Red Nails on Red Beach Chapter 18

The email arrived on a Tuesday morning, sandwiched between a utility bill and a coupon for cat food. "Congratulations! You've won an all-expenses-paid trip for two to Red Beach, Crete, Greece!" I almost deleted it as spam until Gwen's scream from the kitchen rattled the dishes.

"I actually won! I actually fucking won!" She came barreling into the living room, her red hair streaming behind her like a flag, laptop clutched to her chest. "Mark, look at this. Red Beach. Nude beach. Crete. Two people. Seven nights. All paid."

I adjusted my reading glasses and took the laptop from her. Sure enough, it was legitimate. Some travel magazine sweepstakes she'd entered months ago and forgotten about. Round-trip flights, a boutique hotel overlooking the Libyan Sea, and access to one of the most famous clothing-optional beaches in Europe.

"Susan and Cindy are going to lose their minds," I said, scrolling through the itinerary.

"Actually," Gwen bit her lip, those perfectly painted red nails drumming on the counter, "I was thinking you'd go with me."

I looked up. She stood there in cutoff shorts and one of my old flannel shirts, barefoot, her toenails peeking out like tiny rubies. Twenty-five years old and striking enough to stop traffic, standing in my kitchen asking me to fly to Greece.

"Me?"

"Someone has to keep me safe." She grinned. "And Susan said she doesn't do beaches. Cindy's got that work thing. Come on, Mark. It'll be fun."

Susan, to my surprise, thought it was a wonderful idea. She kissed my cheek, her silver hair tickling my neck, and whispered that I deserved a vacation. Cindy was quieter about it, her blue eyes studying Gwen a little too carefully when she thought nobody was looking, but she eventually agreed it made sense.

"Keep an eye on her," Cindy said, pulling me aside at the door the night before we left. She smelled like jasmine and red wine. Her fingers squeezed my wrist. "She's... impressionable."

"I'll keep her safe," I said.

"That's not what I mean," Cindy replied, but she didn't elaborate.

The flight to Crete was long. Gwen fell asleep against my shoulder somewhere over the Atlantic, her makeup finally smudging just slightly beneath her left eye. I watched her breathe, counted the freckles on the bridge of her nose, and tried not to think about what Cindy had meant.

We landed in Heraklion in the late afternoon, the Mediterranean light pouring through the terminal windows like honey. A driver took us through winding mountain roads, past olive groves and crumbling stone walls, until we reached the hotel. It was white and blue, perched on a cliff, with a narrow path leading down to the beach below.

Our room had two beds. Gwen dropped her bag on the one nearest the window and turned to me, her eyes wide.

"This is actually happening."

"It is."

"We're in Greece, Mark."

"We are."

She laughed and threw herself onto the mattress, her legs kicking up. "Tomorrow we're going to a nude beach. You and me. Naked. In front of strangers."

"You've been naked in front of strangers before," I reminded her, thinking back to certain evenings at the house that had involved considerably less sunlight.

"Not on a beach in Greece." She propped herself on her elbows. "Are you nervous?"

"Bald guys don't get nervous. Nothing to hide."

She threw a pillow at me.

That first evening we walked down to the beach just to look. The sun was setting, turning the sand and the surrounding cliffs a deep rust color. The beach was empty except for a couple walking hand in hand near the water, both completely naked, neither seeming to care.

"It's beautiful," Gwen said quietly.

I watched the light catch her hair. "Yeah. It is."

She looked at me, and something shifted in her expression. Something I'd seen before, back home, in moments I'd told myself meant nothing. Her green eyes held mine for a beat too long.

"Come on," I said, breaking the spell. "Let's find dinner."

We ate grilled octopus and drank local wine at a taverna perched above the beach. Gwen told me about her childhood with Cindy, sharing beds at family gatherings, whispering secrets in the dark. She told me about the first time she understood what polyamory meant, the way Cindy had explained it to her in our guest room, how it had felt like finally finding a word for something she'd always understood.

"I love them," she said. "Susan and Cindy. I love our family."

"I love them too."

"But sometimes," she swirled her wine, "I think about what it would be like if it was just you and me."

I didn't answer. The wine was good and the sun was gone and her red nails caught the candlelight and I didn't trust myself to say the right thing.

The next morning we went to the beach.

I won't pretend I wasn't self-conscious. Sixty-five years old, bald, with a body that had softened in ways I couldn't control. Small man boobs that no amount of walking had ever fixed. Age lines that mapped decades across my face. But Gwen stripped off her sundress like she'd been born to do this, and when she stepped out of her bikini bottoms, the light caught the pale red hair between her legs and she looked like something from a painting.

"Stop staring," she said, but she was smiling.

"I'm appreciating."

She spread our towels on the sand and lay back, her large breasts settling against her chest, her pink areolas wide and faintly textured in the sea breeze. Other beachgoers arrived. Couples, singles, groups. All naked. All unbothered. I lay beside her and let the sun bake my skin and tried to think about baseball.

"Mark."

"Hmm."

"I'm glad you're here."

I turned my head. She was on her side, facing me, one breast resting against the towel. Her freckles stood out against her flushed skin.

