Dear Sue - What Happens in Athens

All characters in this story engaging in sexual situations are aged 18 or over.

I write letters to my dear friend Sue about the interesting people I meet in the swinging lifestyle. My stories are for readers who enjoy romance and eroticism within an open marriage and a consensual hotwife dynamic. If that isn't your thing, feel free to scroll on. Otherwise, please enjoy, and share any feedback or questions -- I always reply.

X Jayne

Dear Sue,

I am writing to you from a beach near Athens. I have done something very naughty, which I thought might be nice to share with you while it is still fresh in my mind.

As you know, we have been in Athens for several days, and it has all been very good, but Naughty Jayne makes an appearance when you least expect it.

We flew into Athens from Turkey a few days ago. There has been a lot of discussion, and sometimes those discussions get a little heated because of disagreements about what we should be doing on our holiday. Chris, as you know, likes to relax, go to the sauna and get plenty of rest, whereas I like to be out and about, enjoying different experiences.

We are, after all, in a different country, so I think we should make the most of it. Unfortunately, I also have work emails to attend to. Even on holiday, I spend an hour or two dealing with them.

Sorry, I digress. I always digress.

Back to the beach.

Sue, honestly, you would not believe how many good-looking men there are here. Greek men aren't always as tall as Australian men, but they are fit and well-toned, and they give me more than a passing glance. They make direct eye contact, especially when Chris isn't around or is looking the other way. Athenian men are certainly bolder than Sydney men about approaching a woman they find attractive. Sydney men, by comparison, are experts at avoiding eye contact and acting completely nonchalant. Yours truly has only ever been approached when looking her absolute worst, usually red-faced and sweaty after a gym workout. We've covered this in other letters, and I know there are whole Reddit threads on the subject, but anyway, back to the holiday.

The morning begins with a plan to try public transport: a walk from the hotel down Syngrou Avenue, then a train and a bus to the beach. It sounds like an adventure until we step outside. Even at eight in the morning, it is already around thirty degrees. Suddenly, a taxi seems a much better idea. Before we give up, I squint at the signs at the bus stop. Some of the Greek letters look like English ones, but working out each word takes me twice as long. 'It's all Greek to me,' I tell Chris, with a mock laugh. He laughs along, and we hail a taxi.

Traffic moves in all directions around the iconic Hadrian's Arch, sometimes seeming to go in circles. Our driver makes two turns around the hotel before finally setting off in the right direction. Then he cheerfully suggests a shorter drive to a beach he insists is just as good as the one we have chosen.

I protest. I have my heart set on a quieter, pristine beach farther down the Greek Riviera, somewhere like Vouliagmeni, which a friend has recommended. But the traffic is busy, even on a Monday morning, and eventually we take his advice. More time on the beach, less in traffic seems sensible.

So here we are at Akti tou Iliou, on Alimos Beach. It is only eight kilometres from our hotel, but the taxi ride has taken about half an hour.

Unlike Sydney beaches, which are generally free to access (although council parking is another matter, so it all balances out in the grand scheme of things), this is a private beach club. We pay ten euros each to get in, then look for a shady spot that suits Chris.

We have arrived early, at about 9.20 a. m., before the heat becomes even more oppressive. The beach is still fairly quiet, and we manage to get a little thatched-roof umbrella and a couple of loungers, four rows back from the sea and directly beneath a small palm. We're a little close to the hut where the DJ keeps his equipment, but it's early and there's no one there yet.

Only a few people are around, mostly older locals by the look of them, who have spread their towels on the pebbles rather than pay for umbrellas and loungers. Over the next hour or so, a younger crowd begins to drift in: men and women, couples and singles, all enjoying a relaxing Greek Monday. The DJ arrives and starts playing dance music, all of it in English and most of it familiar.

I apply plenty of sunscreen, making sure I'm well protected. Then I make an executive decision to skip the swim cap and just wear my goggles.

I walk into the water and start swimming. The temperature is close to perfect, around twenty-five or twenty-six degrees. There are hardly any waves, and although the beach is pebbly, the sea itself is calm and inviting.

