Page 81 of The Beachgoers
Closes that door tight. As she does, there’s more. More to end this day. More to change the night.
Yes, because after closing the door, doesn’t Elsa feel his hands slide that silky caftan right off her shoulders. She catches it, though. Catches it and holds the fabric folded over herself just long enough to get to the living room. To the sofa there. To the first spot she can sink into as he kisses her again.
As she tugs his shirt loose and begins unbuttoning it.
As he lies down with her.
As his hands slip beneath that caftan and run over her breasts, her hips, her every curve.
As she holds him close, and kisseshimlike it means something, too.
Like after the day—week, year—she’s had, she just does not want to be alone.
Not right now.
Not tonight.
