They do have a hammock on the veranda of their bungalow.
Lincoln bought it and brought it over, and if he noticed Michael’s evasive look or Sara’s slightly pink cheeks that day, he didn’t say anything. He just shrugged at their awkward and chorused “Thank you” and pointed out that he was tired of Sara complaining about the absence of a fucking hammock on their fucking veranda. Evasive-ness and pink-ness were not because of what Michael told her about hammocks and happy hours, in another life back in Fox River; that had been kind of innocent. Evasive-ness and pink-ness were because of her recently reminding him about hammocks and mentioning what they could do in it if they had one.
Imagination smoothing out reality a bit too much, it turned out trickier than they’d imagined.
They can do some things in the hammock obviously: read, listen to music or to the sound of the surf, laze and doze, even cuddle... Don’t get her wrong, the lazy back and forth of the hammock in the salt-scented air is pleasant, especially on a day like today, when it’s so hot and quiet all around them. But this wasn’t exactly what Sara had in mind when she brought up hammock perks.
Not that they didn’t try to do the other things. Earlier this afternoon, Michael gasped and perfunctorily protested – anyone could see them from the beach – when she tried to get into his boxers, bathing trunks or whatever he wanted to call what he was wearing. To be more accurate, she tried to get him out of said boxers. It worked. But then, with the swinging and the moving of the damn hammock, she couldn’t get him anywhere useful. She sighed in frustration; he chuckled; she squinted, announced, “Well too bad for you, then, Scofield,” and proceeded to nap. Lying on top of him, his beginning of an erection pressed into her stomach, her breasts against his chest, and her hair tickling his shoulders.
Harsh, maybe, but he shouldn’t have messed with her hammock fantasy. Does she mess with his little kinks?
“No,” he admitted, his tongue playing with her ear lobe as she was falling asleep. “You don’t. You’re always helpful with them. Very, very helpful.”
She’s woken up ten minutes – or maybe ten hours – later by fingers kneading her back. Expert fingers. Shoulder blades, spine, ribcage, small of her back, and down. Firm and teasing touches all at once, and she moans into the neck of whoever is massaging her. Smiling in her half sleep, she says out loud that she doesn’t care whose hands those are, just. Don’t. Stop.
The hammock is still swinging and she feels as though she’s suspended in thin air. With some nice, familiar, male body as a mattress. He doesn’t talk. He kisses her temple and blows a soothing sound, but he doesn’t talk and lets her drift between slumber and awareness. She keeps swimming; floating.
The lazy caresses continue down her back, the fingers catching in the elastic band of her bikini bottom and skipping over it to fondle her butt through the tiny garment. She could let out another “Smartass” right now, but maybe that’s not the right moment to challenge him. Even less so when he moves down again and teases the skin of her inner thighs; when he rubs the pad of his index finger against the damp fabric of her panties, up and down, up and down, until the delicate flesh restrained beneath it swells and throbs. Pleasure, electrical and pulsing, radiates through her body and plasters her down, craving for more contact, more touches, more... just more.
Is it possible to feel high-strung and limp at the same time? Because she does. Her knees spread wider without her consent and slide on each side of his hips. She must offer a perfectly indecent image and the net of the hammock bites into her knees, but she fucking doesn’t care. She has more urgent matters at hand, like finding out why he keeps stroking her through her stupid bikini.
“You mean I can get into your panties?” He laughs in her hair. She’ll get back at him for that. Sooner or later. He tugs her up a bit, twists and bends his neck – so damn limber when he needs it – to kiss her throat, the hollow between her breasts and then her breasts themselves after deftly cupping them out of her bikini top. While he’s at it, he curls his tongue around her nipples, and all right, maybe she won’t enforce retaliation upon him. Or it will be the nice kind of retaliation.
She can feel him hard and warm against her stomach. She bucks, a bit shocked that he didn’t bother pulling up his shorts. It’s so not like him – except of course if he planned all this. It wouldn’t be beneath him.
She grinds down and is immediately rewarded with a low grunt and a dexterous hand finding its way into her bikini bottom. She’s slick. Damp. Wet. Dripping. To the point of being slippery. He drones out synonyms in a tender-smug tone as his fingers indeed slip so easily, part her, push carefully into her.
She whimpers, high and never ending. He has long fingers, and knows how to use them.
His mouth latches onto the side of her neck. She rubs down again, and the combined start that follows sends the hammock swinging a bit more, a bit wilder. Wild is perfectly apt. Wild is how she feels. She thrusts back against his hand, languid but forceful, clenches around his fingers, and starts begging. She can beg, she doesn’t mind. A breathy litany of pleases and gods, of Michaels and inarticulate whimpers falls from her lips and against his jaw, his chin, his mouth. Throwing a handful of words that make his eyes open like saucers and his erection twitch between their stomachs adds to the fun. On instinct, he crooks his fingers inside her and circles his thumb outside her, the way he knows rarely fails. It doesn’t this time either. She wants to scream; she can’t because he’s pulling her down for a kiss, swallowing every moan, absorbing every twitch of her body. The tight hug and enforced half-silence are maddening, heart and stomach too tight to bear the release. She comes with her hips jolting desperately and her teeth digging into Michael’s bottom lip.
She collapses, strengthless and breathless, weightless. She hardly notices that her sweaty hair is gently pushed out of her face or that Michael peppers her brow with soft kisses. Stop panting, start breathing again, open her eyes, maybe even manage to speak: this is what she focuses on, right now, the basics.
It’s slick-damp-wet between their bodies when she comes down from her high. Shakily, she pushes herself up the best she can to look down. And then up at Michael’s face. She bites her lip and notices on his face that despite the slick-wet-damp mess he just made, the lip-biting still affects him.
“Don’t laugh...” he pleads. “...You’re not laughing.”
“I’m not.” She’s not. She’s a bit aroused, a lot moved by the effect she has on him, and she’s not laughing at all. “It’s sweet. And hot.”
“That I’m thirty-something going on fourteen?”
“That a bit of humping gets to you like this.”
“A bit of humping?” She would blush but her cheeks are already so flushed, it wouldn’t make a difference. No need to bother. “And don’t... please don’t say things like this.”
“Hot in a sticky way.”
“You’re a wicked woman.”
She is. A wicked woman with a ruined bikini, a complicit hammock and a husband who indulges and enjoys her fantasies.
She lies down against him and pushes on the nearby wall to swing the hammock.
She loves the hammock. Even though it only comes a close second to Michael.