As I swim, Naughty Jayne makes an appearance, and I start fantasising about the men around me.

There's a young guy with a back covered in tattoos. He looks about thirty, with a neat little beard and closely cropped hair that sharpens his features. He's with an attractive woman, but he still catches my eye.

Oh, and there's another one, around forty, with thick jet-black hair, warm eyes and a small goatee. I like the easy confidence with which he carries himself. He isn't alone, either. Beside him is a Sofia Vergara look-alike in an unbuttoned white linen shirt and a long, sheer, camel-coloured skirt worn over a 1960s-style crochet bikini. They make a striking pair.

No harm in looking, right, Sue?

Even the waiter is rather good-looking, in his brown uniform of loose linen trousers, a matching long-sleeved shirt and a black cap. The older, less fit men seem attractive too, in their own way.

I finish my swim and return to the lounger, feeling rejuvenated.

As I'm drying off, Chris glances around and asks in a low, conspiratorial voice, 'Did you notice the men here?'

'The men on this beach? Yes, I did. They're rather good-looking.'

'That's not what I meant, Jayne.' He raises one eyebrow and nods pointedly towards two couples on the loungers in front of us. 'A lot of the older men here are with much younger women.'

I follow his gaze. Both men look to be in their sixties, and the women with them are in their early thirties at most.

'Interesting. I hadn't picked up on that, but now that you mention it, you might be right.' I give him a knowing look. 'Probably retired, and on to their second relationships.'

'Could be. Why else would they be here on a Monday morning?'

We carry on with our observations, from their swimwear, conservative but stylish, to the very Greek habit of smoking right there on the beach. In the end, we agree that the men and the women are all attractive, whatever their age.

Sue, you know my taste in men can be eclectic, and I'm never happier than when I'm doing a spot of people-watching. I would have loved to share a few more gossipy thoughts with Chris, but he has lost interest in the topic. He's now scrolling through his phone, reading about the vagaries of the stock market and catching up on the news from home.

So I carry on people-watching on my own, making a show of reapplying sunscreen slowly and carefully over my arms and legs, and especially my shoulders. I take my time over my face, my neck and my decolletage, too.

When I've finished, I wave over the waiter in the brown uniform. He mumbles something about a shift change and hurries off. When in Athens, it seems, one must do as the Athenians do and wait patiently. The beach is getting busier as lunchtime approaches, and it takes a while, but eventually our new waiter appears.

You always ask me to describe the men properly, Sue, so here goes. He's about twenty-eight, tall and, of all things, blond, with a fringe that falls attractively over his eyebrows. He gives off definite Justin Bieber vibes, but his accent is unmistakably local.

We settle on a bottle of water and an apple cider flavoured with mango and pomegranate. Pomegranates grow everywhere here, so why not? Yes, it's alcoholic, Sue, but only 3.5 per cent, so I decide it isn't too risky before my next swim.

I drink only half the cider, saving the rest for Chris, but despite its low alcohol content, I can already feel a slow warmth spreading up from my chest. Perhaps it's the alcohol, or the heat, but I'm feeling a little twitchy.

Then, having gulped down a huge glass of ice-cold water on top of it, I discover I have a terrible urge to pee. I look around. The sun is blazing, the beach is filling up, and every umbrella seems to be taken. There's the little hut with the DJ's equipment, but no toilet in sight.

Should I walk barefoot across the lava-hot pebbles to find one, or slip back into the sea, pretend to sit in the water and quietly relieve myself? I know it's naughty, but I firmly believe plenty of people pee in the sea. They just don't admit it.

In the end, I ask the waiter where the toilets are, accept that the walk is unavoidable, and tell myself to behave.

I slip on my dull-pink Havaianas and my cute dark sunnies. Did I mention the sunnies, Sue? They're from Sportsgirl, bought for Melbourne Cup Day, so they're rather fancy, with black-and-white checked rims. They can be quite attention-grabbing, but that really wasn't planned. In my haste, they were the only pair I packed. On our travels, they've made quite an impression on fellow travellers, and I say this with only a little smugness, mostly on men.

