Nerathis

The bass from the beach party thrummed through the packed sand, a low pulse that vibrated up through Lyra’s bare feet. She had led him away from the crowd, past the driftwood bonfires and the kid with the acoustic guitar butchering a song about the ocean, to the lee side of a tall dune where the dune grass hissed in the breeze. The music was a distant, distorted heartbeat. The air smelled of salt, smoke, and his skin—coconut sunscreen and clean sweat. He was a golden thing. Blonde hair that curled at his temples from the humidity, eyes the color of the shallow water in full sun. His board stood planted in the sand a few feet away, wax shimmering in the moonlight. Tattoos bled across his shoulders and down one thick bicep; a black-work shark, some script she didn’t bother to read. His chest was a study in symmetry, muscles from paddling, his stomach ridged like sandbars at low tide. Lyra backed against the cool, sea-smoothed wood of a piece of driftwood half-buried in the dune. Her own breath came shallow and eager, a performance she perfected. “You don’t even know my name,” he said, voice low and amused. His hands found her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give above her pelvic bone. Confident. This wasn’t his first bonfire. “I don’t need it,” Lyra murmured. She reached up, hooked a finger into the waistband of his board shorts, and pulled him close. Her lips parted against his, tasting cheap beer and salt. He kissed the way he probably surfed—aggressive, a little reckless, sure of the next swell. Her tongue slid against his lower lip, and he made a sound—a deep, appreciative hum that traveled straight between her legs. His mouth moved to her throat. She let her head fall back, watching the stars wheel indifferently overhead. His hands roamed, big and warm, from her hips up over the dip of her waist to cup her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress. Her n*pples pebbled against his palms. He groaned into the hollow of her collarbone. “Christ, you’re—God. You’re something else.” Lyra said nothing. Just arched into his grip, letting him feel the weight of her, the heat. The dress was a slip of dark cotton, nothing beneath it but her. She preferred it that way. Fewer complications. He kissed lower. Pulled the strap down over one shoulder, then the other, until the bodice fell, and her b*easts were bare for the night. The air nipped at her skin even as his tongue traced the curve of one b*east. Her own fingers curled into the sand behind her. She dug in, anchoring herself as his lips closed over a n*pple and pulled. A sharp, bright current shot through her. Involuntary. Her back bowed, a soft sound escaped her throat. “Like that?” he asked, breathing hot against her damp skin. “Don’t talk,” she whispered. He laughed, low and dark, and obeyed. His hands moved to push the dress over her hips, and it pooled at her ankles, a dark puddle in the sand. She wore nothing else. The firelight, distant as it was, threw their shadows long and strange across the dune. He stepped back, just for a second, and looked at her. The surfer’s eyes swept down her body—the full, pale curves, the wide flare of her hips, the dark triangle at the junction of her thighs. His chest rose and fell faster. He reached down and unbuttoned his shorts, letting them fall. He was hard already, thick and flushed, and Lyra’s mouth went dry at the sight. A tattoo of a compass peeked from his hip bone. She reached for him. Her fingers wrapped around his shaft, feeling the heat, the weight. He hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking involuntarily. “Wait,” he said. “Wait, I want to feel you.” He lifted her easily—those paddler’s arms—and set her on the driftwood log. The wood was smooth and cool against her bare thighs. He stepped between her knees, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him flush against her. He rolled the condom down his thick length, the latex stretching over his c*ck with a soft, familiar snap. The head of his c*ck then pressed against her slick entrance, and they both went still for one breathless second. “F*ck,” he breathed. “You’re so tight.” Lyra’s answer was a roll of her hips. He slid inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust that made her nails bite into his shoulders. The stretch of him, the instant fullness—her head tipped back, and a sound escaped her that was not part of the performance. It was raw and unguarded. The surfer groaned, a low, broken noise that seemed to surprise even him. He pulled back, then thrust again, deeper this time. Lyra’s thighs clenched around his hips. The driftwood bit into her back. She didn’t care. “Harder,” she whispered. His rhythm quickened, muscles coiling in his shoulders, his abdomen tensing with every drive. The slap of skin on skin mingled with the distant thrum of music. Sand stuck to her damp skin. He kissed her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. His thumb found her cl*t, rubbing in tight, insistent little circles. Lyra’s vision narrowed. The stars blurred. The firelight fractured. She felt the first sharp edge of her climax building, bright and jagged, and she chased it, grinding against him with a hunger that surprised her. “That’s it,” he panted. “Come for me, come on, let me feel it.” Her body obeyed. The climax tore through her, sudden and searing, and she cried out—a wild, keening sound that swallowed the distant guitar. Her nails raked down his back. Her thighs locked around him like a vice. He followed a heartbeat later. She felt him swell inside her, felt the hot pulse of his release as a deep, guttural moan tore from his chest. He collapsed against her, forehead pressed onto her shoulder, breath ragged. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The waves crashed in the distance. The party raged on behind them, oblivious. Lyra’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her skin was slick with sweat and sand. The surfer’s breath warmed her collarbone. She could feel his pulse, still racing, through his chest. He lifted his head, a lazy, satisfied smile on his lips. His eyes found hers in the dim light, and the smile faltered. He blinked. Leaned closer, brow furrowing. “Your eyes,” he said, voice careful but threaded with something new. Wonder, maybe. Or unease. “Your pupils… they’re not round.” Lyra went still beneath him. The moment stretched. She didn’t blink—couldn’t, not the way other people blinked. Her irises, violet-blue in the day, were almost black now in the dark, and the pupils inside them weren’t circles. They were vertical slits. Narrow. Feline. Wrong. She turned her face, so the shadow of the dune fell across one eye. “Birth defect,” she said, flat. The lie tasted like ash. Then, before he could say another word, she moved. Pushing against his chest, slipping out from under him. The dress was back in her hands in an instant, a whisper of cloth sliding over her skin. She stepped into it, pulled the straps over her shoulders, and smoothed it down. “Hey,” he started. “Wait, I didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, plenty of people have eye things; it’s just—wait, where are you going?” Lyra didn’t look back. She was already walking, barefoot, up the slope of the dune. The sand shifted beneath her, trying to hold her, but she moved with a practiced ease, hips swaying with each step. “Wait!” he called after her. “I don’t even know your name!” You don’t know anything. She crested the dune and dropped down the other side, leaving him shirtless, half-undressed, and staring after her ghost-pale figure swallowed by the dark. The music swelled. Someone howled at the moon. The party didn’t even know she’d been gone. She emerged from the shadows at the edge of the bonfire circle, skin still tingling, thighs still slick. A cooler sat near the pile of firewood. She popped the top, fished out a lukewarm beer, and cracked it, foam spilling down her wrist. She licked it away. The heat from the flames pressed against her skin. Bodies moved around her, drunk and careless. Lyra stepped into the orbit of the fire, bare feet kicking up embers that glowed an ugly orange before winking out. She took a long pull from the bottle. Around her, the chaos rose. A girl laughed too loudly. Two guys nearly threw a third into the flames. The guitar played on, out of tune and out of time. Lyra swayed. Her heartbeat synced with the bass. The energy of the crowd rippled into her like a current. She closed her eyes just for a moment, and when she opened them, she was dancing. Hips rolling, arms loose, hair catching the firelight like dark water. No one noticed the girl with the strange eyes who moved like smoke. No one except the second surfer—broader, darker-haired, with a scar on one eyebrow—was watching her from across the flames with an unreadable expression. He lifted his beer in a silent toast. And smiled.