QOD: Two blondes. Doing it. Together. Now write the woman's fantasy.

Palms wave in gentle breeze. Full moon lights silver surf, glimmers a thousand thousand tiny broken shells eroding to join white sand. She stands, irresolute, heart a wild flutter, airplane ticket in her hand. The water beckons; she walks slowly down the dune, her toes digging into still-warm sand. The ticket swears this is her last night, insists that she wing her way home in the morning. Home to stale work in a bickering office, home to Buffy and Smith, who wind around her ankles as they hiss at each other. Home to girls’ night out as the lame highlight of the week.

A gust of wind catches her skirt, swirls the bright colors up past her head. Giggling, she presses them down, glances around to see if anyone saw. No one. She releases a heavy sigh. Just this afternoon, shopping for the souvenirs everyone at home would expect, she saw him, a glorious smooth-skinned god with hair that shifted red and gold in the sun. She stared, oblivious to the crowd pressing around her until a running child bumped her, dumping her packages to the ground. He helped her gather them, grinned at her, his ice blue eyes catching hers. She stood, mouth agape, tongue-tied. His hand brushed her forearm as he settled the last of her spilled keepsakes; a cold shiver ran up past her shoulder to flame her cheeks. She didn’t even thank him.

So, did she fly back home to the everyday humdrum? Did she remain the sensible girl everyone said she was? Tears welled in her eyes. A whole week in paradise and she never once shed her inhibitions. No, she counted her drinks, measured her sleep, timed herself in the sun. If only…

She could stay. The ticket lost in the wide ocean; perhaps unforeseen difficulties in getting it replaced. Would her boss swallow it? It wasn’t like she didn’t have more vacation time accrued. Would the office really fall apart without her? What if she stayed? She could look for him, could invite him for a drink, ask him to dance, throw a lei around his neck. Other women did things like that.

She walks on wet sand, allowing the foamy ripples to crawl toward her toes, to nibble at them. Someone told her she didn’t need to worry about riptides here, but if one caught her, all she had to do was to swim parallel to the beach until she passed it. Was that what had happened? Was he nothing more than a riptide? Why not swim parallel to her life for a while? She lacks the courage. She knows it; everyone knows it.

A slight noise behind startles her; the ticket slips from her fingers. She screams as a muscled arm comes around her waist. “Do you want me to chase it?” His voice slides along a laugh, his breath warm on her neck. He turns her, looks into her eyes. She can’t even see what color his are anymore, but he feels as warm as his burnished gold skin promised. “You shy?” he asks.

“N-no.” Her knees give way. For half a breath she believes he’s caught her, but instead he follows her to the sand. She feels it on her back, gritty-soft, as his mouth covers hers, warm and tender at first, deepening to ferocity. A laugh shakes the back of her throat. The riptide has her; she lets it carry her off. Parallel to what? She feels the caution slip, feels it slide after her forlorn ticket, and they both disappear beneath rolling waves.