The rental car’s tires crunched over loose gravel as Chris eased into the parking space. Phoebe’s fingers tapped an absent rhythm against the passenger window.
Kostas stood on the taverna terrace, balancing three plates up one arm while pointing toward the ocean with his free hand. Even from this distance, Phoebe could see how his linen shirt clung to his shoulders where sweat had darkened the fabric. Sixty years old and the man still moved like a panther—fluid, effortless, like his joints had never heard of stiffness.
“Jesus,” Chris muttered, killing the engine.
“Looks like he hasn’t aged a day.”
Phoebe didn’t answer. She was too busy remembering the way Kostas had laughed two summers ago, head thrown back, the tendons in his throat standing out as he poured them both another shot of ouzo. How his thumb had brushed her wrist when he passed the glass—just once, deliberate but fleeting. The memory coiled low in her stomach now, warm and insistent.
Chris popped the trunk, already reaching for their beach bag.
“You coming?” he asked.
Phoebe blinked.
“Yeah,” she said, too quickly.
“Just… taking it all in again.”
The taverna terrace buzzed with midday chatter, the scent of grilled octopus and lemon thick in the air. Kostas turned then, spotting them, and his grin flashed white against his sun-darkened face. He raised a hand in greeting, fingers splayed—a gesture Phoebe remembered too well.
Chris waved back. Phoebe swallowed.
Kostas approached, weaving between crowded tables with practiced ease, his grin softening into something more private as his gaze settled on Phoebe.
“My beautiful travellers,” he said, voice roughened by decades of cigarette smoke and sea air.
He clasped Chris’s shoulder first—a firm, friendly grip—then turned to Phoebe. Instead of the expected cheek kiss, he took her hand, turning it palm-up. His lips brushed the delicate skin of her inner wrist, lingering just long enough for her to feel the scrape of his stubble and the warmth of his exhale. A jolt ran through her, sparking down to her toes. His thumb pressed briefly against her racing pulse before releasing.
“Still stealing my breath, I see,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
Phoebe’s laugh sounded shaky even to her own ears.
“Still full of lines, Kostas,” she replied, her heart already beating faster.
Chris was watching them with amused tolerance—always the same look, the unshakable trust—but the pit of Phoebe’s stomach clenched with something hotter than guilt.
Kostas stepped back, sweeping an arm toward the terrace.
“Sit, sit! I’ll bring the good ouzo.”
He winked at Phoebe before striding off, the muscles in his back shifting visibly beneath his sweat-damp shirt.
Chris nudged Phoebe toward a corner table shaded by a gnarled olive tree.
“Christ, I forgot how he lays it on thick,” he chuckled, unfolding his napkin.
But Phoebe wasn’t listening. She stared at the kitchen doorway, replaying the way Kostas’ mouth had felt—slightly chapped, impossibly warm—and wondered, with a thrill that tightened her throat, whether this time she’d let the moment stretch beyond a stolen touch. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something about the man that made her pulse hammer.
By the third round of ouzo, Kostas’ fingers kept finding reasons to graze Phoebe’s—passing a dish of tzatziki, refilling her water glass. When he leaned in to describe the fishermen’s catch that morning, his knee pressed against hers beneath the table, solid and unapologetic. Chris, blissfully oblivious, demolished his grilled sardines with gusto, laughing when Kostas teased him about his sunburned nose. Phoebe traced the condensation on her glass, hyperaware of every point where her skin touched Kostas’.
Sand gritted between Phoebe’s toes as they crossed to the sun loungers—extravagant things with billowing linen canopies that fluttered in the warm breeze. Chris tossed his shirt aside with the ease of a man who’d never second-guessed his body. Phoebe hesitated, then untied her cotton wrap. The bikini’s white fabric clung obscenely, the triangles of her top barely containing what Kostas’ gaze now devoured with shameless hunger from the terrace.
Phoebe slathered coconut sun oil over her curves, her skin glistened provocatively. She waved to Kostas as she lay on the bed on her front. Reaching behind her to untie her bikini top.
Chris bounded into the sea, the cold water shocking his system as he dove beneath a wave. The salt stung his sunburned shoulders.
Kostas wiped down the bar counter with deliberate slowness, watching Phoebe over the rim of his sunglasses.
A bead of sweat slid down Phoebe’s spine. She’d stopped pretending to read several pages ago. The novel lay splayed against the lounger, pages fluttering. Beneath her, the heat of the day and something darker pooled between her thighs. She shifted slightly, pressing her hips into the towel. The friction drew a quiet sigh from her lips—one she didn’t bother to stifle.
