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Nodding in satisfaction at the beach spot they’d located, Peter spread out their giant beach towel and turned to tackle the umbrella. Stiles burned in two seconds flat, and sun block could only do so much. “Stiles,” Peter said as he worked on the umbrella, “could you get the tanning oil out of my bag?”
“Tanning oil?” Stiles asked, obligingly turning to dig through Peter’s bag. “What is there to tan? You’re covered head to toe.” Stiles had honestly been a little disappointed when he’d picked up Peter for their beach day and found him dressed in a blousy white linen shirt and pants and dark sunglasses.
“Only for the drive,” Peter said. “Sticking to the seats is unpleasant.”
Stiles found the bottle of oil and straightened up, turning. “Sticking to—”
Stiles’s jaw dropped.
Peter had shed his shirt and pants, leaving him in nothing but the tiniest blue bathing suit Stiles had ever seen in his life. It was practically a thong.
Taking off his sunglasses, Peter smirked at Stiles. “I could use your help with the oil.”
“This is straight out of my fantasies,” Stiles blurted.
Peter laughed. “Later,” he promised.
“Right. Later.” If he survived that long.