I head towards the toilets, past people eating, drinking and minding their own business.

Then I notice him.

He's sitting slightly apart from the others, a man of average height and build, perhaps in his early thirties, with short black hair that curls a little at the edges. Clean-shaven, which I like. He looks straight at me, and he holds my gaze long enough to make his interest quite clear. One corner of his mouth lifts into a smile.

His olive skin is bronzed by the sun, and his shoulders look broad beneath his short-sleeved shirt. I give him a quick mental assessment and decide that I like what I see.

I don't break my stride. I walk neither too fast nor too slowly. I return his gaze, my chin angled slightly down in what I hope is a coy way, while my eyes flick up at him as I pass. I hold his gaze for just a moment longer than necessary.

Then I continue on my way, trying not to smile too obviously.

I find the toilet, step into a stall and release a long, hot stream with a sigh of relief.

When I've finished, I check my face in the small mirror and glance down at my Kotomi maroon-and-white striped bikini. I look all right. Perhaps even a little better than all right, considering the sun, the swim and the heat.

I return to our loungers in high spirits. Instead of settling back into mine, I leave my Havaianas and flashy sunnies beside Chris and grab my goggles. Then I step barefoot onto the hot pebbles and pick my way down to the water's edge on the balls of my feet. At the shoreline, I glance back. The seat where my admirer was sitting earlier is empty.

I wade in up to my thighs and dive.

You know how much I love the water, Sue. Until this morning, I hadn't had a proper opportunity to swim on this holiday. Cappadocia gave us beautiful sunrises, including one with hundreds of hot-air balloons, and languid days punctuated by Turkish breakfasts--but no swimming pool where I could do laps. Lovely as it was, a woman can admire only so many balloons before she starts longing for a swim.

I begin a slow, steady front crawl, enjoying the coolness of the water. Only a few people are actually swimming; most are bobbing up and down, chatting or floating in the shallows. I speed up, kicking from my hips the way the coach taught us at Cook and Phillip years ago, and settle into that familiar rhythm of straight arms, steady legs and the soft sound of water moving past my ears.

Tiny fish flash beneath me, silver in the sunlight. I delight in chasing them for a few moments as they dart away between the ripples.

Then I notice a pair of legs in the water ahead of me.

Male legs. Strong thighs. Tanned calves.

I slow down so that I don't swim straight into him. Then, feeling unexpectedly playful, I push on again, kicking more strongly and matching my kick to the length of my strokes. After six strokes, I stop and lift my head above the water.

'You swim very nice,' a voice says from my right. 'Graceful, like a fish.'

I turn.

It is him--my admirer.

His English isn't perfect, but that doesn't matter. Who doesn't want to be compared with a fish, Sue? What matters is that he is trying. His flirting amuses me, and I decide that I like it.

Up close, the dark curls of his hair are damp from the sea, and droplets of water cling to his shoulders. He has a delightful accent, warm and unmistakably Greek. He smiles at me, not in a way that feels pushy or presumptuous, but as though we have already shared a private joke.

'Thank you,' I reply, returning his smile.

'You swim seriously,' he says. 'Not like everyone else.'

'I like swimming,' I tell him. 'It clears my head.'

He nods, looking at me with dark, steady eyes.

'You are Australian?'

'Yes. Is it that obvious?'

'A little,' he says, his smile widening. 'But it is a good obvious. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi.'

I laugh softly, treading water to keep myself afloat. We've heard this phrase a few times on our holiday.

'And you are Greek?'

'Greek,' he says. 'From Athens. My name is Nikos.'

'Jayne.'

'Jayne,' he repeats, as though trying the name gently for the first time. 'It suits you.'

The water lifts and lowers us together. Around us, other swimmers splash and call to one another, but they seem a long way off. Nikos drifts a little closer as we talk, until the space between us narrows almost without my noticing.

