Undertow

SLOANE

Chase moved through the yoga flow like he was executing plays on ice—every stretch deliberate, every transition controlled, every line of his body radiating quiet, coiled power.

In downward dog his shoulders rolled open, tank pulling tight across the broad plane of his chest. Sweat already beaded at the nape of his neck, tracing a slow, glistening path down the valley of his spine.

In warrior II our arms extended in parallel—close enough that the heat radiating off his bicep brushed my skin. When he sank deeper into the lunge, the muscle flexed visibly under golden skin.

Tree pose. One leg planted, the other foot pressed high against inner thigh. Victoria’s voice rang out, bright and oblivious.

“Partner assist! Trust exercise—hold each other steady.”

Dad steadied Victoria with an easy grip on her elbow. Chase turned to me. One brow lifted. Silent question.

I hesitated—only a second—then stepped in.

He reached out slowly. His hand settled on my waist—warm, callused palm flat against the dip just above my hip bone. Fingers flexed—once, barely—and I wobbled.

“Steady,” he murmured. Low. Private. Breath ghosting my ear.

I shot him a glare.

He didn’t smile. Just held me—unyielding, sure—while I lifted my right foot to my left thigh and fought to ignore how his thumb rested exactly over the sensitive hollow of my waist, how his heat seeped through the thin fabric of my cropped hoodie, how close his mouth was when he leaned in to correct my form.

“Lift your chest,” he said quietly. “You’re slouching.”

“I’m not slouching.”

“You are.”

His hand slid upward—slow, deliberate—until it rested just under my ribs. Guiding. Steadying.

My heart slammed so hard I was sure he could feel it.

The flow moved on. Partner twist. Back-to-back—shoulders brushing, spines aligned. His back was solid warmth against mine. Unmovable.

We twisted—right arm threading under his left, left arm threading over his shoulder—binding together.

Our fingers brushed. Once. Twice. He exhaled sharply through his nose—like the contact had caught him off guard. I felt the same jolt low in my belly.

Victoria’s voice drifted over. “Beautiful! Feel that connection. That trust.”

Dad laughed. “I trust you not to drop me, babe.”

Chase’s voice—barely audible, just for me:

“I’ve got you.”

I swallowed.

“I know.”

We released. Stepped apart. But the air between us felt thinner now. Hotter.

Savasana came last—lie back, palms up, eyes closed. I lowered myself to the mat, sand cool beneath the thin fabric. Chase lay beside me. Our pinkies brushed when we spread our arms. Neither of us pulled away.

Eyes closed. Breaths syncing with the slow crash of waves. Sun warming my skin. For five full minutes of forced stillness, I let myself feel it.

The pull.

The undertow.

When Victoria finally called “Namaste,” I sat up slowly.

Chase did the same. Our eyes met across the space between mats.

No smirk. No challenge. Just raw, unguarded recognition.

Victoria stretched overhead. “Wasn’t that wonderful? We should do this every morning!”

Dad groaned, rubbing his hamstrings. “My body is staging a protest.”

Chase didn’t speak. He just looked at me.

And I looked back.

The yoga was over.

But something else had just begun.

---

The pool glittered like molten sapphire under the late-morning sun—heated, private, ringed by teak loungers and tall palms swaying in the salt breeze. Victoria declared “pool time” the second we finished yoga, clapping like we were toddlers and she’d just invented recess.

“Swimsuits, everyone! Family games. No excuses.”

Dad was already in navy trunks, floating on an inflatable raft with a beer, looking blissfully ignorant of the current running beneath the surface.

Victoria wore a teal one-piece with strategic cutouts—elegant, athletic, somehow still editorial-ready.

I’d slipped a black bikini under my cover-up—simple triangle top, high-waisted bottoms that hugged the curve of my hips. Hair still in the loose knot from yoga. Sunglasses hiding where my gaze kept drifting.

Chase emerged last.

No shirt. No cover-up.

