100TWC - Day 78: Change in the Weather

Ian stood on the balcony, a cold glass of sangria in his hand. The ice had already melted, in both glass and jug. Ice didn't stand a chance in this heat. They'd said it would be short-lived, but this was the end of the second week and still no end in sight. Thunderheads hung overhead a few miles distant, but there was no wind to move them. For now at least, they held their water.

Below him, Clara climbed out of the pool. Sunlight glinted on her lithe, dripping body as she walked over to the lounger where she'd left a towel. She wouldn't need it, Ian thought. A few minutes drip-drying in this heat and she'd need another dip. She didn't look up. He couldn't tell if she was deliberately ignoring him or simply hadn't spotted him. With the sun at his back, she had an excuse not to look in his direction. As if she needed one.

He stared out over the trees to the distant sea. How long had he hankered after a place like this? All his life, give or take. Be careful what you wish for, the old saying went. He should have been more careful. He sipped his drink, which had already begun to warm up. Of the many things in life that could be enjoyed warm, to Ian's mind sangria was not one of them.

"Ian."

Clara's voice surprised him. He hadn't heard her come in, or enter the room behind him. She stood at the balcony doorway, the bedroom dark behind her. She was naked. The last few drops of pool water stood out on her body, already being replaced with sweat. He could smell her perfume.

He walked toward the door. She backed away, lay down on the bed, her full, firm breasts falling onto her arms, her nipples standing up from her dark brown areolae.

"Ian," she said again, huskily, lifting her arms above her head and looking into his eyes. Challenging.

He entered the room and took off his shirt. As he neared the bed, Clara sat up and pulled down his shorts. His cock sprang up as they fell and she took it into her mouth in one fluid movement. Her mouth, surprisingly, excitingly hotter than the day, moved urgently over him.

They made love, but Ian could not think of it like that. It was sex. Beautiful sex, yes. Erotic in a way that only Clara, in his experience, could have it. But there was no love there. Only passion. Lust. Desire. As they fucked their sweat pooled on their bodies, slippery movements adding to the eroticism and the pools. Their flesh slid and rocked, their hands groped and kneaded, their mouths met in angry battle -- a battle in which their eyes did not engage.

Outside a thunderclap cracked. A sudden wind whipped the branches of the trees, sending leaves flying onto the deck. The sky flashed with another bolt of lightning and the roar of thunder followed immediately. Like a celestial faucet being turned on, the rain came. Lashing down in a grey curtain, flooding the deck within minutes, the drops bouncing up over the rail, carrying sand and grit onto the balcony windows.

Ian looked down at Clara. She was crying. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down the sides of her face into her ears.

"What...?" Ian began. She turned her face away from him, twisted out from under his body. "Clara!" he called, but she didn't hesitate. Picking up a robe from the chair she left the room. The door, blown by the wind or pulled by her hand he couldn't tell, slammed shut behind her.

Ian lay on the bed, on his back, staring at the ceiling. His still-hard member deflated slowly against his thigh. Rain lashed against the glass, drowning out any other sound. Dashing his conflicted thoughts. Then, as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped. The sun breached the thunderclouds and shone hotly down on the sodden scene. The balcony steamed.

He lifted himself up on his elbow and stared through the open balcony door. Autumn colours had already begun to tinge the leaves, many of which now littered the deck. Another gust of wind released a further handful, which fluttered down in front of him, their transient flaming beauty only a symbol of their death and the death of another year.