Christina and Evan sailing off to heaven

Evan couldn’t stop staring at Christina’s legs. Long, sun-warm, and toned like they were built to make him dumb, they stretched the length of the deck in sky-high heels that showed every flex of her toes. Her feet looked painted-on smooth, arches curving in a perfect line that always fried his brain before he even touched her. He poured her another drink, then tugged the camera from its bag. "Shoes stay on," he told her, half teasing, half begging. She smirked, struck a pose on the bow, thigh muscle tightening under golden light. Every click of the shutter pulled the heat tighter. Evan’s shorts started looking crowded. He lasted ten shots before he ditched the camera and backed her against the rail. Hands everywhere. The deck swayed, the ocean hummed, but all Evan noticed were Christina’s legs hooked around his hips, her heels tapping his sides like spurs. She kicked one foot free, slid her toes down his calf while he shoved inside her, and laughed when he groaned like she’d discovered his kill switch. They christened the yacht rail in thirty seconds flat, then the bench, then the slippery spiral stairs that only counted as vertical if you squinted. Waves slapped the hull. Salt stuck to every sweaty inch. Somewhere near a buoy they almost fell overboard, limbs tangled, heels scraping white fiberglass. Evan didn’t care; his favorite view in the world stayed framed between Christina’s calves every time her toes curled tight around his rhythm.