide lapped against our thighs like it was in on the secret. Our hands moved in sync, slick with salt and want, edging closer with every pass. Neither of us said much, just the occasional grunt or whispered curse, but it was enough. It was everything.
I was so close—hips twitching, jaw clenched, breath a broken rhythm. Wiles must’ve felt it. His hand slowed, easing the pressure.
I whimpered without meaning to.
He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. "Not yet."
I nodded, my whole body strung tight like a bow.
We kept going. A little more. Then backed off again. Back and forth. On the edge of everything and holding there. It was torture—but the kind that made your toes curl and your thoughts short-circuit.
"You ever done this before?" he murmured.
"What—this? No. Never."
"Edging. Letting it build without tipping over. Sometimes getting there is better than going there."
I could barely form a reply. My whole body buzzed, electric with need.
He smiled, and it was wicked. "You’ll see."
Another stroke. Another pause. Another surge that stopped just before the fall.
And somewhere in all that restraint, I started to get it—the tease, the tension, the pleasure of almost.
Dinner was a quiet affair, at least at first. The soft clink of cutlery, the low murmur of other tables, and the ocean breeze threading through the open-air dining room.
I poked at my grilled fish, not really tasting it. My mind was still back on the beach—on saltwater and skin and the way Wiles had looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
My mom took a sip of her wine, eyes twinkling. "So? How’s tennis going?"
I froze for half a second, then glanced up. "Good."
She raised a brow. "Just good? We’re paying for a top-tier coach, you know."
My dad chuckled. "He means he’s enjoying it. Right, Gabe?"
I nodded quickly. "Yeah. I am. Actually, I think I want to stick with it. For real."
That caught them both off guard. My mom tilted her head, pleased but surprised. "Really? That’s…unexpected."
I shrugged, trying to sound casual. "Wiles—Coach Higgins—is good. Patient. Makes it fun."
My dad nodded approvingly. "Well, if he’s got you enjoying a sport, he must be a miracle worker."
They moved on to other topics, but I only half-listened. My body was still humming with memory, my skin still tingling from touches that hadn’t fully faded.
And across the dining patio, I caught sight of Wiles clearing glasses at a corner table—hair still damp from a shower, eyes flicking toward me for just a second before he turned away.
Just a second.
But it was enough to send my heart sprinting again.
The week and a half that followed blurred in the best kind of way.
Every morning started with tennis—always Court 3, always Wiles. The lessons were real, sure—my backhand improved, my serve stopped being a total joke—but it was everything in between that mattered more. The way his hand would sometimes linger a beat too long when adjusting my grip. The way our eyes would meet just a second longer than they had to. The heat of the sun had nothing on the pull between us.
And after the lessons, when the resort days unfolded with poolside lunches, spa bookings, and wine tastings I couldn’t care less about, we found ways to steal time. A walk along the beach at dusk. A shared snack behind the equipment shed. Texts that started playful and turned bold fast.
Wiles: You gonna be at the beach tonight?
Me: If you’re there.
Wiles: Wear those shorts again. You know the ones.
Me: You mean the ones you can’t stop staring at?
Wiles: Bingo.
Evenings were where it all stretched and blurred. We’d meet near the dunes just past the boardwalk, where the sand was cooler and the beach was mostly empty. Sometimes we just talked. About school, about the future, about why it felt easier to be honest with each other in the dark. Other times, we didn’t talk at all.
His hands knew where to go. Mine followed, eager and new. It never went all the way, but it never stayed innocent either. We edged, we laughed, we kissed until we couldn’t breathe, and then we’d part ways like it hadn’t happened. Like no one could see the heat under my skin the next morning.
But I could.
And so could he.
We didn’t name it. Didn’t label what this was. But every day it grew heavier—better, riskier, more real. And even as I told myself not to get carried away, I kept going back.
Because he kept wanting me to.
And I wasn’t ready to let go.
I was halfway through buttoning a clean shirt for dinner when my phone buzzed.
Wiles: Dunes?
Just one word, but it hit like an electric current. I paused, stared at the screen, and smiled like an idiot.
A moment later, I shot off a quick text to my parents.
Me: Skipping dinner tonight. Not feeling great—gonna lay low.
I grabbed my hoodie, slipped on my sneakers, and was out the door before I could second-guess it.
We pretty much had a spot now—past the boardwalk, over the dunes, where the sand dipped low and the wind couldn’t quite reach. It felt tucked away, private in a way that wasn’t suspicious but still felt like ours.
When I crested the hill and saw him, my breath caught.
