The music from the party barely buzzed in Moriah's head, but the vodka tonics she'd drunk kept the limp lyrics circling like guppies despite the quarter mile distance from Lyman's condo. Cool, wet October sand crunched under her bare feet. She had to remember to retrieve her shoes. Wouldn't do to leave them for the hungry tide.
“Here,” she giggled, escaping Mitch's hand before it drifted to her ass. The wild crash of the ocean against the shore blended with the violent assault on the piled boulders on both sides of the rickety pier. Moriah loved this beach--away from the harsh lights of the condos and vacation houses, between the breakwaters that stretched like obscene, groping fingers into the perfect ocean. No one came to the pier anymore, not since Hurricane Wilma ripped it apart. No one but her.
“Are you sure?” Mitch hesitated, staring at the glistening sea through the holes created by the missing planks.
“Yes, I know the way. No one will bother us.” She reached out and stroked his crotch.
She navigated, the thin ribbon of moon just enough of a guide. At the end of what remained of the pier, she waited for him to teeter over.
“Looks like floating emeralds,” Mitch whispered in her ear, his chest pressed tight against her back, cock sharp against the cleft of her ass.
Angela Caperton's eclectic erotica spans many genres, including romance, horror, fantasy and what she calls contemporary-with-a-twist. Look for her stories published with Cleis, Circlet Press, Drollerie Press, eXtasy Books, and in the indie magazine Out of the Gutter.
Visit Angela's Blog.
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