Chapter 4: Sand Heat and Shared Sheets

The sound of the waves mixed with the shouts from the volleyball court, but all of it felt distant to me. I was still staring at the screen on my phone. Matteo had posted a story. The picture was the one he took earlier when we were rubbing sunscreen on each other. The caption read, Boyfriend Beach Weekend, followed by a sun and a heart emoji. My stomach felt weightless in the most confusing way.

I kept glancing from the photo to Matteo. He was on the far side of the court, laughing with his friends as he waited for the next serve. Every time he moved, the light hit his abs in a way that made my breath shorten. His curls were messy from the wind, sticking to his forehead. Sand clung to his calves and thighs. His bright red shorts had ridden up a little higher with each sprint, revealing strong quads that were cut and defined. His chest gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat that made his muscles look like they were carved out of sunlight. I could not look away. I tried. I failed.

The boys around were chatting loudly, throwing jokes around, but their voices only reached me in pieces. My focus kept pulling back to him. Matteo lifted his arm to signal he was ready for the serve and the entire line of his torso flexed. His abs tightened in a smooth ripple. His pecs shifted slightly as he bounced on his feet. He looked alive in a way that felt private and unreachable. Free. Beautiful and Impossible.

He glanced at me. Only for a second. But that second felt like a hook inside my ribs. His smile was small but real. Then he turned back to the game and I exhaled like I had been holding my breath without realizing it. Two guys flopped onto the blanket beside me. One nudged my shoulder. “Your boyfriend is destroying us out there.”

I tried to laugh like it was an ordinary comment that did not scramble every thought in my head. Another leaned forward and said, “He keeps looking over here. Could you tell him to stop showing off for you. We are dying.” I felt the heat climb up my neck. I hoped they could not see it. “I do not control him,” I said weakly. They cackled like I had said something clever.

They all treated me like Matteo’s partner without hesitation. It was not a joke to them. It was simply a fact. A natural part of the group dynamic. I did not know why that made my chest feel warm and tight at the same time. The game kept crashing around us, loud and messy, bodies throwing themselves through the sand while the sky dipped deeper into pink. But the moment Matteo broke away from the court and jogged toward me, everything else blurred. He was already flushed from playing, chest rising fast, curls sticking to his forehead. He grabbed a water bottle from the cooler, twisted off the cap, and instead of drinking, he lifted it over his head.

Cold water spilled straight through his curls and raced down his face, catching in his lashes before sliding over his cheeks. Then it kept going. Down his neck. Across the sharp lines of his chest. Over those tight ridges of his stomach. The droplets clung on his abs for a second before running lower, tracing every muscle as if they knew exactly how to torture me. His red shorts were already clinging to his hips from sweat, but now the thin material darkened with the splash. Sand stuck to his skin in uneven patches, and the water cut clean shapes through it as it fell. His torso gleamed under the last stretch of evening light, every contour highlighted. He tipped his head back and let the final mouthfuls spill down his throat, lips parted, throat moving with each swallow, breath rough from the game.

My reaction was instant and impossible to hide. Heat surged through me, sharp and heavy, and I felt myself get hard so fast it made me choke on my own breath. I shifted on the blanket, trying to subtly adjust my boner, but my body betrayed me. Every slow slide of water down his abs made my cock pulse harder.

Matteo shook out his curls, water scattering like sparks. Then he walked the last couple steps and dropped onto the blanket beside me, close enough that the heat of him touched my skin.

He took a real sip this time, slow and unhurried, throat working again. Then he set the bottle down and rested his hand on my knee like it was the most natural thing in the world; casually. The warmth of his palm soaked through me, crawling up my thigh, making my cock throb against the fabric of my shorts. I tried not to react. I failed.