A day at the beach. Just what I need. So much has happened lately. I've hardly had the chance to relax. But now the weekend is on, and I don't need to stress about school for the time being, and I don't have to get creeped out by Alex.
"How much sunscreen are you gonna apply?" I ask, growing impatient.
Raphaelle tilts his head up, hands smoothly applying sunscreen to my legs. "As much as needed, bambina. I don't want you to get burned."
"I don't want to get burned either," I sigh, "but you're taking so long."
"I'll slow down if you don't shut up."
I stop complaining. There's no use. So I wait patiently for him to finish, refraining from rolling my eyes or adding any unnecessary minutes to this, but wanting to so badly it actually takes energy to push through. And once he's finished, I jump. I'm so excited. I love the ocean. And I love the sun. I love swimming.
This is just what I need.
Raphaelle stands up, hand sliding teasingly up my legs as he does. I swallow. I flush. Jeez... he's so... tempting. But I'm not there yet. He's not there yet. But gosh... he's making me lose patience. He's making me want something so unholy, so raw, something I'm not ready or prepared for. And he's good at planting that seed. He's good at making me want him. He's good at his game. And I'm equally pleased and annoyed that he is.
I slide into the passenger seat of Raphaelle's sleek black Lambo, the leather interior cool against my bare legs. He buckles me in, fastening the seatbelt securing and tight, before closing the door on me. It leaves me with tingles. It always does. There's something about a man doing your seatbelt. It's a form of appreciation, a subtle act of care and protection. It has me giddy.
He settles into the driver's seat beside me, his jawline sharp and defined as ever, his dark and piercing brown eyes focused on the road ahead. The engine roars to life, and we're off, towards the beach. The sun is high in the sky, and it makes me happy. The sun... it makes me so happy. I can't explain it.
Raphaelle's phone rings, and he answers it sharply "pronto".
Am I weird for finding his Italian ten times sexier than his english? Again, it's something I can't quite explain. He just moves up the scale, immediately, whenever something Italian comes out his mouth.
"Non posso. Vado in spiaggia con Sophia. Fai venire Giancarlo a controllare l'ordine. Conosce tutti i dettagli. Bene. Ciao"
What does all that mean? I inwardly groan. Ciao is bye, I've learned that. But all the rest? Ugh... curiosity... it'll be the death of me.
I steal glances at Raphaelle, his hands gripping the steering wheel with confidence and ease. His presence is intoxicating, his charisma undeniably captivating.
Finally, we arrive at the beach, the car coming to a smooth stop in the sandy parking lot. The sound of crashing waves fills my ears, and I can practically taste the salt on my tongue. Raphaelle turns to me, "you stay where I can see you, capisci?"
I nod, my heart pounding in my chest, "yes, daddy."
I walk towards the ocean, and the cool sand is tickling my toes. The waves call out to me, the salty breeze caressing my skin, and the sun warming my body. I dive into the crystal-clear water, feeling weightless as I swim further out. I love that feeling.
Back on the shore, Raphaelle lies down on one of the sunbeds, his eyes following my every move. He's a sight to behold, his dark hair glistening in the sunlight, and his body tanned to perfection. He's tan-ish all year round, I think. Though I'm not sure. I haven't known him for that long.