Chris burst from the waves like a grinning sea monster, seawater sluicing off his shoulders as he bounded toward her.
“Christ, that’s freezing!” he laughed, shaking his head like a dog.
Droplets sprayed across Phoebe’s oiled skin. She gasped as cold water hit her overheated flesh—nipples hardening instantly beneath the flimsy fabric of her untied bikini top.
“Wallet,” Chris panted, raking wet hair off his forehead.
“Need another drink. You want anything?”
His gaze flickered toward the taverna, where Kostas stood motionless behind the counter. Phoebe arched her back slightly, letting the loose bikini straps slide another inch down her shoulders.
“Just water,” she murmured.
Chris nodded, already turning toward the bar—then froze mid-step. His hands slapped his hips, then his soaked pockets.
“Fuck!”
The horror in his voice made Phoebe sit up abruptly, nearly exposing herself completely.
“Keys,” he groaned.
“They were in my shorts. The rental car keys—”
His head whipped toward the sea as if expecting to spot them floating among the waves. Phoebe’s stomach plummeted.
Kostas was already striding across the sand before Chris finished cursing.
“What did you lose?”
His voice carried an undercurrent of amusement, but his gaze cut straight to Phoebe’s barely-covered chest. She made no move to adjust the fabric, letting the straps dangle precariously as Kostas drew nearer.
“Car keys,” Chris groaned, scrubbing his face.
“Must’ve fallen out when I dove—”
Kostas clapped him on the shoulder—too hard.
“Not a problem.” His thumb stroked the wet fabric of Chris’s shirt absently as he spoke, eyes still locked on Phoebe.
“The rental shop in town has spares, yes?” When Chris nodded, Kostas flashed a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ll take Phoebe on the bike. You stay—dry off, drink more ouzo.”
His knuckles grazed Phoebe’s ankle as he gestured toward the motorbike parked beside the taverna. The contact burned.
Chris hesitated, glancing between them. Phoebe held her breath.
“Yeah, alright. Thanks, mate.” He tossed Phoebe her wrap with a grin.
Phoebe’s pulse hammered as she swung a leg over the bike’s sun-warmed seat. Kostas kicked the stand back with his heel, the vibration between her thighs deepening as the engine roared to life. His hands settled on the handlebars, biceps flexing.
“Put your hands here,” he ordered, guiding them to his waist.
She inched closer, her bare thighs pressing against his linen shorts, her tits flattened out against his bare back.
The bike lunged forward. Phoebe gasped, her arms locking around Kostas’ torso as wind tore at her wrap. His skin tasted like salt when her cheek brushed between his shoulder blades. The bike hit a bump; she slid forward, her nipples scraping against his spine, bikini top loosening further. Kostas chuckled darkly, shifting gears with one hand while the other slid back to clamp over her wrist—anchoring her tighter against him.
Phoebe knew she should pull away. Instead, she let her fingers drift lower, until the very tip of her finger made contact with the bulge in his shorts. Kostas inhaled sharply.
***
The rental clerk barely glanced up when they entered.
“Ah, another one,” she sighed, rummaging beneath the counter.
Her acrylic nails clicked against a drawer full of identical keys.
“The small fee won’t ruin your holiday.” The woman snorted, sliding the spare key across the counter without asking for ID.
“Happens more often than you’d imagine.”
Outside, the afternoon sun had softened to molten gold. Kostas straddled the bike but didn’t start it. Instead, he reached back, adjusting Phoebe’s grip around his waist—his fingers lingering a beat too long on her inner thighs.
“We make a short detour on the way back,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the cicadas.
“I need to pick up something from my villa.”
Phoebe should’ve protested. Should’ve insisted they return straight to Chris. Instead, she tightened her hold as the bike roared to life, her heart hammering against Kostas’ spine. She knew very well where this was heading. The warming between her legs confirmed her desire for it.
The villa’s driveway snaked uphill between gnarled olive trees, their silver-green leaves whispering in the breeze. The ancient trunks twisted like lovers frozen mid-embrace, roots erupting through cracked stone walls that had stood since Venetian rule. Kostas slowed the bike to a crawl, letting the engine’s growl fade to a purr as they passed beneath dappled sunlight.
Phoebe’s grip slackened as the view unfolded—terraced lemon groves stepping down toward the sea, the distant white cube of the taverna barely visible now. Kostas’ thumb stroked her inner thigh through the flimsy fabric of her wrap.
“Beautiful, yes?” His voice roughened on the word, fingers flexing against her skin.