There was a blanket already spread across the sand, soft and oversized. A small basket sat at one corner, half open, revealing a mix of snacks and fruit—strawberries, grapes, crackers, chocolate-covered almonds. There was a bottle of sparkling cider chilling in a makeshift cooler, condensation beading down the glass. A can of whipped cream lay casually next to it.
Wiles sat barefoot at the center of it all, hoodie unzipped, legs stretched, hair windswept and grin lazy.
"Thought I’d raise the bar," he said.
I laughed, walking toward him, heart full in my chest. "You planning on seducing me or fattening me up?"
"Can’t it be both?" he said, reaching for the cider and popping the cap.
The sun was dipping low behind him, casting everything in amber and gold. And for the first time all day, everything else faded.
I dropped my hoodie beside the blanket and picked up the bottle, inspecting the label with a smirk.
"What’s with the cider?" I asked, twisting it slowly in my hands.
Wiles raised an eyebrow. "You’re not old enough to drink."
I scoffed. "Since when do you care about rules?"
"Since I’m trying not to get fired," he said, reaching for two plastic cups.
I grinned and plopped down beside him as he poured. "Fair enough."
We clinked cups, took a sip, and let the silence settle between us—not awkward, just expectant.
It wasn’t long before the space between us started shrinking. First a glance. Then a brush of my arm against his. Then the back of his fingers skating down my wrist like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
And then we were kissing.
No wind-up. No witty preamble. Just heat and gravity pulling us back into something that had been simmering all day. His lips were warm, familiar now. His hand curled behind my neck, drawing me closer, like he’d been waiting for this since the second I texted back.
The cider sat forgotten beside us. The sun kept falling. And in that small, hidden corner of the world, I kissed him like I didn’t care if the whole resort came looking.
We took our time. No rush, no pressure—just the kind of kiss that deepened in slow, deliberate layers. His lips parted slightly, teasing mine open. I felt the whisper of his breath, tasted the cider still lingering on his tongue, caught the soft hum he let out when my hand slid up his chest.
He leaned back onto the blanket, and I followed, propped on one elbow, never breaking contact. His fingers found the curve of my jaw, the back of my neck, my hip. Every movement said stay. Every brush said more.
He kissed me like he was memorizing it. Like every second counted. And maybe it did.
Because nothing about this—about us—felt guaranteed.
But right now, it was real. Real enough to lose myself in. Real enough to crave the next kiss before the first one had even ended.
He pulled back and grabbed the whipped cream, shaking it with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"What's with that?" I asked, breath catching.
"Take off your shorts," he said—firm, low, and impossible to misinterpret.
My pulse jumped. I peeled them off without hesitation, the rush of being wanted like this making me dizzy. My cock strained with anticipation as he moved closer.
"Lay back," he said, and I did, heart hammering in my chest.
He straddled one thigh, gave the can a final shake, and then sprayed a slow, deliberate line of whipped cream down the length of my cock. The cold made me twitch; the contrast to the heat in his eyes made me moan.
"Wiles..."
He didn’t hesitate. His tongue met skin, soft and hot, tracing the sugared path from base to tip. I gasped, hips jerking. He glanced up, smirking, then sprayed another line. This time, instead of licking, he opened wide and took me into his mouth—deep, smooth, practiced. I choked out a sound, half-plea, half-shock.
Everything in me went molten.
He knew exactly what he was doing—and it was unraveling me.
I’d seen it done in plenty of pornos—close-ups, moaning, overly slick—and sure, I’d jerked off more times than I could count, sometimes with enough lotion to drown in. But nothing had prepared me for the real thing. For the heat of his mouth. The suction. The way his tongue worked in tandem with every subtle movement of his hand, stroking what his lips couldn’t reach.
It wasn’t porn. It was personal. Intimate. Dizzying.
I gripped the blanket beneath me, barely hanging on.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice low, breath hot against my skin.
"Fuck," I gasped, hips lifting. "Please don’t stop."
He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down—his fingers tightening on my thigh, his mouth growing greedier. And I just let go, tumbling headfirst into a kind of pleasure I didn’t know how to hold, let alone name.
It hit me fast—too fast to fully warn him. I barely got the words out.
"Wiles—I'm—"
And then it overtook me.
A shudder ripped through me as I came, hard, helpless, my body clenching as I spilled down his throat. The moment I came, he adjusted, his lips sealing tighter, swallowing around me with practiced ease. I felt every pulse of release met with a steady, eager pull of his throat. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. Just took it—eager, steady—like he didn’t want to miss a single drop. Almost by instinct, I reached for him, pulling him into a kiss. Our mouths met, hungry and heated, and I tasted myself on his tongue—salty, electric, and somehow intimate in a way that made my chest ache.