"I'm glad you asked me," I said.

"Even though Cindy told you to keep an eye on me?"

"Cindy tells me a lot of things."

She laughed. "She's worried."

"About what?"

"About us." She said it simply, like stating the weather. "She thinks we're getting too close."

I sat up. The beach stretched in both directions, dotted with naked bodies. An older woman was wading into the surf, her silver hair unmistakable even from a distance. For a second I thought of Susan, but it wasn't her.

"Are we?" I asked.

Gwen sat up beside me, her shoulder touching mine. "What do you think?"

"I think," I said slowly, "that I've been falling for you since the night Cindy brought you home."

She inhaled sharply. Her hand found my thigh, her red nails pressing into my skin.

"I think about you," she said. "At night. When I'm alone. When I'm with Susan or Cindy. I think about your hands and your mouth and the way you look at me."

"Jesus, Gwen."

"I know. I know it's complicated. I know we love them. But right now, this week, it's just us." She squeezed my thigh. "Can we just have this?"

I turned and kissed her. Right there on the beach, surrounded by naked strangers, I kissed her. Her mouth opened under mine, tasting of salt and sunscreen, and she made a sound in her throat that I'd heard before in our bedroom back home but never like this, never with the Aegean Sea humming in the background.

A man on a nearby towel glanced over, smiled, and looked away.

We pulled apart, both breathing harder.

"Not here," I said.

"Here," she replied.

Her hand moved up my thigh. I grabbed her wrist.

"Our room. Now."

We gathered our things and scrambled up the path, sand stuck to places sand has no business being. The door of our room barely closed before she was on me, her naked body pressed against mine, her mouth hungry on my neck.

"I've wanted this all morning," she breathed. "Watching you try not to look at me. Watching you get hard when I stretched."

"You noticed that?"

"I notice everything about you."

I walked her backward to the bed and laid her down. The white sheets contrasted with her flushed skin, her red hair fanning across the pillow. Her breasts fell to either side of her ribcage, the large areolas darkening as her nipples tightened. I knelt between her legs and ran my hands up her sides, feeling the narrowness of her waist, the softness of her stomach, the warmth radiating from between her thighs.

"You're beautiful," I said.

"You've said that before."

"I mean it more every time."

I kissed her collarbone, then the swell of her breast, circling her nipple with my tongue but not touching it. She arched her back, trying to push it into my mouth, but I pulled back. Her red nails raked down my back.

"Stop teasing."

"I've got all week."

I worked my way down, kissing her stomach, her hip bones, the crease of her thigh. Her light red pubic hair was soft against my cheek as I breathed her in. She smelled like the sea and something sweeter underneath. I parted her with my thumbs and licked her slowly, one long stroke from bottom to top.

"Fuck," she hissed, her hips bucking.

I settled in, using my tongue in slow circles, finding the rhythm she liked. She was already wet, her pussy slick and swollen against my mouth. I slipped a finger inside her, then two, curling them upward while I sucked gently on her clit.

Her hands grabbed my bald head, her nails scraping against my scalp. "Right there. Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."

I didn't. She came with a cry that probably carried to the beach below, her thighs clamping around my ears, her whole body trembling. I kept my mouth on her through the aftershocks, gentling my tongue as she came down.

When I finally looked up, her makeup was ruined. Mascara smudged, lipstick smeared across her cheek. She looked wrecked and magnificent.

"Get up here," she said, pulling me by the shoulders.

I climbed over her and she reached between us, taking my cock in her hand, guiding me to her entrance. I pushed in slowly, feeling her stretch around me, her wetness making it easy despite how tight she was. She wrapped her legs around my back, her small feet pressing into my ass, her red toenails digging in.

"Fill me up," she whispered. "I want to feel you."

I thrust deep, bottoming out inside her. She gasped, her back arching, her breasts pressing against my chest. I could feel her nipples, hard and hot, against my skin. I started moving, slow at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in.

"Harder," she said. "I'm not going to break."

I braced my arms on either side of her and fucked her harder. The bed frame knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm. She met every thrust, her hips rolling, her hands gripping my forearms. The room smelled like sex and sunscreen and the sea breeze drifting through the window.

"Tell me what you want," I said.

"I want you to come inside me."

"You know I can't—"

"I know. I know you had the vasectomy. I just want to feel it. I want to feel you let go."

That did it. I thrust deep and held, my cock pulsing inside her as I came. She tightened around me, her pussy milking every drop, and I groaned into her neck. She held me there, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back, until I softened and slipped out.

We lay side by side, breathing hard, the Mediterranean light streaming through the curtains.

"That was," she started.

"Yeah."

"We're in trouble, aren't we?"

I stared at the ceiling. "Probably."

That set the pattern for the week. We'd wake early, eat breakfast on the terrace, spend the morning on the nude beach. We'd swim in the ocean, the cool water shocking against sun-warmed skin. One afternoon, waist-deep in the clear blue water, she wrapped her legs around me and I held her up while she sank onto my cock, her arms around my neck, her forehead against mine. We moved together in the waves, surrounded by other beachgoers who either didn't notice or didn't care, the water lapping at her breasts as they bounced with every thrust.

