Page 32 of The Moon & His Tides
A foreigner in a foreign land.
Called like a wolf by the moon, I moved to the mullioned window overlooking the corner of the pool and fought the urge to howl.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, then checked the time on the clock over the microwave. Three in the morning. The guests had left, save for Savannah’s good friend, Ramona Waters, and Miranda Hildebrand, who had been put to bed after too much liquor hours before. Adam had locked himself in his office with a well-known producer and director soon after our tryst in the garden.
The pool was empty, and I desperately needed to purge myself of this energy.
It would have been easier to come. I’d given two orgasms that night and had none of my own. But the idea of crawling into bed and touching myself until I came on my stomach, seed cooling, body spent but mind ringing, was its own kind of torture.
So I shucked off my clothes right there beside the front door, leaving only black boxer briefs because I didn’t own swim trunks, and pushed back through the door.
It was cold, the kind of damp chill special to England that gnawed hungrily at your bones, but I’d always run hot, and I enjoyed how it sharpened my tired senses. The pavers were slightly slick with dew, and the lush grass crunched underfoot as I cut across to the pool. Without hesitating, I dove into the deep end, body knifing with minimal splash into the heated depths.
When I emerged, shaking water from my hair like a dog as I treaded water, a cool, American accented voice said, “Eight out of ten from the American judge, a six out of ten from the Russian, and ten out of ten from the Brit.”
It was a husky voice, yet oddly lyrical and feminine. When I turned, it surprised me to see a young woman, a few years younger than myself, sprawled across a chaise lounge. Even in the dim pool lights, her riot of overly thick, wavy hair was honeyed blonde. Her features were in shadows, but it was clear from the coltish length of her thin limbs that she was still a teen.
“I expected higher from the American,” I countered, pushing my slicked-back hair off my face to smile at her.
She shrugged one bony shoulder. “Americans like star power, and you’re an unknown.”
A true laugh startled up my throat. “Touché. Why don’t we rectify that? I’m Sebastian.”
She gave an unladylike snort as she leaned forward, legs straddling the chaise, elbows falling between her thighs so she could curl over and prop her chin on her hands. The movement brought her out from the shadows and showcased a face crowded with large features. A wide mouth, full, lush lips that dominated, and large, catlike eyes a rich indigo blue. Thick light-brown eyebrows slashed across her forehead and though her nose was well formed, it was lost amid the drama of her other features.
She wasn’t beautiful, not really. But I knew with the certainty of a man who’d been raised with beautiful women, who worked in an industry where beauty was currency, that she would be a knockout when she grew into her big-featured face and put some meat on those long bones.
“JustSebastian?” she asked suspiciously.
I flipped on my back to float leisurely. “Just Seb, if you want the intimacy. Though, if we’re going to be friends, I’d like to know what to call you.”
But she wouldn’t be deterred from cynicism. “You’re supposed to introduce me by your full name so I canoohandaah”––each exclamation was met with a hilarious expression of exaggerated amazement––“over what movies you’ve been in or directed or produced.”
“Well, I haven’t done any of that.”
She waited, one thick eyebrow cocked, until I laughed and amended. “Yet.”
“Ah,” she said with all the gravitas of a much more mature woman. “There we have it. Give it a bit and you’ll be introducing yourself by your last name first.”
“Like Bond?”
“Yes, but honestly, he’s probably the only one who deserves to do that,” she allowed graciously.
She was a riot, the best conversation I’d had all night. Oh, I’d enjoyed Adam and Savannah, but they twisted me up until I couldn’t breathe, and this slip of a bold thing was unspooling me with good humor one inch at a time.
“He’s a fictional character,” I pointed out as I started doing a lazy backstroke. “They’re capable of pulling off things most people would never dream of.”
“True. But if I had the choice, I’d live like that, too.”
“Like Bond?”
“Like my life was a storybook.”
“Why don’t you, then?”
“It takes a lot of courage to go after what you want,” she said the way my mama might have, scolding me for being naive. “I’m only sixteen, you know. One day, though. Even if I never do anything worthwhile, I’m going to introduce myself by my last name. It’s easy to get away with stuff when you’re that confident, and opportunities always seem to come to people who believe enough in themselves. Even when they shouldn’t.”
“You’re very wise for a sixteen-year-old,” I told her sincerely, as I hopped out of the pool and leaned back on my palms, smiling slightly as her eyes raked over my wet, muscular torso and then rolled in disdain. “I know we just met, and I still don’t know your name, but I’m halfway enchanted by you already.”
