Chloe Summers 0

Hey sunshine — I’m Chloe Summers, 25, blonde, playful, and happiest when the sun is hot, the ocean is close, and there’s a frozen passionfruit margarita sweating beside me.

I’ve always been a summer girl. Give me warm sand under my feet, sunlight on my skin, and waves rolling in nearby, and I turn into my most relaxed, flirty self. There’s something about a hot beach day that makes everything feel slower. People laugh louder. Rules feel softer. And on a private resort beach, clothes can start to feel very optional.
One of my favourite memories started exactly like that.

I was staying at a gorgeous little resort tucked away from the crowds — white umbrellas, linen loungers, and staff who appeared the second your cocktail got low. I’d claimed a spot near the water with a book I was barely reading, a tiny red bikini, oversized sunglasses, and a frozen passionfruit margarita next to me in the heat.
I had every intention of being sensible with sunscreen… until I realised I’d forgotten the most important part.
My back.
I was doing that hopeless little over-the-shoulder reach, twisting around and laughing at myself, when I caught him watching from the next lounger. He tried to look away, but too late.
I smiled and held up the bottle.
“Since you’re already invested,” I said, “you may as well be useful.”
He laughed and came over.
I moved my hair over one shoulder and turned my back to him.
His hands were careful at first, smoothing cool lotion over my sun-warmed shoulders and down my back. Then his touch slowed, just enough for both of us to notice, and something innocent started to feel a lot less innocent and the heat between us had suddenly nothing to do with the sun.
“You’re good at this,” I teased.
“Trying not to get fired on my first day,” he said.
I glanced back over my shoulder. “Depends how well you behave.”
Before either of us could say anything too bold, a waiter appeared with perfect timing and asked if we wanted another round. I ordered another margarita, he chose a mojito, and just like that, the afternoon found its rhythm.
We stretched out in the sun, talking between slow sips and lazy smiles. Every so often, his hand would brush mine when he reached for his drink. Every so often, I’d pretend not to notice.
But the sun kept getting hotter, the cocktails kept making us gigglier, and eventually even lying still felt like too much effort. I took one last sip, stood up, and held out my hand.
“Come on,” I said. “Before we melt.”
He took my hand, and I pulled him down the sand toward the water.
The ocean was freezing, so naturally I squealed and clung to him like it was his fault. He laughed, I splashed him, and suddenly we were close. Wet skin, salty lips, my hands on his shoulders, his hands at my waist.
We drifted a little farther out, where the water rose around us and the resort blurred into white umbrellas. There’s something about being in the ocean that makes everything feel secret. Every touch hidden beneath the surface. I gave him a cheeky smile, let my fingers slip beneath the water, and slowly undid his swimming shorts.
His eyes locked on mine.
I wrapped my legs around him, drawing him closer until there was no space left between us. My tiny bikini bottoms were easily pushed aside, and as his hard throbbing cock eased into me, the whole world seemed to slow down. He moved with the rhythm of the waves, slow at first, then deeper, more certain, both of us trying not to make it obvious and failing in the most delicious way. It was relaxing and exhilarating all at once.
By the time we came undone together, I was laughing softly against his skin, dizzy from the sun, the sea, and the kind of pleasure you’re never supposed to find in such a beautiful public place…