Fucking in the water would be more like it. If we weren’t in a pool, he could feel how really wet I am. Here I go again! What’s wrong with me?

He licks his delectable lips, a small gesture that sends more distracting flutters to my gut…and beyond. “Okay, now relax.”

Before I can utter a word, he’s repositions me so I’m lying horizontally on my belly across the water in the palms of his large hands. I can feel them pressing dangerously close to my sex. The tingly sensation intensifies between my legs as his sultry voice sounds in my ears.

“Now, stretch your arms out in front of you, keeping them as close together as possible.”

I do as I’m told and await further instruction.

“Good. Now, put your head in the water, being sure to blow out bubbles like I taught you.”

In goes my head. But as soon as I begin blowing bubbles, I no longer feel his grip. I panic and flounder. I lose control of my breathing. Water infiltrates my nostrils, and coursing past my throat, quickly fills my lungs. My arms and legs flail in a tangle. I gasp for air, only to swallow a burning mouthful of the salty water. My fear of drowning swarms me.

And then I’m back in his arms. This time my legs wrapped around his hips like a pretzel, my arms folded tightly around his neck. My breathing is heavy. Close to hyperventilating.

He tenderly brushes away a few wet tendrils of hair that have fallen into my face. I hope he can’t tell I’m on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice watery.

He puts a finger to my lips to silence me. “Shh. It’s okay. I should have told you I was going to let you go.” His tone is compassionate, not gruff or judgmental. “Let’s try this again. Remember, just relax and blow bubbles. When I let go, the water will carry you. Ready?”

I nod because I know if I open my mouth a whimper will escape. The last thing I want to do is have a breakdown in front of my demanding boss. Wordlessly, I let him rearrange me back into that horizontal position. I inhale and then exhale, the deep breath composing me. With my arms extended straight out in front of me, I draw in another sharp breath and then immerse my head in the pool. His words cut through the water.

“Nice. Now steady yourself. I’m going to let go of you.”

This time, I’m prepared when his hands fly off my body. Blowing bubbles, I open my eyes. It’s almost surreal. I see the little popping bubbles trail ahead of me and strands of my chestnut hair fan out like tributaries. An amazing sensation overtakes me. A magnificent lightness of being. Weightlessness. Something I’ve never experienced before. Holy smoke! I’m floating!

In my state of otherworldliness, I lose track of time. I don’t know how long I’ve been under the water moving like a stealth submarine, when two hands grip my hips and lever me to a standing position. On a deep breath, I tilt my head back and gaze up at Brandon. The wide-eyed expression on his face is a mixture of angst and awe. His hands cup my shoulders.

“Jeez, Zoey. You gave me a scare. I’ve seriously never met anyone who can hold their breath as long as you can.”

I smile sheepishly. “I did okay?”

Relaxing, he returns the smile. “You did great. An A+++.”

My smile widens while he tells me there’s one more thing to master before I can move on to an actual lap. Treading water. Walking my hands along the rim of the pool, I follow him as he leads the way back to the deep end.

“Hold on and watch what I’m doing.” While I grip the side of the pool, he moves five feet in front of me and into a vertical position, his head above the water. He explains to me it’s kind of like riding a bike. To keep pedaling my legs beneath the water and to simultaneously move my hands in a small sweeping motion. Without him asking, I dunk my head under the water to get a glimpse of his legs in motion. Flexing, they’re so long, gorgeous, and powerful. And his rippled stomach muscles that give way to a perfect pelvic V are so taut. And don’t get me started on that monumental bulge that’s straining against his Speedo. God, he’s hung!

“Get it?” he asks when I lift my head out of the water.

“Got it.” I play into his signature Kurt Kussler line.

“Good.” He winks. “Now kick off the side of the pool and float toward me.”

With ease and confidence, I do as bid, and in one swift, graceful move, I reach him. He grasps my hands once again. While he continues to tread the water, I shift my body so it’s perpendicular to the water like his. I start to bicycle my legs and to my surprise, I stay in a vertical position with my head above the water, though barely. My legs more than once touch his, our knees knocking. And more than once his hard length grazes my center. Deliberately? Once he sees I can stay afloat, he lets go of my hands, and I begin to paddle them. To my amazement, I rise higher above the surface of the water.

“You’ve got it,” he shouts out while I concentrate on my movements. He’s right. It’s a lot like riding a bike. And I’m good at that with my strong arms and legs.

We continue to tread water for another five minutes until I grow a little short of breath. He resumes a horizontal position, but this time on his back.

“Baby, hold on to my legs and just kick. I’m going to give you a ride back to the shallow end.”

For a brief moment, I’m stunned and my heart skips a beat. Did he just call me baby? It probably just slipped out of his mouth and is what he calls a lot of chicks he knows. Very Hollywood, though this is a first. I let it go and grab his ankles. As I kick behind him, he hauls me across the pool with a powerful backstroke—me loving every minute—until we’re both standing in the three-foot deep shallow end at the edge of the pool. He rises from the water like a god. Water drips from every part of him and his sculpted muscles glisten in the sun.

“Turn around,” he commands. His voice is authoritative.

Again, I do as asked. In a heartbeat, I feel his hard body pressing against mine. He captures both my wrists in his hands and begins to circle my arms, one after the other.

“Keep your fingers together and cut the water with them.”

I follow his directions, but he reprimands me. “No, Zoey. Don’t slap the water. Slice it and keep the splashes small.”

“Okay,” I murmur, a little crestfallen that I’m not quite getting it. Finally, after about thirty muscle-exhausting rotations, I have it down. My arms are killing me.

“I’m a little tired,” I plead, craning my neck. “Maybe we can pick up where we’ve left off tomorrow.”

He looks at me sternly. “No. You’re not leaving this pool until you know how to swim. End of discussion.”

I hate when he says “end of discussion.” There’s no twisting the egomaniac’s arm. He wants what he wants and always gets his way.

We move on to the next part of the lesson. He makes me hold on to the edge of the pool along side him and mimic the way he’s kicking. It’s all in the ankles—a small flutter kick. Again, he tells me it’s not a splash party. I do well. So, we move on to the final part of the lesson. I’m going to combine breathing with stroking and kicking. Do what’s known as a crawl. He demonstrates first, swimming to the other end of the pool and back. I watch in awe as his powerful body cuts through the water with the elegance and speed of a dolphin. In no time, he’s back in the shallow end.

“Okay, your turn. You’re going to do one lap to the end of the pool.”

My gaze travels to the deep end. Suddenly, the pool seems a mile long. Fear creeps back into my veins. “I don’t think I can do it.”

He tilts my chin up with his thumb and holds it there. Another rush of tingles streams through my body from my head to my toes. I meet his intense gaze and my bottom lip quivers. He’s affecting me, making me all hot and bothered. I flounder for words.

“I’m scared. I’ve never swum before. What if I freak out and—”