I never wanted him more than I did in that moment—every nerve ending lit up, every inch of me tuned to the heat of his body, the taste of him still on my tongue. It wasn’t just lust; it was gravity. Like my whole world had narrowed to the shape of his mouth, the weight of his gaze, the way he looked at me like I was something he wanted just as badly.
“Tell me what you want,” he asked, voice low and rough, like the question cost him something to ask.
A dozen answers flooded my mind, all heat and desperation—I want your mouth again, I want you inside me, I want to forget everything that came before this summer.
But when I opened my mouth, what came out was quieter.
“I don’t know if I can answer that,” I said, breath catching on the edge of truth and fear.
His eyes stayed on mine, steady and open, not asking for more than I could give.
“That’s okay,” he said, like he meant it. Like waiting wasn’t a burden, just part of wanting me.
The lesson started like any other. Warm-up drills. Forehands. Backhands. Wiles was focused—his tone light, his instructions crisp—but I couldn’t stop rewinding the night before. Every time he brushed past me to correct my stance or called my name across the court, it echoed with something heavier. Something hungrier.
I tried to concentrate. Tried to meet the ball with the same level of intent he expected. But my grip kept slipping. My timing was off. And every glance in his direction sent a rush straight down my spine.
Wiles didn’t say anything. If he noticed the difference in me, he didn’t let on. But I knew he felt it too—the way his eyes lingered half a second too long, the subtle flex of his jaw when I missed a shot, the way his hand steadied my elbow with just a little more pressure than necessary.
The charge between us hadn’t disappeared. If anything, it was worse now. Charged. Unspoken. And coursing beneath the surface of every movement on that sunlit court.
I could still feel his mouth on me. Still taste his skin on mine. And as much as I tried to play it cool, I was burning alive inside my t-shirt.
And underneath it all was the quiet ache of knowing this was our last lesson. My final hour on this court. Our final excuse to touch, to talk, to exist in this bubble that only we seemed to understand. After today, the structure of these sessions—this pretense of professionalism—would be gone. What we were after that… I didn’t know. And I wasn’t sure I was ready to find out.
“Everything okay?” Wiles asked, his voice casual, but there was a knowing weight behind it. That glint in his ocean-blue eyes wasn’t just curiosity—it was memory, recognition. Like he hadn’t stopped thinking about last night either. Like he could still feel the heat of it, just like I could. His gaze lingered, not quite a smile, not quite serious, but enough to make my stomach twist.
“I'm good,” I said, trying to play it off, then hesitated. “Just a little sad, I guess.”
He nodded slowly, the understanding immediate. "Last one, huh?"
I nodded, too. “Yeah. Feels weird. Like… I don’t know. Like I’m not ready for this part to be over.”
“Not everything is meant to be infinite,” Wiles said quietly, almost like he was reminding himself. “Some things are sharp and bright and short-lived. Doesn’t make them any less real.”
“You were real,” I said, my voice low. “These last few weeks were real.”
Wiles looked at me for a long moment—something flickering in his eyes—before he leaned in and kissed me. Right there on the court. It wasn’t rushed or hidden. It was soft and deliberate, a slow press of lips that said everything we hadn’t said out loud.
When he pulled back, I blinked, heart thudding. My eyes darted to the nearby walkway, the clubhouse, the balconies that overlooked the courts.
“Someone could’ve seen,” I whispered. “If they rat you out, you’ll get fired.”
Wiles smirked, the edge of it crooked and a little wild. “Sometimes breaking the rules is a lot more fun than bending them.”
Just then, I heard the unmistakable sound of sandals on pavement and turned to see my mom approaching the court, sunglasses perched on her head and a bright tote slung over one shoulder.
“Well?” she called, smiling. “How’d the lesson go?”
Wiles straightened instinctively, his smirk vanishing behind a polite nod. “He did great. Real improvement.”
“Thanks again, Wilder,” she said, clearly pleased. “You’ve been wonderful.”
Then she turned to me. “Dad wants to get on the road right after lunch, so make sure you’re packed before then, okay?”
I nodded, the reality of it tightening in my chest.
She waved and disappeared back the way she came.
I checked my watch—just after ten.
"Well," I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "I guess this is it."
"I guess so," Wiles said.