Just navy swim trunks slung low on his hips, drawstring untied and dangling. Skin still flushed from yoga and the morning’s earlier workout. Water droplets from the outdoor shower clung to his shoulders, sliding slow paths down his chest, over carved abs, disappearing into the deep V below his waistband.

He didn’t look at me at first.

Just dropped his towel on a lounger, stretched arms overhead—muscles rolling under sun-kissed skin—and dove in.

Clean. Minimal splash.

When he surfaced, water streamed off him—hair slicked back, lashes dark and spiked, rivulets tracing his throat, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone.

Victoria clapped. “Perfect! Now—family chicken fight!”

Dad laughed from his raft. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Classic. Builds trust, teamwork, balance.”

Chase hauled himself onto the pool edge—arms braced, water sluicing off biceps—and looked straight at me.

“Chicken fight?” Voice low. Casual. Eyes saying something else entirely.

Victoria beamed. “Yes! Parents versus kids. Sloane on Chase’s shoulders, me on Richard’s. First to knock the other in wins.”

Dad shrugged. “I’m game if you are, kiddo.”

I stared at Chase. He stared back. One brow lifted—barely. Daring.

I exhaled through my nose.

“Fine.”

Victoria squealed. “Wonderful! Into the water, everyone.”

Chase slid back in—barely a ripple—then turned and waited.

Arms out.

Ready.

I let the cover-up fall to the lounger. Black bikini. Bare midriff. High-cut bottoms accentuating every curve.

His throat worked.

Once.

Hard.

I walked to the edge—slow—stepped down. Warm water lapped at calves, thighs, waist. I waded toward him. He didn’t move. Just watched.

When I reached him, he crouched slightly. Hands came up—gripped my thighs.

“Up,” he said. Quiet. Rough.

I braced palms on his shoulders—felt scorching skin, flexing muscle—and swung one leg over.

His hands clamped around my thighs—firm, possessive—lifting me effortlessly onto his shoulders.

My core settled against the back of his neck. Thighs clamped around his head. His grip tightened—fingers digging into soft flesh just above my knees.

I sucked in a breath.

He exhaled—short, sharp—through his nose. The vibration hummed against my inner thighs.

Victoria was already perched on Dad’s shoulders—giggling, arms waving.

“Ready?” she called.

Chase’s voice rose from below—low, private.

“Hold on tight, Winters.”

His thumbs stroked once—slow, deliberate—along the sensitive crease where thigh met hip.

I gripped his hair—hard.

He groaned—quiet, guttural.

Then he charged.

Water surged. Victoria shrieked. Dad laughed.

Chase moved like he was forechecking on fresh ice—powerful strides, hips driving, shoulders rolling under me.

I leaned forward—arms out—swatting at Victoria’s hands. She swatted back.

Chase’s grip shifted—slid higher—thumbs brushing the edge of my bikini bottoms.

I gasped.

He froze for half a heartbeat.

Then pushed forward harder—water exploding around us.

Victoria flailed. Dad stumbled. They crashed down in a massive splash.

Victoria surfaced laughing. “You win!”

Chase didn’t celebrate.

He turned—slow—still holding me aloft. Looked up.

Water dripped from his lashes. His hands flexed—once—on my thighs.

Our eyes locked.

Every point of contact burned: his shoulders against my core, fingers digging into my skin, the heat of him radiating upward.

“Round two?” Victoria called.

Chase didn’t answer her.

He answered me—quiet, rough, barely audible over the water.

“Get down.”

I slid off—slow—legs dragging down his chest, stomach, hips. When my feet hit the pool floor we were chest to chest. Water lapped at our waists.

His hands stayed on my hips.

Mine stayed on his shoulders.

Neither moved.

Victoria splashed Dad—laughing. The game rolled on.

But Chase and I stood frozen—locked in something that had nothing to do with chicken fights or family bonding.

His thumbs stroked once—slow—along the waistband of my bottoms.

The laughter echoed across the pool.

The sun climbed higher.

But under the surface, the real current had already pulled us under.

And neither of us was fighting to surface.