Warmth
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It was quiet.
It was perfect.
The light morning breeze had dropped away to the occasional whispering zephyr which did nothing more than take the edge off the heat of the afternoon sun, blazing down from the deep blue Mediterranean sky. The only sounds were the gentle slap of water against the hull and the quiet chatter of birds in the wooded shore. The yacht pulled lazily at the slack anchor chain, and swung slowly, as if it wanted to change its view of the deserted bay, the sweep of white beach backed by the typical Corsican thicket of hardy, thin leafed shrubs and small trees, the rock strewn hills behind, their grass scorched by the long summer, but waiting patiently for the rains to return and mark the end of another season. The only sign of human habitation was the few sheep patiently tearing at the coarse undergrowth on the distant hills.
She couldn't see all this, but she pictured it in her mind and wallowed in the natural beauty. The heady aromatic smell of the scrub drifted across the water and mingled with the sharper saltiness of the warm sea air. Her closed eyes made every little sound stand out, and she lay and listened to the slap of water, the whisper of the breeze in the rigging and the distant cackling of gulls arguing over a crabshell, washed up in yesterday's storm.
Perfect. The quiet. The calm. The warmth. Especially the warmth. She concentrated on the almost burning heat of the sun beating down on her naked body, her back soaking up the rays like a plant long deprived of water sucking in the first raindrops of autumn. She shifted her legs a little, and felt anew the heat on her thighs and buttocks and the warmth of the smooth wooden deck underneath her.
The quiet clink of glasses told her that her companion was awake, and was coming up on deck. She didn't move, just smiled at how lucky she had been in her choice of sailing partner. The pad of bare feet came closer, and stopped beside. There was a gentle scrape and a clink of ice and glass as a tray was put down, and then silence returned.
The first kiss landed on her sun baked shoulder. Barely touching her, the kiss of an angel, a kiss so light she could hardly tell that it was finished before the lips touched her again, a little lower this time. And a little firmer. This time she could make out the two separate lips and feel their warmth and softness. Gently the lips withdrew again, and moved an inch lower, where they touched, and then pressed, and then gently nibbled her smooth warm skin. She felt them pause here as they explored and tasted her, and widen a little. Almost imperceptibly, she felt the lips joined by a live tongue, which was now quietly licking the sweat and salt from her back.