The villa emerged suddenly—a weathered stone structure with cobalt shutters flung open to catch the breeze. Bougainvillea spilled over the terrace railing like a bloodstain. Kostas killed the engine, letting silence flood in—just the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of gulls. He didn’t move. Phoebe’s chest pressed against his back, her untied bikini top grazing his spine with every shallow breath. She could smell the ouzo on his skin, the salt from his morning swim.
When he finally turned, his fingers found the loose knot of her wrap without looking. The fabric slithered open, pooling around her thighs. Kostas exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound like a bull scenting heat. Phoebe didn’t flinch when his calloused thumb dragged along her inner thigh, displacing droplets of sweat. She knew exactly what she was doing here. Knew the weight of his cock already, the way it would stretch her—not from experience, but from the way his linen shorts tented when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Chris’s wedding band glinted in the sunlight as Phoebe reached for Kostas’ belt. The clasp gave way with a metallic snick. This wasn’t betrayal—not really. Not when Kostas’ hands shook as they cupped her breasts, thumbs flicking over nipples hardened by anticipation rather than the breeze. Not when he groaned her name like a prayer against her collarbone, teeth scraping skin already salty from the sea. Somewhere beneath the rationalisations, Phoebe recognized the lie, but the truth was simpler: she’d wanted this since his lips first brushed her wrist two summers ago.
She wanted him to rip off her bikini and fuck her raw, but one look at her legs and then between her tits, the dust from the road had stuck to the sun lotion, her skin was filthy.
“Mind if I use your shower, Kostas?” she asked.
He led her through the villa, past faded frescoes of nymphs cavorting with satyrs—appropriate, Phoebe thought—and into a bathroom where white marble tiles gave way to a walk-in shower big enough for three. Kostas activated a button on a discrete panel. Water arced from a chrome rain showerhead, steaming immediately in the afternoon heat. He didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, watching as Phoebe stepped under the spray, the thin fabric of her bikini turning translucent against her skin.
Road dust swirled down the drain in caramel streaks as Phoebe tipped her head back, letting water sluice through her hair. Kostas made a sound low in his throat—something between a growl and a prayer—and shoved off the doorframe. His sandals hit the tiles with twin thuds. The snap of his belt buckle echoed off the walls. Phoebe turned just as he stepped into the shower, naked now, his erection jutting proudly between them. Water sluiced over his shoulders, highlighting the silvered scars from long-ago fishing accidents and the darker trail of hair leading downward.
Her bikini bottoms unravelled beneath his quick fingers, the sodden fabric peeling away like a second skin. Kostas pressed her against the cool tiles, his mouth finding the tender spot beneath her ear as his hands mapped her body with the certainty of a man revisiting familiar terrain. Phoebe gasped when his thumbs hooked into the triangles of her top, the last barrier between them. The fabric gave way with a soft pop, baring her to the steam and his hungry gaze.
Water sluiced between their bodies as Phoebe reached down between them and wrapped her fingers around his shaft—hot as the copper pipes feeding the shower, ridged with veins that pulsed against her palm. Kostas groaned into her neck, his hips jerking forward instinctively. She tightened her grip, thumb swiping over the bead of moisture at his tip, spreading it in slow circles that made his breath hitch.
“Christ, woman,” he rasped, his accent thickening, “you’ll make me come before I’m even inside you.”
His hands slid down her slick back, fingers tracing the dimples above her ass before gripping hard enough to leave marks. Phoebe gasped as he spun her, her breasts dragging against the steamed glass—the sudden chill against her nipples contrasting sharply with the heat blooming between her thighs. Kostas pressed close behind her, his cock nestling in the cleft of her ass as he bent her forward, one broad hand splayed between her shoulder blades. His other hand slid down her spine, over the swell of her ass, fingers parting her with deliberate slowness.
She felt the head of his thick cock parting her wet folds. Kostas eased himself into her in one gentle but non-stop motion. Phoebe gasped as his sixty-year-old cock, as hard as any she had experienced, sheathed itself into her. The stretch burned—just enough to make her toes curl against the wet tiles—before settling into a deep, throbbing fullness that drew a moan from her throat. He didn’t pause, didn’t tease; his hips met hers with a wet slap, water spraying where their bodies joined.
Phoebe’s fingers scrambled against the slick glass as Kostas set a relentless pace, each thrust striking that spot inside her with unerring precision. She could feel the coarse hair of his thighs against the backs of her legs, the way his stomach pressed against her lower back with every forward snap of his hips. The illicit thrill of it—Chris waiting obliviously at the beach, the shower steaming around them, Kostas’ ragged breaths hot against her neck—sent sparks skittering up her spine. Her climax coiled tight, threatening to unravel with terrifying speed.
