40-Love - Olivia Dade

One

Jesus, this stupid bikini was killing her.

Tess tugged on the bow digging into the back of her neck. “Dammit.”

She could only conclude that women with ginormous boobs, a long history of neck issues, and a decided intolerance for wardrobe-related discomfort should not wear halter tops. No matter what her friend Isabelle might argue about how the style flattered her body and the color suited her skin, blah blah blah.

Belle still harbored starry-eyed dreams of meeting her soulmate under swaying palms, a handsome hero of a man, one who would take one look at her cleavage and fall to his knees in worship to such mammarian bounty.

As of tomorrow, Tess was forty. She should know better.

Maybe a little adjustment might help. Could she tighten the back hooks to take more of her breasts’ weight and then loosen the neck ties? All without flashing some nip and traumatizing innocent spectators?

Dawn had broken mere minutes ago, and pink still streaked the eastern sky. Other than one oblivious guy a good distance away, she was all alone in the water, far from the other early-birds just now choosing their beach chairs and adjusting their umbrellas. Very few people on vacation, it seemed, rose before the sun. She wished she hadn’t either, but there was no escaping her body’s internal clock.

You could take the assistant principal out of the high school schedule, but you couldn’t take the high school schedule out of the assistant principal.

One last scan of her surroundings established that no one was looking her way, and her boobs were about to break her neck. She needed relief, stat. Belle also deserved to sleep longer on the first full day of their vacation, rather than have her foolish roommate reenter the room and wake her a second time.

Screw it. She was doing this here and now.

Tess waded farther into the turquoise depths surrounding the island, taking a moment to appreciate the natural beauty around her. This private, luxurious retreat off the Gulf Coast of Florida was famous for its clear, warm water, as well as its spotless beaches and countless amenities. And given how much of her savings this trip had consumed, she’d been relieved to confirm the truth behind all the hype.

Everything was perfect. Everything except the Bikini of Torment.

But she would fix that within seconds.

The island’s white sand slid between her toes, silky and soft, as the water moved over her waist, then her chest. Once the gentle waves lapped at her neck, she unhooked the back of the top, praying no one came closer. She’d keep an eye on the shore, just in case.

Under the circumstances, she couldn’t follow her usual bra-donning procedure: hooking in front, then rotating the entire garment one hundred and eighty degrees. Too great a risk of revealing her tatas to the world. Instead, she fumbled blindly beneath the water, attempting to locate the innermost eye with her top hook.

None of her increasingly frantic passes caught on anything, and her shoulders were starting to hurt. She lowered her arms for a moment, squeezing them tight against her sides to hold the top firmly in place. In a minute, she’d try again.

This bikini would not defeat her.

Probably.

When she’d shopped online—local brick-and-mortar stores didn’t stock cute plus-size swimsuits—for her upcoming birthday trip to the island, Tess had allowed herself to be persuaded by Belle. Yes, perhaps she could wear a bikini top without the usual buttresses and pulleys and cranes required to hoist her girls north of her navel. Yes, perhaps the thin strap fastened around her torso would take all the weight of her H-cup boobs. Yes, perhaps she should buy and pack a halter-top, in lieu of a standard bikini with thick straps and underwire that could serve as a garrote under different circumstances. Or, even better, a utilitarian tank with soft cups that would let her breasts hang virtually unhindered.

“Next time, I’m letting my sweet chariots swing low,” she muttered. “Or just going to the nude b—”

A wave suddenly rushed over her head, and her lungs filled with salt water. Choking and coughing, she flailed for the surface.

She caught a quick gasp of air before another abnormally high wave sent her under a second time. She scraped and tumbled against the sand, trying to figure out which way was up, before finally finding her feet. But then, as if nothing had happened, the ocean grew calm again, and she was standing once more in neck-deep water with only gentle undulations caressing her nape.

But something had happened.

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