'You are here with someone?' he asks.

'My husband,' I say, glancing briefly towards the beach.

He follows my gaze, then looks back at me. 'The man beneath the palm?'

'Yes.'

'He does not swim?'

'Not unless he absolutely has to,' I say. 'Chris prefers the shade.'

Nikos laughs. 'Then he is missing the best part of the day.'

It's close to midday by now, and the heat seems to press down on the whole beach. There's almost no one near us in the water. Most people have retreated beneath umbrellas and thatched shelters, or sit at tables having lunch in the shade. Out here, the voices from the shore reach us only faintly, along with the occasional clink of glasses and plates. Even the DJ's music has faded.

We have drifted, or perhaps swum, farther out than I first realised.

The beach is still clearly visible: the pale line of pebbles, the rows of umbrellas, the small dark shapes of people sheltering beneath them. But we're a good distance from shore now, far enough that the water feels quieter and deeper around us. We have reached the nets that separate our beach club from the next one. Nikos can just touch the bottom here; I can't, and I find myself treading water a little closer to him than I need to. Out here, we are well away from prying eyes, or so I think.

Nikos glances back towards the beach, then at me.

'Your husband will not worry?' he asks softly.

'Chris is probably having lunch,' I say, trying to sound casual. 'Or scrolling through his phone in the shade. He never watches me swim.'

Nikos nods, his eyes lingering on mine.

'Then you are free for a little while.'

A small ripple passes between us. He comes closer--not suddenly, but with the natural movement of the water--until I can see droplets caught in the dark hair at his temples.

His hand comes to rest lightly at my hip.

I do not move away.

There is no one close enough to hear us. The beach feels a long way away.

I should move away.

That is the sensible thing to do, isn't it? The thing a woman with any self-control at all would do.

But I do not.

Of course, Sue, you know Chris and I have our understanding. So long as I am safe and the man seems decent, he is generally rather more amused than alarmed by Naughty Jayne's choices. There is one condition: I have to give him the full story later. Storytelling is one of our favourite private activities. You know this. You have heard enough of the stories yourself.

So it is not Chris's disapproval I am thinking about. It is the sheer audacity of me, out here on a Monday, making eyes at a man whose name I have only just learnt.

Nikos's hand stays at my hip beneath the water: warm, steady and not at all demanding. It feels like a question.

He drifts a little closer still.

He watches my face, waiting. He is not rushing me. That, more than anything, makes me feel bold.

And Sue--perhaps more dangerously--I know exactly what I want too.

I put one hand over the strings of my bikini bottoms, making sure the ties are secure. It is such a silly thing to worry about at this moment, but I cannot bear the idea of losing them and having to make an undignified swim back to shore. Without the one-piece I wear at home, I feel a little vulnerable.

Naughty Jayne has standards, after all. Being naughty is one thing. Causing a Greek grandmother to tut at me from beneath an umbrella is quite another.

He smiles as if he understands my small, nervous adjustment, even though I have not said a word. Then he brushes a wet strand of hair from my cheek and leans close.

'Are you sure?' he asks.

I nod.

'Yes,' I whisper.

It is only one word, Sue, but it feels far more daring than anything else I have done all day.

His expression softens. He kisses me slowly, carefully, giving me every chance to pull away.

I do not.

I reach for him, needing something to hold on to. I rest one hand on Nikos's shoulder. His skin is warm from the sun and slick with salt water, and I feel the muscle shift under my palm as he breathes. After a moment, I lay the other hand beside it. The flimsy ties of my bikini have slipped from my mind altogether.

For a few stolen moments, the world narrows to the glitter of sunlight on the water, the slow lift and fall of the sea around us, his warmth, and the reckless thrill of being somewhere I absolutely should not be.

I have never been more aware of my own choices.

This is no accident. I am not being swept along by the sea, or by him. I could let go. I could pull away, laugh it off and swim for the shore. I don't. I am choosing, breath by breath, to stay.