I looked at him, searching for something else to say, something that wouldn’t sound like goodbye. “Thanks for everything.”
He shrugged, a half-smile pulling at his mouth. “I was just doing my job.”
“You know what I mean.”
The suitcase lay half-open on the bed, clothes folded with less precision than usual. I stood there for a moment, holding a shirt in my hands, staring at nothing. The room felt quieter than it had the whole time I was there—as if the walls themselves knew it was almost time to leave.
Wiles had broken something loose in me. Not in some dramatic, movie-ending kind of way. But in a quiet, permanent shift. Like a pane of glass that had been hairline-cracked for years—then one soft, perfect strike sent it spidering through.
It wasn’t just the kissing. It wasn’t just the wanting. It was the way he looked at me and saw past the shell I’d polished for everyone else. It was the way he made me feel like I was allowed to want more, even if I didn’t yet know what that was.
I dropped the shirt into the suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed. I’d come to the Meridian angry I had to be here. I was leaving different. I didn’t know if that counted as growing up or falling in love or just being nineteen and completely overwhelmed by everything.
But I knew I didn’t want to go back to who I was before him.
And in that moment I realized something else. That memory has weight, and the past doesn’t disappear just because it’s behind us—it lingers, imprints, stays with us like fingerprints on glass.
And if Wiles could kiss me without abandon—not caring about his job or the risk—then I could be brave enough to give him the one thing I’d wanted to give him since the day I met him—me.
I had to find him.
I ran, threw the door open, and before I could rush out into the ether—he was standing right there.
“Wiles?”
“Gabe.”
I blinked, still catching my breath. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining.”
He smiled softly and held something out. “I wanted to give you this.”
It was a small glass vial, capped with a cork. Inside, a swirl of bleached white sand.
“You brought me sand?” I asked, half teasing, half stunned.
He nodded. “It’s from our spot. Figured you should take a piece of it with you. In case it ever starts to feel like it didn’t happen.”
I looked at the grains, glowing in the morning light like powdered sunlight. My throat tightened.
“It did happen,” I said. “I’ll remember every second.”
He looked at me for a long moment—then took a small step back, almost uncertain. I didn’t let him get far. I reached out, grabbed his hand, and pulled him gently back inside.
And then we kissed—wildly, without apology. Like everything we hadn’t said was finally allowed to live between us.
I yanked his polo over his head, revealing the golden stretch of his torso, the subtle rise and fall of breath quickening against my skin. He helped me out of mine in one smooth motion, our hands fumbling, eager. The kisses deepened—no longer exploratory, but hungry, heated, as if we’d been holding back for days and finally let the dam break.
“You’re so fucking hot,” I whispered, my voice ragged with need, as I fumbled with his belt. My fingers worked the buckle loose, knuckles brushing the heat beneath as he let out a quiet, shaky breath that made my pulse thrum. The words slipped out like a confession, like worship, like I needed him to know exactly what he did to me.
He stepped out of his shorts in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving mine. Then he pushed me gently onto the bed, a teasing smile curling his lips as he tugged my shorts down in one swift move.
"Going commando, I see," he murmured, voice low and amused, my cock was already hard and flushed with want.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and slid his underwear down with a deliberate slowness that made my breath catch. His body was lithe, sculpted, all golden skin and lines I wanted to trace with my mouth. Then he climbed on top of me—knees bracketing my hips, hands pressed to my chest—and kissed me like I was all that was left of the world. His mouth was open and hot, tasting of salt and breathless need, and I kissed him back just as fiercely, my hands mapping the expanse of his back, the flex of muscle under skin, anchoring myself to the way he felt over me.
After a long, breathless moment, he leaned up slightly, one hand sliding to cradle the side of my face. I stared up into those ocean-blue eyes—so full of heat and something gentler underneath—and then he asked it, quiet and steady.
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you," I said, my voice barely steady. "I want all of you. I want you inside me. I want to feel every part of you—no holding back."
He looked at me for a beat, eyes searching, breath caught. "Are you sure?"
"I have never been more sure about anything in my life."
I reached between us and wrapped my hand around his cock, slow at first, my thumb tracing the edge of the head. He let out a sound—deep, guttural, almost a growl—that sent a jolt of electricity through me. It was confidence, hunger, and something wild all wrapped into one perfect, primal noise.
Without letting go, I reached up with the other and gently pushed him onto his back. He went willingly, legs parting beneath me, and I knelt between them, staring down at him like he was something sacred. The hair on his chest was subtle but deliberate, trailing darker near his navel, and lower still, where his cock stood thick and flushed, framed by a neatly trimmed thatch of dark blond hair.
