Drift of Sunlight: A Memory of Skin and River

It began like any other Saturday run: cool morning, mist still rising off the wide, crystal-clear river, the canoe gliding out with easy strokes. She sat in the bow in her white tank and cut-offs, hair tied back, arms moving smooth and strong. I was in the stern, supposed to steer, but after the first hour the sun had climbed, her tank clung with sweat, and every reach of her paddle painted a new line of light across her shoulders, her back, the small dip at the base of her spine. I forgot the river entirely. I only watched her.

By the time the second hour drifted by, my paddle was across the gunwales and I was aching, rigid, counting heartbeats until I could touch her.

She felt it, turned with that half-smile, and without a word we stripped. Clothes landed in a careless heap. We were both shaved bare that summer: her smooth lips already glistening, my cock thick and curved up against my stomach. Sharp tan lines cut across both of us: pale triangles on her small, firm breasts; stark white below my waist and across my hips, bronze everywhere the sun usually reached.

We played first (laughing, clumsy positions that almost spilled us) until we settled on the one that felt like home: she straddled me face-to-face, knees wide, and sank down slowly until I was buried deep inside her velvet heat. We moved carefully at first, letting the canoe rock and spin with the current.

That’s when the fishing docks slid into view: six weathered piers, eight or nine guys in ball caps and sunglasses, half-dozing with rods in the water.

The river turned us broadside, then slowly spun us like a lazy showcase. No one shouted at first. They just… noticed.

Someone called toward the cabin, voice hushed, “Marge, come look.”

A couple of others simply lifted their beers in quiet salute, grinning like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this exact moment.

Two low, appreciative whistles drifted across the water.

Then someone started a slow, perfect clap (steady, deliberate, exactly the rhythm she was already riding me in). Clap… clap… clap…

The rest joined in, soft at first, then louder, a gentle, rolling applause that matched every rise and fall of her hips.

We moved with their clapping for a little while, letting the rhythm carry us, letting them see the beauty of two young bodies that belonged entirely to each other. She rose high enough for them to see my slick length almost leave her, then slid back down until her shaved pussy kissed my glistening groin. Her tan lines flashed in the sun, her small breasts rising and falling gently, my hands steady on the pale curve of her hips. But we never hurried. This wasn’t for them. It was for us, and they simply happened to be there when the river decided to share. We fucked, slow, proud, unashamed, letting the canoe spin us one last time so every man on those docks got the full, sunlit picture. No rush. Just the steady beat of hands on the piers and her body taking mine again and again.

When the bend began to take us away, the clapping faded into soft smiles and raised beers. They understood, without a word, that some moments are sacred.

The instant the docks slipped out of sight, everything softened.

She folded forward until her forehead rested against mine, arms sliding around my neck. I drew her closer, palms spread across the warm plane of her back, feeling the rapid flutter of her heart against my chest. The canoe rocked gently, cradling us.

We stopped fucking. We started making love.

Slow, unhurried circles of her hips, my hands tracing the places the sun had never touched: the pale undersides of her breasts, the soft skin just above her tan line. Each roll was a promise. Each breath was a vow. She whispered my name like it was the only word she still remembered, and I answered by kissing the corner of her mouth, the salt on her shoulder, the tiny scar on her collarbone I’d memorized years ago.

There was no rush, no edge, only the quiet certainty that this (her, me, the river holding us like it understood) was the truest thing we would ever do.

When she came, it was with a trembling sigh that trembled through both of us, her body melting around mine in soft, rolling waves. I followed a breath later, pressing as deep as the world allowed, spilling into her with a broken exhale that sounded like her name and thank you and forever all at once.

Afterward we stayed wrapped together, forehead to forehead, hearts slowing in tandem. The river carried us straight and steady now, sunlight warm on our joined skin, the faint scent of water and sweat and her wrapping around me like the gentlest arms.

She brushed her lips across mine (once, twice), then smiled against my mouth.

“I love you,” she whispered, so quietly only I and the river heard.

“I know,” I whispered back. “I always have.”

And somewhere behind us, a handful of fishermen set their beers down, looked at each other, and didn’t say a word. They didn’t need to. They’d just watched two kids fall a little deeper in love on a slow bend of water, and some things are too beautiful to cheer for.

They simply leave you quiet.