His fingers are still at my hip, barely touching. They rest there, light against my bare skin, and wait. When I don't move away, they begin to move. They trace slowly along the curve of my hip, unhurried, following the edge of the fabric to the front, where only a tiny triangle of maroon and white lies between us.

He stops there, and so does my breath.

My body has already decided; my mind is simply catching up. A slow heat spreads through me, and I feel myself growing wetter, my thighs pressing together beneath the water. His fingertips settle along the edge of my bikini, right there, against my soft, smooth pussy. They are so close, and so patient, that the waiting itself becomes unbearable.

My fingers tighten on his shoulders. My head tips back, the sun warm on my closed eyelids, and I melt into nothingness.

Yet a small part of me stays alert. We are in a public place, after all, but mostly I am already elsewhere. I love the thrill of it, the chance that someone might glance our way and realise what we're doing. The thought of a distant voyeur watching our antics only adds to the excitement.

The rush is undeniable. Naughty Jayne wants to play and, apparently, so does Nikos.

There is something about being in a foreign land, where nobody knows you, that makes the desire to play in public feel quite irresistible. To borrow from Las Vegas: what happens in Athens stays in Athens.

The feeling is exquisite as his fingers keep moving, touching, teasing, and finally tormenting me.

'Nikos, you're torturing me,' I whisper against his ear.

'Then, Jayne, I must be doing something right.'

His fingers leave the line of my bikini and slip beneath it. I'm clean-shaven, as you know, Sue, so there's nothing in their way as they glide over my bare skin, part me and press inside my pussy. His clever fingers find my G-spot and curl in a slow come-hither motion, sending jolts through me that are dangerously good. My Greek Adonis is certainly skilled, and Naughty Jayne is pleased.

My arms are still around his shoulders, but I'm careful to keep a gap of about two feet between our bodies. Anyone watching from the beach would see nothing but two people chatting out in the water. Below the surface, though, there are undercurrents indeed.

I slide my right hand down his chest, over his stomach, and lower, until it finds the front of his swimmers. The bulge there is unmistakable. He is big, thicker than I expected, and rock hard, just the way I like my cocks. Holding his gaze, I let the tip of my tongue slip out and run it slowly across my lips, making a show of it. Then I slip my hand inside his waistband and wrap my fingers around his cock. My stroking is rhythmic and deliberate, and I'm rewarded by a slick bead of pre-cum, warm against my fingertips even in the cool sea. He makes a low, guttural sound, half sigh and half curse.

'Me trelaineis,' he breathes. 'You are driving me crazy, pretty Jayne.'

I don't let up. His reaction makes me bolder, and I keep stroking him, unhurried, the way he's been touching me.

'I want to be inside your sweet pussy,' he says, his voice rough.

'You can,' I answer, a little breathless.

I feel wonderful, completely seen by him and invisible to everyone else, all at once. Somewhere along the way, his fingers have pulled loose the ties at my hips. I only notice when I find my bikini bottoms bunched in one hand. With the other, I hold on to the net to steady myself.

'Not yet,' he says. 'First, I want to taste you. I know you'll be delicious.'

Before I can answer, he takes a breath and slips beneath the surface. His hands close around my thighs, holding me steady, and then his mouth is on me, his lips finding my clit, his tongue sweeping slowly over my centre before slipping inside me.

A soft laugh escapes me. Gripping the net, I tread water as gently as I can, trying to stay upright and look natural. His tongue feels wonderful and wickedly naughty. How long can he hold his breath, I wonder. I close my eyes and force myself to keep my face calm and my movements small, not wanting to draw attention.

When I open my eyes, I notice a swimmer close by. A man, around thirty, with sun-browned shoulders and thick, dark eyebrows. Nikos is still beneath the surface, giving his full attention to my inner thighs.

For a moment I'm alarmed. The man's hungry eyes are drinking me in, and he makes no attempt to look away. I wait for embarrassment to flood in. It doesn't. What comes instead is a slow, warm thrill. I love being watched, Sue.