Kostas’ grip on her breasts tightened, his thumbs flicking over her nipples in rough, insistent circles.
“Come for me,” he growled, his voice raw with want, and the command tipped her over.
Phoebe’s back arched as pleasure detonated, her cunt clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. The sensation tore a cry from her throat—half surprise, half surrender—as Kostas groaned in response, his cock swelling impossibly thicker inside her.
She felt it the moment he lost control; the sharp, stuttering thrusts, the way his fingers dug into her hips. His release surged into her in hot, rhythmic spurts, each pulse wringing another shuddering gasp from her lips. Phoebe rocked back against him, her muscles milking him greedily, refusing to let go even as his hips stilled.
Kostas slumped against her, his forehead pressing between her shoulder blades, breath ragged against her wet skin. Phoebe turned her head just enough to catch his parted lips with hers—a messy, biting kiss that tasted of reckless betrayal.
The walk to his bedroom felt suspended in time—dripping wet, still breathless, their hands roaming each other’s bodies as if they might vanish at any moment. Kostas’ bedroom was a riot of white linen and sun-bleached wood, the shutters half-closed against the afternoon glare, casting stripes of golden light across the rumpled sheets. Phoebe grabbed the towel draped over a chair, running it slowly down her thighs, watching Kostas shake water from his silvered chest hair before wrapping the towel around his hips with a lazy twist.
Only forty-five minutes had passed since they’d left Chris squinting at the sea, hunting for lost keys. The realization sent a thrill through Phoebe—still time to savor this, to memorize the way Kostas’ stomach muscles flexed as he toweled his semi-hard cock with casual arrogance. Droplets clung to the thatch of hair at his groin, and Phoebe bit her lip, imagining the salt taste of him still on her tongue.
“It’s going to take at least fifteen minutes for the sun to dry my bikini,” Phoebe said, handing it to Kostas.
“What can we do in fifteen minutes?” she said, slowly raking her fingers down his cock.
Kostas caught the bikini she tossed at him, the damp fabric clinging to his fingers like a second skin. His grin turned wolfish as he opened the bedroom door and draped it over the glass balcony wall.
“Fifteen minutes?” He prowled forward, kicking a towel aside. His cock slapped against his stomach, already thickening again despite their recent exertion.
“Darling girl,” he murmured, catching her wrist to guide her fingers lower,
“I can make you come twice in five.”
The bedframe groaned as Kostas sprawled backward, his shoulders sinking into sun-warmed linen. Phoebe didn’t hesitate—she swung a leg over his face, her thighs bracketing his temples as she leaned forward. His groan vibrated against her slick folds the moment her lips sealed around his thick shaft. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard just to feel his hips jerk beneath her.
Kostas answered with a throaty moan, his thumbs spreading her wider as his tongue lashed her clit in quick, merciless strokes. He worked her with the precision of a man who’d cataloged every gasp and shudder—knowing exactly when to flutter his tongue lightly against her swollen bud before flattening it in broad, demanding strokes that left her thighs trembling. His fingers crooked inside her, rubbing that sweet spot with relentless pressure until she moaned around his cock, her teeth grazing the sensitive ridge beneath his head.
“Oh God…I’m gonna—”
Phoebe’s warning dissolved into a high-pitched squeal as her orgasm ripped through her, her hips slamming forward uncontrollably. Her cunt slapped wetly against Kostas’ face, smearing his stubble with her slick as she ground against his mouth through the convulsions. He didn’t relent—if anything, his tongue grew more insistent, dragging out her pleasure until she collapsed forward with a shudder, her lips sliding off his cock as she gasped for air. Her thighs quivered against his cheeks, still twitching with aftershocks.
With the strength and stamina of a man half his age, Kostas pushed Phoebe onto her back. The mattress springs groaned in protest as he flipped her effortlessly, his strong hands pinning her wrists above her head as he pushed himself between her legs.
Still gasping from her orgasm, Phoebe parted her thighs wide—an instinctive invitation—as Kostas slid into her in one slick thrust. The stretch burned deliciously; she was swollen from her climax, hypersensitive, and the sudden fullness wrenched a guttural moan from her throat. Phoebe bit her lip as he began to move.
Kostas leaned over her, his sweat dripping from his beard onto her tits. He pinned her wrists harder into the sheets. His thrusts grew rougher, each drive of his hips making the bedframe shudder against the stone wall. Phoebe arched beneath him, her heels digging into the small of his back as she met his rhythm stroke for stroke.