He was stunning—every line and angle of him carved and golden, the kind of body that made you want to worship with your hands, your mouth, anything you had.
I stroked him slowly, watching the way his jaw clenched, his stomach fluttering with tension. I’d never done this before—never even come close—but I still wanted to. Wanted to see if I could make him fall apart under me.
He saw the hesitation flash across my face and leaned up on one elbow.
"You don’t have to."
I looked him straight in the eyes. "I know. I want to."
And with that, I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock, warm and smooth against my tongue. I took him in slowly, inch by inch, adjusting to the weight and taste of him, letting my hands steady against his hips. His breath hitched sharply—one hand fisting in the sheets, the other threading through my hair, not pushing, just holding. I bobbed down again, slow and careful, my lips slick, my jaw working to accommodate him as I explored what it meant to want someone like this—not just with my body, but with intention, with reverence. He let out a low groan that reverberated through his chest and into mine, and I felt the shift in him—his hips twitching forward, his hand tightening slightly—surrendering to the feeling, to me.
I set a rhythm, slow and steady, my hand curling around the base where my mouth couldn’t reach, my tongue tracing the sensitive underside with every pass. His moans came softer now, like he was trying to stay quiet but couldn’t quite manage it. I could feel the tension building in him, the way his thighs trembled, the way he kept murmuring my name under his breath like it was the only thing anchoring him to the bed.
When I glanced up, his head was tipped back, eyes half-lidded and lips parted, a flush rising across his chest. He looked undone, wrecked in the best way—and I was the one doing it.
“Gabe,” he whispered, voice ragged, “you need to stop or I’m gonna lose my mind.”
But I didn’t stop. Not yet.
I wanted to savor it—to keep drawing those sounds out of him, to feel his body tremble under my hands a little longer. But after a few more strokes of my tongue, he pulled gently at my shoulder.
“Come here,” he said, breathless, his voice rough with want.
I rose up slowly, face flushed, mouth wet. He stared at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. My hands settled on his hips, grounding myself in the warmth of his skin, and then I leaned in—breathless, sure—and whispered, "I want you to fuck me."
His breath caught, and for a beat, he just stared at me, like he was trying to etch every detail of me into memory. Then he cupped my cheek, voice low and steady. "Since it’s your first time... it might hurt a little."
I met his gaze, steady. "What’s pleasure without a little pain?"
Then I leaned over the bed and unzipped the side pouch of my duffel, pulling out a small bottle of lube I’d stuffed there at the last second—just in case. My hand trembled a little, not from fear, but anticipation. I set it on the nightstand between us without saying a word. We both knew what it meant.
Wiles's gaze flicked from the bottle to my face, his expression softening with something deeper than want—something like reverence. He reached for it, warming the bottle in his hand before uncapping it. Then he kissed me again, slow and steady, as if grounding both of us.
With gentle hands, he guided me down onto the bed, settling me onto my back. His touch was deliberate, coaxing rather than commanding, his fingers tracing from my jaw to my chest as he climbed over me, knees bracketing my hips again. I felt completely bare—seen, wanted, ready.
He lifted my legs slightly, adjusting the angle, one hand stroking the inside of my thigh while the other reached between us, slicking his fingers. "Tell me if anything hurts," he murmured. I nodded, breath catching.
Then he leaned down, eyes locked on mine as he began to prepare me with patient care, his fingers moving with tenderness and purpose.
Each movement eased the tension in my body, built trust between us. His free hand never stopped touching me—my thigh, my hip, my chest—as if he wanted to remind me I wasn’t alone in this. The sting was brief, chased quickly by a warmth that bloomed outward.
When he was sure I was ready, he wiped his hands with a towel from the nightstand and reached for the bottle again, coating himself with care. Next he positioned himself at my hole, hovering just above, his breath hitching.
“This okay?” he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” I said, and I meant it with every fiber of me.
He pushed in slowly—inch by careful inch—eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation. It was a stretch, a burn, but I focused on him, on his face, on the way he kept whispering my name like it was sacred.
“You’re doing so good,” he breathed, his hand threading through mine, grounding me to the moment.
When he bottomed out, he paused, giving me time. And then—gently, almost reverently—he began to thrust.
The first thing I noticed was the weight—the fullness of him inside me, stretching me open, deeper than I’d ever been touched. I felt it everywhere. In my breath. In my spine. In the tight, slow clench of muscle adjusting to the shape of him. It was a pressure, a burn, but it came with heat that curled low in my stomach, twisting into something close to hunger.