Nikos breaks the surface beside me, sees the stranger and glances at me, one eyebrow raised.

'May I watch?' our new friend asks, his voice low.

Nikos waits for my answer. I hold the stranger's gaze for a long moment, then nod. Nikos smiles and nods too.

Then he takes another breath, slips beneath the water again and is gone.

I turn, searching the surface for him.

He comes up behind me instead, his hands sliding around my waist and drawing me back against him. His fingers drift lower, tracing the curve of my bottom, and pause there, teasing, waiting. I answer by pressing back into his touch. When one fingertip begins to explore my anal passage, a small squeal escapes before I can stop it.

It's different, and I like it.

It's not my first time. I've used toys before and always enjoyed it, but I rarely let anyone else go there. A shy little worry flickers through my mind, and I almost laugh at myself. We're in the sea, and the salt water has surely taken care of everything. The thought of being fingered anally feels wrong and taboo, and that only makes it more thrilling.

Over Nikos's shoulder, I catch the stranger's eyes on me. I don't look away.

I push the worry away and let myself relax completely. His finger slides deeper. With a man's hand instead of a toy, I love it even more than I thought I would.

He turns me to face him. The distance between us closes at last, beneath the water, as he eases his cock into me. Even here in the sea, his pre-cum and my wetness make the way easy, and I feel an almost unbearable fullness. He moves gently at first, then more insistently, and my hips find his rhythm without my telling them to. His hand slips between us, his fingers finding my clit, pressing and circling, firm and sure.

A few metres away, the stranger treads water and watches, his gaze moving slowly over me. I know he can see everything, and the knowledge sends me higher.

Naughty Jayne is wide awake now, and I find I don't mind one bit. My pussy is very wet and on fire. My nipples cry out for attention. Perhaps it's the holiday, the sun and the sea and being so far from home, but I feel a freedom here I never let myself have there. I stop holding back. The pleasure builds, crests, and I come apart on his fingers, biting my lip to stay quiet.

'Jayne,' murmurs my Greek Adonis, 'did you just come?'

I nod, my cheeks burning.

To anyone on the beach, we're the picture of innocence, our faces apart and our shoulders a respectable distance from each other. Below the surface, he is still deep inside me, moving slowly and rhythmically, in and out.

'I'm very close,' he says, his voice strained. 'Should I pull out?'

'You can come inside my pussy,' I tell him. 'It's fine, Nikos. I really don't mind.'

He searches my eyes, as if to be sure. 'You won't get pregnant?' he asks earnestly.

'No. It's the wrong time of the month for that.'

I give him a wide, encouraging smile. Chris has always told me to do this, to give a man permission so he can lose himself completely in the moment. If nothing else, I know good advice when I hear it. And here, in this sea, at this moment, I am nothing if not an obedient hotwife. So I remember Chris's words and heed them.

'Go on,' I breathe. 'Fuck me like you mean it. Come inside me. I want you to. Come for me, Nikos.'

He speeds up, his hands tightening around my waist for leverage, driving deep into me until he comes hard, his whole body shuddering against mine. I can't resist. I rake my fingernails lightly down his back and flick my tongue over the sensitive spot just below his ear. I do this so he won't soon forget his little Australian friend.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. His forehead rests against mine, and our breathing slows together with the gentle rise and fall of the sea. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, still racing, slowly steadying.

Then he laughs softly, a warm, disbelieving sound, and kisses the corner of my mouth.

'Pretty Jayne,' he murmurs. 'What have you done to me?'

'I could ask you the same thing.'

He eases away from me, and the water rushes in between us, cool where he was warm. I suddenly remember the bikini bottoms bunched in my fist. Nikos sees them too and grins. He takes them from me without a word and, beneath the surface, slowly ties them back at my hips, first one side, then the other. His knuckles brush my skin one last time, and I shiver despite the heat.

When I look round again, the stranger has gone, swimming slowly back towards the next beach club, as if he had never been there.

Then we are just two people in the water again, a respectable distance apart, the sun glittering off the waves of Alimos as if nothing has happened at all.