"You feel so good," she whispered, her mouth against my ear. "I could stay on your dick forever."

"Romantic."

"Shut up and fuck me."

I did, my hands gripping her ass under the water, her red hair floating around her shoulders like seaweed. She came twice before I finished, biting my shoulder to keep from screaming.

In the evenings we'd shower together, washing salt and sand from each other's bodies, her soapy hands sliding over my chest, my fingers trailing between her legs. We'd dress and walk to a taverna, eating fresh fish and drinking wine, our bare knees touching under the table. Then back to the room, where we'd make love again, sometimes slow and tender, sometimes rough and urgent, always ending with her makeup smeared and her hair tangled and both of us breathless.

One night on the beach, after dark, we watched a couple fucking on a towel twenty feet away. The woman was riding her partner, her head thrown back, her moans carrying across the sand. Gwen's hand found my cock under our towel, stroking me while we watched.

"That could be us," she said.

"It is us. Every night."

She laughed and kissed my jaw. "I love you, Mark."

I turned to look at her. She'd said it before, back home, in the context of family. But this was different. Her eyes were serious, her lips slightly parted, the moonlight catching her freckles.

"I love you too," I said. "I've loved you since you walked through our door."

"Then why does it feel like we're doing something wrong?"

"Because we might be."

She squeezed my cock gently. "I don't want to hurt Susan. Or Cindy."

"Neither do I."

"But I don't want to give this up either."

I pulled her hand away and held it, our fingers lacing together. On the beach, the couple had finished, lying tangled in each other's arms. The sea murmured.

"We go home," I said finally. "We tell them the truth. We figure it out together. That's what our family does."

She rested her head on my shoulder. "And if they're angry?"

"Then they're angry. But they love us. Both of us. We'll work it out."

The flight home was quieter than the flight out. Gwen slept against my shoulder again, her makeup finally perfect after she'd repaired it that morning. I watched the clouds roll by and thought about Susan's patience, her easy laugh, the way she'd welcomed Gwen without hesitation. I thought about Cindy's jealousy, her sharp eyes, the way she'd kissed me in front of everyone at dinner that first night.

I thought about what we'd built, all of us, and how love doesn't divide when you add more to it. It multiplies.

When we landed, Susan and Cindy were waiting at arrivals. Susan had worn one of her favorite dresses, her silver hair pinned up, her plump figure wrapped in turquoise. Cindy stood beside her in heels and red lipstick, her bottle-red hair freshly done, looking like she'd stepped out of a magazine.

Gwen walked straight to Cindy and hugged her. I watched Cindy's arms tighten, her eyes closing, and I saw the worry drain out of her face.

"I missed you," Cindy said.

"I missed you too."

Gwen pulled back and looked at both of them. "We need to talk. All of us. About some things that happened."

Susan's eyes found mine over Gwen's shoulder. She raised an eyebrow. I nodded.

"Let's get dinner," Susan said. "Our place. I'll cook."

We drove home in Susan's car, Cindy in the front seat, Gwen and I in the back. Gwen's hand found mine in the dark, her red nails interlacing with my fingers. I squeezed back.

At dinner that night, over Susan's famous roast and two bottles of wine, Gwen told them everything. The beach. The ocean. The room. The words. She held my hand under the table while she talked, and when she finished, the silence lasted exactly four seconds before Susan laughed.

"Honey," Susan said, reaching across the table to pat Gwen's free hand, "I've been watching you two since the day Cindy brought her home. I'm seventy years old. I've had three husbands and two wives and more lovers than I can count. You think I don't know what falling in love looks like?"

Cindy was quieter. She stared at her wine glass, her blue eyes unreadable.

"Cin," Gwen said softly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Cindy said. She looked up. "I'm not jealous. I'm not angry. I'm just... processing."

"Take your time," I said.

Cindy looked at me, then at Gwen. "You really love him?"

"I really do."

"And you love us?"

"Of course I love you. That hasn't changed. That won't change."

Cindy picked up her wine, took a long sip, and set it down. "Then I guess the question is whether there's room for this in our family."

Susan stood up, walked around the table, and kissed Cindy on the top of her head. "There's always room. That's the whole point."

Cindy's eyes glistened. She reached for Gwen's other hand, the one not holding mine, and squeezed it.

"Okay," Cindy said. "Okay."

Susan sat back down and raised her glass. "To Red Beach. To new configurations. To this ridiculous, wonderful family."

We all raised our glasses. The wine was good. The roast was perfect. Gwen's hand stayed in mine, and Cindy's hand stayed in Gwen's, and Susan watched all of us with the satisfied expression of a woman who'd known the ending before the story even started.

"I do have one request," Cindy said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin.

"Anything," Gwen said.

Cindy's lips curved into a smile that I recognized from many late nights and tangled sheets. "Next time you win a trip to a nude beach in Greece? Bring all of us."

Susan snorted into her wine. Gwen burst out laughing. I leaned back in my chair and looked at the three of them, the women I loved, each in their own impossible way, and thought that Greece had nothing on this.

"Deal," Gwen said, and her red nails sparkled in the candlelight as she reached for the bottle to pour us all another round.