“It’s too hot.”
“So you’ve said. Several times, in fact.”
“But it is,” you whine, pouting. Generally, you don’t go for the whole spoilt brat look. But today, something is making you feel particularly cheeky. You blame the heat (which has been getting the blame for most things).
It’s day ten of clear blue skies and scorching sun, and, really. It’s a bit ridiculous. Even night-time offers no relief; thick heat lays draped over you, making your nightdress cling damply to your back and breasts. That is, when you even wear one.
”I mean, Jesus Christ, Martin,” you continue, gesticulating over-dramatically, your limbs languid and lazy, limp. “You know, it’s hotter in London than in Nice?”
You snort. “I think you mean wrong and really fricking annoying.”
“The heat makes you crabby, doesn’t it?” Deciding not to dignify that with a response, you tug your sun-hat more firmly onto your head, and tug on the hem of your loose-fitting t-shirt. Excluding underwear, it’s the only thing you can bear to wear.
“Maybe you’re wearing too much.”
You look up at that, colour flooding your cheeks as you look over at Martin, sprawled in a deck chair, just in shorts. You’re willing to bet he doesn’t have anything on under them, either.
”I’m barely wearing anything as it is,” you say, pushing past the slight tremor in your voice. God. He never fails to excite you. Not even in this heat.
“But apparently enough to be sweltering.” He’s grinning now, cheekily, smile climbing from ear to ear. A rather large part of you just wants to kiss it off his face.