Her wrists twisted weakly in his grip—not to escape, never to escape—just to feel his fingers tighten further. Phoebe’s pulse hammered wildly, her body suspended in that exquisite space between resistance and surrender. The sharper his grip became, the louder she moaned, her thighs trembling as she took him deeper. She could smell the musk of their sweat, taste the salt on his tongue when he crushed his mouth to hers.
With a sudden twist of his hips, Kostas adjusted his angle—just slightly—but the change was seismic. The blunt head of his cock dragged against some deep, untouched place inside her, sparking white-hot pleasure that radiated outward in concentric waves. Phoebe gasped loudly, her body locking rigid beneath him as sensation overloaded her nervous system. The pleasure was sharper than anything she’d ever felt—not just pleasure, but revelation, as if her body had been waiting for this precise pressure all along.
Kostas smirked down at her, reading her shock perfectly. His thrusts became measured, deliberate—each one striking that same spot with the precision of a maestro conducting a symphony. Phoebe’s clit throbbed obscenely, swollen beyond belief, the sensation amplified by the way his pelvic bone ground against it with every thrust.
“There,” he growled, watching her pupils dilate further, “that’s the spot Chris never found, isn’t it?”
Words came out her mouth without conscious thought. Phoebe heard herself saying:
“Oh fuck!”
Her orgasm detonated like a depth charge—not the familiar cresting wave, but a seismic rupture that liquefied her muscles and short-circuited coherent thought. Phoebe’s back arched violently, her cunt clamping around him in rhythmic spasms so intense they bordered on pain. Then—impossibly—warmth gushed from her in pulsing jets, splattering Kostas’ thighs and the sheets beneath them with a wet slap. The shock of it tore a scream from her throat, raw and unfiltered, as her hips jerked uncontrollably against his.
Kostas swore in guttural Greek, his fingers gripping her hips as he rode out her convulsions. His cock twitched inside her, reveling in the sudden slick flood, each involuntary squeeze of her walls milking him toward his own climax.
“Christ, look at you,” he rasped, dragging his thumb through the mess dripping down his balls before smearing it across her clit.
The overstimulation made Phoebe sob, her oversensitive flesh quivering beneath his touch as another weaker spurt escaped her.
The second hand on his Rolex blurred as he hammered into her, the watch face fogged with steam and sweat. Six minutes now. Phoebe’s thighs trembled around his waist—she’d lost count of how many times she’d come, her body reduced to a shuddering, overstimulated mess beneath his relentless rhythm.
She began to wonder if indeed Greek Gods still walked the earth.
His thrusts grew erratic, hips stuttering as he neared the edge.
“Where?” he gritted out, his voice raw.
Phoebe barely managed to lift her hips in answer, offering her womb like a sacrifice.
The first spurt hit her deepest walls like molten lead—thick ropes flooding her channel as Kostas buried himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed against her cervix with each jet, his balls slapping against her ass in a frantic rhythm. His release seemed endless, filling her beyond capacity until his warm seed trickled down her trembling thighs.
***
Chris put his book down when he heard the sound of the motorcycle approaching. Kostas and Phoebe walked towards him, Phoebe dangling the spare car keys in her fingers. Her legs looked a little wobbly, probably from the bike ride, he thought—though the flush creeping down her chest and the way her wrap clung damply to her thighs suggested something far more strenuous. Kostas lingered half a step behind, his grin a shade too satisfied, fingers brushing the small of Phoebe’s back whenever she swayed.
“Wow! That was quick,” said Chris, wiping sweat from his brow.
“You’ve only been gone an hour and a half,” he said, tapping the glass on his wrist watch.
“I thought you guys would have been gone two, maybe three hours.”
Phoebe shrugged and glanced sideways at Kostas, whose smirk deepened as he rolled his broad shoulders—still damp from the second shower they’d taken together.
“Traffic was light,” she murmured, her voice slightly hoarse from all the screaming that had echoed off those terracotta tiles.
Chris squinted at them, sunlight glinting off his glasses as he opened his mouth—then closed it with a shrug.
“Well, I’m just glad you’re back,” he said cheerfully, oblivious to the way Phoebe’s bikini straps were tied wrong or how Kostas’ linen shorts clung suspiciously to his still-damp thighs.
“Ready for dinner?”
Kostas’ fingers traced slow circles on Phoebe’s lower back—a silent promise beneath Chris’s oblivious gaze.
“Starving,” Phoebe breathed, her stomach growling audibly—though not nearly as loudly as the ache Kostas had left between her legs.
Kostas chuckled darkly, stepping forward to clap Chris on the shoulder with one hand while the other slid possessively around Phoebe’s waist.
“I know just the place,” he said, his thumb skating over Phoebe’s bikini bottom beneath her wrap.
“My treat.”
