Toy Boy by Lily Harlem

after our swim earlier. I wondered what he’d look like in a suit. How his hair would hang over his collar, the lightness clashing with dark material and making him look not quite the textbook executive.
    My fingers tingled with my need to run my hands through his hair, but instead, I kept applying the lotion and learning the shape of his body. I tried to tell myself it was just a job, a necessary application of factor thirty to stop him from burning, but the more I slid my hands over his skin, the more I enjoyed myself.
    Beneath the surface of his flesh, I could feel the tautness of his muscles and the hard planes of his shoulder blades. I ran my fingers down the gutter of his spine then fanned outward, taking the cream to his waist.
    “Thanks,” he said, suddenly moving away.
    I wasn’t quite done. A patch of cream sat just above the waistband of his swim shorts.
    “No problem,” I said, rubbing my palms together.
    He put his hand down his swim shorts, appeared to adjust himself, then sprang onto the top section of the boat. “Come on, I’ll show you the ropes, literally.”
     

Chapter Eight
     
     
     
    After motoring out of the newly named Dolphin Bay, Sullivan faced us upwind.
    Out here in the open, I could feel the currents of air strengthening. My T-shirt was pressing against my body, and my hair caught around my cheeks. I put on my shades and re-applied sunscreen to my arms and legs. The day was hot, the sun a brilliant white orb above us, but the wind and the water and being out at sea made it bearable—more than bearable, perfect, in fact.
    “Come over here,” Sullivan called, “and give me a hand.”
    “Hang on.” I moved up to where he was standing by the mast. “What do you want me to do?”
    He was gripping a rope, the tendons in his wrists and forearms tense. “You’re going to hoist the mainsail. Pull on this halyard.”
    I felt a little daunted by the task but grabbed the rope anyway.
    “That’s it, now pull, hard. The sail will flap like crazy, but that’s fine. Get it all the way up as quickly as you can.”
    I started to heave and pull. He was right. The sail flicked and flacked as the wind grabbed and shook it. It was as though it wanted to rip the material from Dolly Bird.
    Sullivan darted back down to the helm and turned the boat a little more into the wind.
    On and on, I hoisted. The sail slid upward, billowing and puffing up. It was tough work, but soon I had it at full stretch.
    “That’s it,” he called, “now cleat it off.”
    “What?” I looked around, wondering what he wanted me to do. We were picking up speed, the wind already pushing us along.
    “That metal hook,” he said, jumping up next to me again. “Wrap your rope around it in a figure eight. Make sure it’s good and tight.”
    He reached for another rope. “This is the jib, the front sail. We need that up, too. Helps get our speed up.”
    “We’re going pretty quick already.” I could hear the water splashing around the hull and creating waves as we sliced through the water.
    “Nah, this is a snail’s pace.” He grinned and dragged the jib up in four hard pulls.
    The boat shot forward.
    I stumbled slightly and gripped the mast.
    “You okay?” he asked, setting a hand on the small of my back.
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “Come on, back down to the wheel now. But watch out for the boom.”
    “Okay.”
    He stuck close by me—the boat was pitching to the right making the deck slope. Once past the boom, he held my hand to keep me steady as I made my way down beneath the Bimini.
    “What do you think?” he asked, killing the engine, which had been rumbling away.
    “It’s much faster than I thought.” I gripped the back rail. “And it leans more than I expected.”
    “Yeah. I kept it steady earlier, didn’t want to wake you, but this…this is fun.” He reached for a red bandana that was tied to a chrome bar. After uncurling it, he placed it on his head then knotted it at his nape. “Don’t get