Crimson Ocean Dance

For/from Fionna


I had flushed a deep, deep crimson—my cheeks and the triangle of flesh visible above my T-shirt’s V-neckline the same colour as her lipstick. I knew this because my shame was reflected in her sunglasses.

“What?” she jeered. I don’t think she meant to jeer… but she did. “Nobody ever ask you to do that before?”

“Nobody,” I shook my head. Cheeks hot. Chest hot. Armpits wet—sweat trickling down my sides and down my back, and it wasn’t from the heat of the sun.

“Are you going to? Are we going to?” she said. Kinder this time. The lips, impeccably painted, curved into a smile and then, into a the prelude of a kiss.

I looked away, lest another part of my body betray me.

Too late.

She laughed. Moved in half a step closer. Hand on my chest, then sliding down to just below the waistline of my shorts.

My embarrassment wanted to take a step back, but my desire moved me forward.

“That’s better,” she murmured, one hand resting just-below, just-above—trespassing but not really—the other curving around my back. My hands on the jutting bones of her hips. Flesh naked. Hot.

From the sun, not embarrassment, this I knew.

She drew the hand resting against my waistband slowly up and into it, and then around, finger just inside, until her hand was on my back. Pressed herself closer to me, her painted lips against my naked ear.

“I can’t believe nobody has ever asked you to dance in the ocean,” she whispered. She led. One step, two steps back until our feet were wet, then calves. The waves lapped, splashed. I could smell the salt.

“You didn’t ask me to dance in the ocean,” I tried to whisper, but instead I croaked. “You asked me to fuck in the ocean.”

“Same thing,” she murmured, swaying, hands wound tightly around me. “Doesn’t most fucking start with a dance of some sort?”

“Jesus,” I moaned.

“Mary, Holy Mother of God,” she corrected. Hips swaying—promising to grind. Hands pressing—promising to caress, more. Lips so close to my ear, but not kissing. Would they?

“No,” she answered as if I had asked. “No kissing today. Only dancing. And fucking.”

Hands on my shorts, in them, legs tangled, tripping, falling. Water cold. Crimson lips above me, below me. My cheeks, chest, other places burning with desire that created new colours.

“It’s a good thing we don’t need to use condoms,” she said as we crawled out of the water on our knees a while later. “How, exactly, would we have managed that?”

Sated and bold, I pushed her into the damp sand and climbed on top of her. A kiss on those still crimson lips.

“We would have managed,” I promised. Pushed a leg between hers to spread her open again.

“Sex in the sand?” she asked. I moved in for the lips—crimson no more—got a mouthful of wet hair.

“No kissing,” she reminded me. Turned her head. “I don’t think,” she said, “there is enough privacy on this beach for sex in the sand.”

She was right—as I lifted my head I saw a group of tourists on the edge of the cove, walking our away.

I started to get up.

“I don’t care,” she said, pulling me back on top of her.

But I did.

So I dragged her back into the ocean instead.

This time, she forgot about the no kissing rule, and she tasted divine.




For Nicole: Cardamom Knob Wool

For Jenn: Piano River Feather

For Lara: Peasant Cicada Pomegranate

For Paola: Stoked Sunrise Ferocity

For Nina: Crimson Brilliant Moon

For Cathy: Elated Chocolate Tears

For Lisa: Collar Forgiveness Wind 

For Leslie: Train Clouds Mountain

For Grazyna: Anticipation Disappointment Hope

For Tet: Pills Chips Lotion

For Fionna: Crimson Ocean Dance



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About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance TELL ME, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) CONSEQUENCES (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) CHERRY PIE CURE, and TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and presenter, Colette is also the author of the Dirty Writing Secrets Series, which includes the non-fiction collection of essays ROUGH DRAFT CONFESSIONS: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway, 101 FLIRTY WRITING PROMPTS TO SEDUCE YOUR MUSE, and ORGANIZED CREATIVE. She's also the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Screw Chocolate, and A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown. Releasing Spring 2020: CUPID IN MONTE CARLO.


  1. amazing visual and sensuality as always and I love the photo.

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  4. Makes me want to dance in the ocean like that!!

  5. Cathy

    I love the ending!

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