He watched her stroll on to the tennis court. Long, slim, tanned legs stretched to unimaginable heights and disappeared beneath a very short white tennis skirt. It barely covered the twin globes of her trim rump. He swallowed and hoped that he wouldn’t get a hard on right then and there before they’d even tossed the first serve.
She stepped forward and stooped to pick up a wayward ball and he flushed as the tender flesh of her inner thigh was exposed from beneath the skirt. She rose, concentrating on bouncing the tennis ball and he noted with admiration her slim but well toned arms as she held her racket casually.
Her long, golden-blonde hair was tied up neatly in a ponytail that flipped around as she moved. She was constantly pushing back strands that flitted about her face. Now holding the ball in one hand, she looked up and smiled at him.
“Ready?” She asked.
He could only nod weakly, dazzled by that smile and those luminous dark eyes on a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones and a pretty pink mouth. His pulse was beating hard and he knew it wasn’t the thrill of a tennis competition.
The air was warm, buzzing with summer noise; people in a pool nearby, kids playing basketball, distant traffic. The smell of jasmine was everywhere, intoxicating, wrapping him in a haze of pleasure. He stretched his taut muscles and tried to loosen up, tried to focus on the game at hand. Pulling his mind away from his distracting fantasies about this girl.
She hit the ball with a smooth stroke and it bounced easily in front of him. He lined it up and hit it back. They had a short rally to warm up then played for serve. He watched her twenty-one year old, athletic body maneuver around the court. Shapely calf muscles and slim thighs flexing as she planted her feet then shifted quickly to a new position. Her concentration and athletic skill was evident as she hit a cross-court forehand that whizzed by him.
He flashed her a smile. “Nice one. Your serve.”
“Thanks,” she replied with a small smile.
She set up for her serve on the baseline and threw the ball high in the air. As she bought her racket back and moved forward over the ball her small but nicely rounded breasts pressed up against the white sleeveless top she was wearing. He couldn’t help but notice that her nipples were slightly hard poking obviously through the fabric. With barely a second to spare he wrenched his concentration back but lucky for him her first serve hit the net. He shook his head wondering how he could ever get through this game being as distracted as he was.
Her second serve sailed across the net and hit the service court. He returned it with ease, winning the first point.
“Love-Fifteen,” she called.
The game played out and she raced around the court winning her service game by a point. He realized they were in for some good tennis, they were both breathing a little harder. He watched her position her body to receive his serve, a small furrow of concentration on her brow.
After the first set, which he had barely won, they took a quick break for a drink and perched on the concrete bench at the side of the court. She was so close now, he could smell her sweat; it was fragrant and musky; perfume and woman. He breathed her into his nostrils and tried to keep his eyes off her legs stretched out in front of her, her left thigh barely inches from his right hand. She raised the drink bottle to her lips and he noted the pleasing lines of her neck and throat and longed to plant his lips in that tiny crevice that pulsed at the base of her throat.
He licked his lips and looked up at the splendid blue of the sky, cloudless and azure. When he looked down again, he caught her looking at him. Her dark eyes were shining and he thought for a moment that there was something in their depths that looked familiar. He glanced at her again. He knew that look! His throat went dry and he started to panic. He’d seen that look before but he’d never dreamed it would appear on the face of this girl who sat beside him. He cleared his throat and wiped the sweat from his brow once again. He must be mistaken. Combing his fingers nervously through his short but unruly hair, he glanced at her again.
“You really do play great tennis,” he murmured, more to try and calm himself than to make conversation. She looked away then, leaning over to put down the drink bottle.
“Thanks,” she said with a pleased smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve played. My dad taught me to return his serve, it’s how I learned to hit.” Her voice, accented and unusual to his ears, was like music; soft and breathy.
“He taught you well.”
“Not well enough. You’re very good.”