It's 3:00 AM when I get his text. I'm already up.

I'm always up at 3:00 AM.

Like clockwork.

Joshua: Hamilton's pool? I'm on my way.

Dot: Me too.

I drive to the beach barefoot, in nothing but the black tank top and underwear I fell asleep in.

I arrive to find the patio lights on and the gate wide open.

He's already here.

I tiptoe over the cool, rough cement, stopping when I see him at the edge of the pool ... in a white t-shirt and navy boxer briefs ... his eyes on the water ... swirling his feet and ankles under the surface. He senses my presence and stands up quickly.

Our eyes meet for an instant over the distance between us, a mere six feet of space that he clears in two strides before his hands are on my hips and his mouth is over mine.

He drives me back--back until my shoulders meet the ivy-covered, chain-link fence behind me. It rattles under the shock of our bodies colliding as he coaxes my mouth open with his lips and slides his tongue inside.

His hands glide up and down my back, along my ribcage, over my breasts. I moan gratefully into his open mouth. He pulls his lips from mine and moves his hands to the straps of my tank top, tugging them all the way down, over my arms, until my top half is exposed to the night air and the unrelenting heat of his gaze.

He drags his own shirt over his head and brings his mouth back to kiss my cheek, my throat, the soft skin behind my ear. My hands wander hungrily over the hot, bare skin of his back, as he grinds himself, hard and full, against my upper thigh. I drag my fingernails over his stomach and tease along the waistband of his boxers. He inhales sharply and thrusts his hands down the back of my underwear, dragging them down over my hips ... down until they reach my knees and fall to my feet.

He straightens up and I reach out, put my hand over the thick of him, and squeeze as gently as I can manage. He shudders and takes my hand away, setting it over his chest where his heart is trying desperately to break through his ribcage.

He touches my lips with trembling fingers and whispers in my ear, "You first."

I open my mouth and let him slide two fingers inside, moistening them with my tongue.

"Show me," he breathes against my face. "Show me how to touch you."

Every inch of me aches as I guide his hand down the length of my torso, dragging his wet fingertips over my belly button, and finally, pressing them into my soft center. I hold my mouth against his neck to stifle the cry that escapes my throat at the sensation of his fingers on me.

He slides them back and forth, around and down, in and out, until I'm ready to burst. "Right there." I hold his fingers to the spot. "Don't stop ... I'm so close...."

He does what I ask, applying the perfect pressure at just the right speed. He bites down on my shoulder, rams himself--hard--against my hip and I feel it ... building ... the wave cresting as my fingers go numb and my arm cramps up. I grip the pillow behind my head and turn my face into it as the wave crashes--my thighs clench over my hand--and I moan, breathlessly, against the cotton pillowcase.

I relish the smaller ripples of pleasure as my muscles unwind ...

my breathing slows ... and my heartbeat steadies.

I sigh deeply and glance at the clock on my bed table.

3:15 AM.

Like clockwork.

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