I remember the heat most of all, how it clung to my skin even as the sun dipped below the horizon. That, and the smell of rosemary and thyme, carried on the sea breeze. The villa, with its whitewashed walls glowing in the amber light, seemed frozen in a mythic past, like a dream I wasn't sure I deserved to enter. Below, the Aegean stretched endlessly, a mirror for the sky's dying colours. I was twenty then, all raw ambition and fragile ego, chasing the notion that I could be more than a boy from a quiet village.
Looking back, I know how naive I was. I thought places like that, people like them, would grant me the shape I was searching for. I didn't realize they were looking to be reshaped, too.
Anthony met me at the gate, barefoot, linen shirt unbuttoned, his tanned skin evident of a life well lived, maybe too well lived. His handshake was firm, the kind that pulled you closer, his smile offering only what he chose.
"So you're the writer," he said, appraising me with the kind of gaze I'd seen men give racehorses before a bet. "You look more like an athlete. A swimmer, maybe."
"I swim," I said, too quickly. Then, realising how blunt it sounded, I added, "And I try to write. When I can."
He smirked, and I hated how small it made me feel. "Well, if you want to write, you've come to the right place. Nisyros has a way of peeling you open."
I didn't know what he meant, not then.
Elizabeth followed him out, bare feet tapping on the warm stones. She was arresting, older than I expected, but timeless in a way that only certain women are. She carried herself as though the years had never been an adversary, only partners in a slow, seductive dance. Her dress clung to her hips, dipped low at her chest, and when she kissed my cheek, a brush of lips, the faintest press of her body against mine, I flushed.
"He's a quiet one," she said, her voice a slow pour of wine. She smiled, as if pleased by something unspoken. "That suits me."
"Elizabeth," Anthony warned, though he smiled as he said it.
I think now about that smile. It wasn't indulgent, it was sharp-edged, almost challenging.
They fed me wine that night, far too much of it. I told myself I was making up for in bravery what I lacked in sophistication. In truth, I was just a boy trying to be what they wanted. Anthony told stories of Paris and his years as an expatriate. His voice, though practiced, carried a hollowness, and whenever it deepened with something like regret, Elizabeth would cut in.
" "You always talk about Paris," she said, refilling my glass, her hand lingering on the bottle's neck. "But you never say what it cost you."
"Writers are supposed to be lonely."
"Not all the time," she countered, turning her attention to me with a smile I couldn't hold. "Right, Michael?"
I swallowed hard. "No. Not all the time."
Anthony leaned back, letting her dominate the conversation. She teased him, teased us both, with a precision that left no space for innocence. It wasn't just flirtation; it was a kind of possession.
"Anthony loves his books," she said, her fingers brushing my wrist. "But you don't strike me as the type to hide behind words, Michael. Am I right?"
I stammered something incoherent, and she laughed lightly. It was the kind of laugh that implied knowledge, of herself, of me, of something bigger than either of us.
"Elizabeth," Anthony said again, his tone sharper. It was a warning this time, though even he seemed unsure of what he was trying to protect.
I didn't realize it then, but I was never just a guest in their home. I was a spark, a chance for something they thought they'd lost. Anthony offered me mentorship, but Elizabeth offered me something far more dangerous.
I told myself it was Anthony I wanted to impress, but even as he spoke about writing, his voice steady, almost teacherly, I found my eyes drifting to Elizabeth. I watched her lips curve around her glass, the way her fingers rested against Anthony's wrist when she laughed. And when her gaze met mine, it didn't feel accidental.
After dinner, Anthony showed me to my room. The villa was quieter then, the thick walls muting the sounds of the cicadas. I could still hear Elizabeth's laugh, though, light, melodic, and unmistakably hers.
"Sleep well," Anthony said, lingering in the doorway. It wasn't just politeness. There was something evaluative in the way he stood, like he was still deciding something.
"I will," I lied. My chest felt tight, like I'd swallowed something too big to digest.
"Good," he said, softer now. "Tomorrow's another long day."
I lay awake that night, the sheets smelling faintly of salt and sun. I told myself I was restless because I was in a new place, but I knew better. I could still feel Elizabeth's touch, still hear the undercurrent of challenge in Anthony's voice.
What I didn't realize then, but understand now, is that I wasn't swept into their lives by chance. I had stepped into a current, and it was already carrying me somewhere I wasn't prepared to go.
I woke to the sound of cicadas and the smell of coffee. It took a moment to remember where I was, to piece together the night before through the fog of wine and nerves. The shutters had been left open, and the light stretched long and golden across the floor. Outside, the Aegean shimmered, impossibly blue.
Anthony sat on the terrace, shirtless, his shoulders broad but softened with age. There was a roughness to him, still, the shadow of someone who had been a soldier or a boxer once. I wanted to know that story, but I was too afraid to ask.
"Sleep well?" he asked without looking up, pen scratching against paper.
"Well enough," I lied. The truth was I hadn't slept much at all. My thoughts had tangled in the dark, Elizabeth's laughter, the brush of her skin, the way Anthony had looked at her. And at me.
Elizabeth emerged then, barefoot and wrapped in a loose robe. Even now, I can picture the way the fabric clung in places and parted in others, hinting more than hiding. She knew exactly what she was doing.
"Don't lie, Michael," she said, pouring coffee as though she hadn't just unravelled me with her presence. "You tossed all night. I heard you." She smiled, teasing but not unkind. "Nerves?"
I shook my head, but my face betrayed me. She had a way of finding cracks and pressing gently until they widened.
Anthony saved me. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he just redirected the tension.
"You swim, don't you?" he asked.
I nodded. "Most mornings."
"Good," he said, standing and stretching, his body catching the light, all taut skin and faint scars. I'd never seen another man so unselfconscious. "We'll go down after breakfast. Water's perfect this time of day."
Elizabeth snorted into her cup. "Not if you're expecting modesty." She said it lightly, but the words stayed with me.
Anthony ignored her, turning back to me. "No suits, Michael. We don't bother with that kind of fuss."
I froze, and I'm sure they noticed. I was twenty, and my body still felt like something unfinished, a thing to be hidden, not shown.
Elizabeth leaned closer, her voice mock serious. "What's the matter? Afraid Anthony might shame you?"
Anthony didn't rise to it, but something in his face tightened. There was an edge to him then, a flicker of pride, maybe, or jealousy. Or both.
"It's just skin," he said, clapping my shoulder as if to ground me. "Don't overthink it."
That advice, like so many things he told me, was easier said than done.
We left Elizabeth behind, still sipping her coffee, and made our way down the winding path to the beach. The sun was already high, but the water was dark and cool where the cliffs cast their shadows.
Anthony stripped first, as casual as peeling off socks. His cock hung loose, dark and heavy against his thigh, neither boastful nor shy, just... there. And it undid me. Not because I wanted him, but because I couldn't stop measuring myself against him.
"Come on," he said, already wading in. "Water's perfect."
I hesitated. I don't know why I thought it would be easier once he was in the water, but it wasn't. I felt absurdly exposed, my skin too tight, too bare. And yet, part of me wanted him to see me. To approve.
