Megan’s foot rested lightly on Charlie’s thigh. “My will leaves everything to my buddy Maureen,” she said. “My family can go fuck themselves.”
“What?” Charlie grinned at her over the rim of his glass. “You’re not leaving anything to me?”
Megan’s foot slid up his thigh again. Fire kindled along his nerves. Deliberately he caressed her own inner thigh with his instep.
“If this works,” Megan said with a little gasp, “you’re not going to need my money.”
“What do you mean if?” Charlie said. She had reacted to his underwater caress: that meant he had won. He rested his cigar and drink on the edge of the spa, then moved forward, slid weightlessly between Megan’s legs as a wave foamed over his shoulders. He kissed her smoky lips. A smile tilted Megan’s mouth as she arched lazily against him. Water spilled from her breasts. She cocked up one leg and ran her heel up his lower spine.
“Why, Mistah Johns,” she said, in her best Southern-deb voice, “ah am so totally astonished by such gallant attention directed toward li’l old me.”
She tipped her head back and finished her cognac in one swallow. A tiny rivulet of brandy coursed from the corner of her mouth and ran down her left breast. Charlie licked it off, felt the fire on his tongue. He licked up to her neck, tasting sweat and chlorine, and feasted for a moment on her throat. Megan laid her cigar carefully on the edge of the spa, then gave her brandy glass a careless toss over her shoulder, off the deck. Charlie heard the little splash as the glass hit the swimming pool below.
He kissed her again, and she drove her lips up into his. Her long fingernails combed his hair. He was already fully erect, and could feel her coarse pubic hair grating against the underside of his cock. He cupped her breasts, held them up out of the water. Foam sluiced down her flesh as he kissed her breasts, tongued the nipples. Her fingernails expertly slid up his back, bringing a shiver of sensation along his spine.
“Mistah Johns.” Still in her Southern belle voice. “Ah do believe that you are growing ovah-excited by the thought of all those Yankee dollahs.”
She took his head in her hands and pressed him to her breast. Her nipple was swollen with pleasure, and he drew it into his mouth, flicked the rubbery bud with his tongue. She gave a tremulous sigh, a bit theatrical— still playing Scarlett O’Hara. “Oh my,” she said in a lazy voice, “it is certainly my impression that you are taking advantage of mah generous and yieldin’ nature.”
“Sorry, love,” he paused to say. “But I can’t do Rhett Butler.”
“You could try Leslie Howard,” she suggested.
Charlie couldn’t remember who Leslie Howard was exactly, a film star or a character in Gone with the Wind or some other bloke entirely, and he really wasn’t in the mood to do imitations anyway. He kissed her again, teasing her breasts under water, stroking them from the armpits to the nipples. He could taste the tang of salt on her lips. She encouraged him with a little sigh.
At least she’d dropped the Scarlett O’Hara routine.
He stroked her ribs, her thighs. Megan nipped his lower lip with her sharp front teeth. He slipped his hand between their two bodies, between her legs. Her lips had a different texture— normally velvet-soft, under water they were more rubbery. She shifted her hips to give him room to stroke her. One of her hands dipped under water, and Charlie felt her long fingernails scratching up the underside of his cock. He arched his back, gasped. She gave a demonic little giggle and enclosed him in her fist. He slid the tip of his middle finger between her lips, felt warmth and readiness. Megan gave a little moan, close to his ear.
“I don’t think you’re exactly immune to the lure of those dollars yourself,” Charlie said. He slid his finger up to her clitoris, heard her sudden gasp, saw her bite her lip. He couldn’t tell if the reaction was pain or pleasure— the problem with sex under water was that the natural lubricant tended to get washed away.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Her dark eyes challenged him from under her brows. “I’m all right for anything you care to try, Mr. Johns,” she said. The Southern-deb voice was gone, and the Ozarks twang had slipped back into her voice.
He positioned her on the molded fiberglass seat— she was near-weightless under water— and slid himself into her. Her softness folded around him, a half-degree warmer than the spa-water. She gave her demonic little giggle again, and her knees clamped hard on his ribs. He adjusted his position with little thrusts.
Megan drove her pelvis into him with a sudden urgent thrust that almost sent him floating. The water made him so buoyant that he’d bob away like a cork if he wasn’t careful. Charlie clamped his hands on the sides of the spa and met her thrusts. Her ankles crossed behind his back and locked him to her.
