1 Chapter 1

Day 1, Man on Barefoot Beach

June 2. Sunbathing and hidden behind sport recoil sunglasses, I watch the lifeguard on Barefoot Beach, consuming his lush lips, sun-golden chiseled chest, navel, and treasure trail of blond curls that spiral into his copper red trunk that contains a package of soft six inches within its Lycra material. I study his thick thighs in thin blond fur, his outlined pecs and firm abs, his half dollar-sized nipples and wave of blond hair concealing his left eye. My eyes stray to his massive biceps, muscular cords that line his neck, unshaven cheeks and astute looking chin. I place the stranger at twenty-three, a head lifeguard on the beach, his chosen career, and imagine our bodies as they collide together as one, mixing, kissing, pecs touching, and mounds of cotton-hidden private parts meeting.

I can’t even begin to explain how it feels to be back in Barefoot Beach, Florida. The Gulf Coast is as beautiful as ever with its bright-blue sky white sandy beach, and caressing warm breeze. I look forward to these three months out of the year, escaping New York City and Storm Executive Security, leaving my duties to highly paid staff. June through the end of August is like heaven for me. I take a break from my high-end security company and the busy city, enjoy the ocean and sand, my best friend Barbara Mullen, the Floridian night life, day trips along the Coast, and whatever else I can get into.

What I’d like to get into is the lifeguard’s trunks, peel it away from his bronze skin, touch his deflated cock, and turn it into an erection. The thought of us sexually mixing together causes my own dick in my navy blue rower trunks to bounce with new life, and I have to put my paperback novel over the prize, in hopes that no one on the beach witnesses the beginning stages of my public excitement.

We make eye contact, but only once during my beach time today. He passes in front of me, turns his attention to my body, and takes me in. The lifeguard’s intense blue eyes meet my brown ones and he studies me, consuming my lounging body from head to toe, all six-two of me in my aluminum lounger. Pretty guy calculates my details and sums up that I’m twenty-four-years-old, hundred-and-ninety pounds, have a sculpted chest of coconut brown fur, and solid abs, because I work out. I’m sure he likes my hazy-blue eyes, clean shaven cheeks, and corded neck. What guy wouldn’t? Gorgeous eyes up my brown buzz cut, the two-inch scar along my left eye, and rugged jaw line. Does he find me attractive? Maybe. Do I want him to find me attractive? Absolutely.

I accidentally wink at him, which makes the beach guy smile. But our meeting is soon over and only temporary because he returns to his beach, ocean, swimmers, and to saving lives.

Can he save my life? I can’t imagine that he will. I’m not the man to fall in love with, or be saved in any way. I’m far too strong to have a hero in my life. I have a lucrative business that consumes most of my time. I work almost eighteen hours a day back home, and my career is my life. A guy like the lifeguard cannot save me from my busy schedule, my monetary endeavors in the security world, and my hearty bank account. Nothing can pull me away from New York City and the fortune I have built there. Not Barbara, who lives in Barefoot Beach, not the beautiful Gulf beach and warm climate, and certainly not the delicious lifeguard with his sculpted beauty. My life is what it is, and I rather like it. And these three months spent in Barefoot Beach is about relaxing and enjoying a sliver of reality. It’s not about being saved by a handsome blond on a familiar beach. Besides, what is there to save in my life? I like what I have. The money is nice. My condo in New York City reeks of beauty. The chateau in Aspen isn’t so shabby either, and I have the bungalow here in Barefoot Beach, and my health. How can I be saved when everything in my life seems perfect? And why would I even think about wanting to be saved when I feel happy, content, without problems of any kind?

I continue to watch the man on the beach, swelling between my legs, wanting to touch and lick his perfect skin. Adrenaline rushes through my torso and an erection builds between my sun-warmed thighs. Thank God for the paperback covering up its bulging mass, concealing it from the public, and the lifeguard, who continues to pop discreet glances in my direction. 2: Day 2, My Heart Lies with You, Forever

June 3. Barbara Mullen finds me at the bungalow in my white boxer-briefs and nothing more. I prepare breakfast at the brushed aluminum range: eggs Benedict, a cup of mixed fruit, and a Bloody Mary. It’s nine o’clock in the morning and I see her glide up the back steps, across the ceramic-tiled verandah and through the open sliding glass doors. I haven’t seen her since her twenty-ninth birthday in April when she visited New York City, and her then-lover, Dax Brenton, whom she dumped after three months of what she called a “sucking and fucking” period.