Wiles moved with careful precision, every slow thrust deliberate, letting my body catch up to the sensation, letting us both feel everything. His grip tightened on my hips as he pulled back just enough, then eased in again, a rolling rhythm that made me gasp.
I blinked up at him—his chest slick, brow furrowed with restraint, ocean eyes blown dark with want. He was gorgeous. He was inside me. I’d never felt more raw or more alive.
"You okay?" he whispered.
I nodded, voice caught in my throat. "Yeah. Keep going."
So he did. The rhythm built slowly—friction and heat, each movement coaxing something deeper from me. My hands found his back, fingers digging in as the ache melted into pleasure, sharp and staggering. The sound of our bodies, the soft thud of skin meeting skin, filled the room.
He leaned down to kiss me, tongues sliding together as he rocked into me again, a little deeper, a little faster. The bed creaked beneath us, the air thick with sweat and breath and all the unsaid things we’d kept quiet until now.
It was everything—intense and clumsy and perfect. I felt split open and held all at once, like every nerve in my body had been waiting for this exact kind of touch.
He shifted his angle and I gasped—a burst of pressure and pleasure so sharp it made my back arch. "There?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"There," I choked, barely holding on.
His thrusts quickened, driven by the sounds I couldn’t contain—breathy moans, needy whispers, his name on my tongue like a prayer. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, my body no longer shy about what it wanted.
"I’m not gonna last," he said against my ear, voice cracking with restraint.
"Don’t hold back," I breathed. "I want to feel all of it."
He groaned, hips slamming forward, and I lost myself in the rhythm, the burn, the rush building deep inside. Every nerve lit, every inch of skin alive. I clung to him like he was the only real thing in the world—and maybe, for that moment, he was.
Every inch of my skin felt electric, hyperaware of him, the way his hips moved, the soft brush of his breath against my ear, the tiny sounds escaping both our lips that said more than any words could.
"You feel…" he murmured against my cheek, voice thick with awe, "fucking perfect."
I arched into him, whimpering as he drove deeper. “Mmhm. Please—keep going. Just like that."
The air between us grew humid with heat and breath and motion. Our bodies tangled together in sweat-slick urgency, chasing something inevitable, something sacred. I reached between us and stroked myself, already so close I could barely focus. Wiles's thrusts grew rougher, faster, his rhythm faltering just slightly as he got closer.
"I’m gonna—"
"Me too."
The orgasm crashed through me without warning. My whole body seized around him as I came hard, the orgasm tearing through me in waves—raw, bright, and all-consuming. I bucked against him, moaning shamelessly as thick ribbons of cum painted both our stomachs, my hand still trembling from how fast I'd been stroking. His name broke from my throat, ragged and reverent, like a hymn I didn’t know I’d memorized. And even as I fell apart, I felt him let go too—his hips grinding deep once, twice, then stilling as he pulsed inside me. The sensation was like nothing I’d ever felt before: the warmth, the weight, the raw intimacy of him filling me. It was overwhelming in the best way, a shock to every nerve ending, making me clutch tighter around him. His breath broke against my skin, ragged and close, like he was trying to breathe me in.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Our hearts thudded wildly, tangled together in a haze of aftershock and sweat and something impossibly tender. He kissed me again, softer this time, like a benediction.
"You okay?" he whispered.
I nodded, arms still wrapped tight around his back. "Never better."
In that moment, with his breath still warm against my neck and our bodies slowly untangling, I had only one wish—to rewind time, to go back to that first charged glance on the court, to every brush of skin and nervous laugh, and live it all again. Not because it wasn’t enough, but because it was everything. Because I wanted to feel every second again with the knowledge of how it would end—with this.
Wilder Higgins was unlike anyone I’d ever met. From the first moment, he disarmed me—not with charm alone, but with a steadiness that saw right through me. He didn’t just turn my head or set my pulse racing. He cracked something open. He reached a part of me I hadn’t known was waiting. My virginity wasn’t taken. It wasn’t even given. It was something we held together, something we stepped into with breathless reverence. I shared it with him—and in doing so, I found something I hadn’t even known I was missing.
We lay there, lost in our own revelry. And as my soul slowly came back to my body, I understood: this wasn’t just a vacation. It was a season of firsts, of risks, of something untamed cracking open inside me—something new and primal. What Wilder awakened wasn’t just desire—it was a part of myself I hadn’t dared to meet until now. A part that I could only describe as the wilds.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Substack.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