She drove herself into him, hips pumping, breath hissing past her teeth, her eyes closed to slits. She could usually trigger her first orgasm right away. Water splashed up, fountained over the edge of the spa. Megan gave a series of low, guttural cries as she came, her strong thighs clamping down hard on his ribs. Charlie scarcely had to move at all.
Megan’s orgasm passed, and she lay back against the spa’s side and let her breath sigh out as she tried to relax. The grip of her thighs eased. Charlie looked down at her and smiled at the way her breasts, more buoyant than the rest of her, bobbed in the surging water. She looked up at him with a ragged grin, then reached for her cigar with shaking fingers. She inhaled luxuriously, held the smoke for a moment, and then formed her mouth into an O and blew out into the space between them. The blue smoke mushroomed off his chest, floated up past the chest hairs that were plastered to Charlie’s skin. He inhaled deeply through his mouth, bringing the tart flavor of the Cohiba across his tingling palate.
He thrust gently, making certain she was comfortable, then increased his movement. Megan gave a little cry of surprise at the post-orgasmic intensity of her pleasure. She set the cigar on the edge of the spa again. Charlie lengthened his thrust. The intense look came back to Megan’s face; her breath began to hiss again. Charlie grabbed ahold of her hips and lunged into her. She met him with a grin and a gleeful half-shout, a kind of sexual battle cry. He drove furiously into her, his fingers slipping beneath her to cup her buttocks, lifting her off the formed fiberglass seat. She clasped her arms around his neck. Charlie lifted her just above the lowest of the several water jets set into the back of her seat. Both gasped as a jet of water pulsed over their genitals. Her breath hissed in his ear. Frantically he licked her neck and shoulder. Her hips began the sequence of furious lunges that signaled the approach of orgasm, and Charlie increased the fury of his thrusts. The spa poured a jet of bubbling pleasure along the underside of his cock. A river of sweat ran down his face. Water leaped out of the tub, poured onto the deck around them. His orgasm triggered first, and hers a half-second later.
Afterward he ducked his head under water to wash away the sweat and clear his head. He rose, shaking water from his bleached locks. Megan was perched half out of the water, letting the night air cool the glistening water drops on her shoulders and breasts. Strands of her pinned-up hair had straggled into the water, and wet hanks of hair curled about her shoulders like dark serpents.
“We’ll do it slow next,” Charlie said.
“If I’m not too sore,” she said.
He grinned at her. “I’ll kiss and make better.”
“Ha ha,” she mocked. She looked around for her cigar, then bent to peer over the edge of the spa. “Shit,” she said. “I dropped my smoke.”
“I’ll get it.”
He vaulted out of the spa, water pouring off his body, and found her Cohiba where it had rolled next to a potted ficus. The night air was wonderfully cool on his overheated body. He sipped at the cigar, found it had gone out. He reached for his lighter, puffed it into life, and handed it to her.
He clamped his hands on the deck rail and looked at the glowing pool below. Well-being sang through his blood. “I feel like Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle,” he said.
“If you do that yell,” Megan said, “I’m leaving.”
“Maybe I’ll just go find an alligator and fight him hand-to-hand.” On sudden impulse he jumped up on the rail, swayed back and forth on his bare feet. Megan’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Get down from there!” she said.
“We’re going to make money!” Charlie shouted into the night. He pounded his chest with one hand while the other arm, extended, helped him balance. “Tarzan make big bucks!” he shouted in Weissmuller-inspired pidgin English.
“You’re crazy!” Megan said. The Ozarks rang in her voice. “Your neighbors are going to—”
“Tarzan is Lord of Jungle!” Charlie yelled. “Tarzan swing big dick in world of finance!”
“You’re out of your mind, Charlie!” Megan yelled back.
He bent at the knees. He could feel a wide grin spreading across his face at the thought of what he was about to do.
“You’ll kill yourself!” Megan shouted, guessing what was on his mind.
“Tarzan live forever!” Charlie shouted, and leaned forward, toes digging into the wooden rail for one last push as his body sailed out into the night.
“Charlieeee...!” Megan called.
The wind flowed through Charlie’s hair as he flew, straight as an arrow, downward to the pool.
The cool waters received him as their lord.