I tip my head back and float, letting the sea hold me. The sky is impossibly blue. Somewhere on the beach a child is shrieking with laughter, and music drifts over from one of the beach bars. The world carries on, quite unaware. Well, almost all of it.

I should feel shocked at myself, and perhaps a small part of me is. But mostly I feel light, loose and gloriously alive, as though something tightly wound inside me has finally let go.

I think about Chris, and how I will tell him. I know exactly how his eyes will darken as he listens, and how he will want every detail. I smile up at the sky.

This was no accident. I didn't drift into it, and I wasn't swept away. I chose it, every moment of it, and I would choose it again.

Nikos surfaces beside me, shaking water from his hair.

'Shall we swim back?' he asks.

I glance towards the shore, at the rows of umbrellas and the bright towels, at the ordinary afternoon waiting for us there.

'Not yet,' I say. 'Just a little longer.'

He kisses me again, slowly. I keep my legs moving gently beneath me, and when we draw apart for breath, his smile is so pleased that I have to laugh.

'What?' he asks.

'Nothing. I am supposed to be having a quiet holiday.'

'This is quiet.'

Well, he has a point. No one is shouting. There is not even a queue.

When I finally look towards the beach again, Nikos follows my gaze.

'You should go back soon,' he murmurs.

'I know.'

Yet neither of us moves immediately.

Then I take a breath, give his shoulder a little squeeze and begin swimming towards shore. He swims beside me for part of the way, close enough to exchange a smile, before we separate near the shallows.

By the time I reach the beach, my maroon-and-white bikini is safely in place. I glance down to check. Twice, actually. There are some things a woman should not leave to chance.

Chris looks up from his phone as I approach our loungers.

'Good swim?' he asks.

'Lovely,' I say, reaching for my towel.

He studies me for a moment. I make a great business of drying my hair.

'You've been out there a while.'

'Have I?'

That is not my finest performance, Sue. We both know it.

Chris smiles and moves my water bottle into the shade beside me.

'Drink something, sweetheart.'

I sit down, grateful for the umbrella, the cool bottle and the familiar kindness of my husband. For a moment I look out towards the water. Nikos is coming ashore farther along the beach, and I turn back before I can be caught looking.

Chris raises an eyebrow.

'Something to tell me later?'

I cannot help smiling.

'Possibly.'

He returns to his phone, but not before I catch his answering smile.

'I've kept some hot chips and grilled chicken for you,' he says. He knows I'm always ravenous after a swim.

'Thank you, honey. I've worked up quite an appetite,' I say casually.

'I can imagine,' he replies carefully, glancing around in case a waiter or another guest is within earshot.

I reach for a chip. It is still warm, salty and, remarkably, excellent.

'If you're finished swimming,' he says, 'let's grab a taxi back to the hotel.'

His tone is casual, but I hear the urgency underneath. We've been married a long time, and I can almost read his mind.

I lean back under the umbrella and let the moment settle over me: the salt drying on my skin, the faint ache in my thighs, my husband pretending to read his phone beside me. Out there in the water, I chose something reckless and entirely my own. And here on the shore, I'm choosing this too, the chips, the shade and the man who will be waiting, eyes bright, for every last detail. I don't feel I have to choose between the two. Perhaps that is the real freedom of a holiday.

And there you have it, Sue. Athens has ancient ruins, excellent food and, apparently, rather unexpected attractions just offshore.

Now I'm going to finish my chips, chicken and water, and put on some more sunscreen. Chris will get his story. You, naturally, get the letter first.

Do not look so pleased with yourself. I can practically see you reaching for your wine.

All my love,

Jayne

Thank you for reading. If this story stayed with you, I'd love to know -- please rate it and leave a comment. I read every one, and I always write back to readers who take the time to share their thoughts. Dear Sue and Dear Evan are where my heart is, but I've been stretching myself lately with stories for contests and writing challenges too. Come and find me there if you're curious.

X Jayne