Three times I caught him checking out my ass. Afterward he’d clench his jaw and frown severely at the ground, or the sky, or the trees lining the path. I found these little cracks in his control delightful.
“We’re almost there.” He glanced down at me, having just helped me hop over a few wet stones and not releasing my hand even after clearing the rough patch. “Is the basket too heavy? I don’t mind carrying it.”
“No. It’s fine. You’ve got the backpack.”
His eyes took a detour to the unbuttoned V of my top, and the cleavage I’d purposefully (and artfully) highlighted with a push-up bra. “Are you cold?”
I shook my head, hiding my pleased smile. “No. I’m great.”
He frowned at the exposed swell of my breasts, seemed to redirect his eyes away with effort. He pulled his attention back to the narrow path. I indulged my urge to smirk. Tight jeans, strategically unbuttoned top, push-up bra…this was fun.
I’d be lying if I said his intense interest in my body wasn’t a huge turn on—for both my brain and my…other brain. It was. I liked that he looked at me and had difficulty hiding his appreciation and desire. If anything I felt less flustered each time I spied him clenching his jaw or balling his hands into fists. I liked him so much. It was nice to see tangible evidence that he meant it when he’d said kissing me was something he’d wanted for a long time.
Still feeling cheered, I was surprised when we reached our destination so quickly. He hadn’t been fibbing; no more than ten feet later I was faced with a picturesque clearing at the edge of a wide, still stream and I sucked in a small breath. I didn’t know this place existed. If I’d known this place existed then I would have become one of those nature people who forage the woods for sustenance and bathe in moonlit pools.
The trees overhead and their autumn brilliance reflected in the water—vivid strokes of color. We were surrounded on all sides by nature’s majesty, its swan song celebration before winter. The setting was almost painfully romantic.
“Will this do?” His voice was low, just a rumble, but it held equal parts sweetness and amusement.
I moved my wide eyes to his and nodded once. His mouth tugged to the side, like he was pleased by my inability to speak, but didn’t want to commit to a smile. Duane took the basket from my grip and placed it on the ground, dropping his big backpack next to it.
“There’s a felled tree just there.” He pointed to the embankment. I spotted a large, old eastern hemlock log about as high as my knee, half on land, half in the water. “It’s a good place to sit while I get all this ready.”
“You don’t need any help?”
“No—you go sit, relax.” He appeared to be determined and was already digging into the pack, revealing a large quilted tarp and spreading it on the ground.
I studied him as he moved, pulling items out of his bag of tricks. Since I felt useless just standing there as he worked, I decided to take his suggestion…sort of. Instead of sitting on the log, I climbed it. Then I used it as a balance beam and walked the length of the old tree where it jutted out into the stream.
The early November air was crisp, just chilly enough to bite. Soon all the leaves would fall, leaving this spot bare and brown. I felt like I was looking at the pinnacle of a particularly dazzling firework as it filled the night sky, just before it lost its shape and faded into darkness. It was a fleeting moment. And I stood in the center of it.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to rescue you.”
I glanced over my shoulder, found Duane at the edge of the stream, his hands on his hips, his square jaw angled in a stubborn tilt.
“Rescue me? From a log?”
“No. From the water. Should you fall in.”
I grinned. “More likely I’d rescue you. Are you afraid I’ll steal your pants?”
I nearly lost my balance when he answered my grin with one of his own, but he quickly hid it by redirecting his attention to the ground at his feet. When he lifted his face again, a residual smile remained, but he mostly looked serious…and focused…on me.
He cleared his throat and his voice sounded different, deep and commanding—maybe a little impatient—as he said, “Come back here.”
I turned carefully and picked my way back, scanning the spread he’d placed on an old large picnicking quilt. I figured the tarp was hidden underneath, meant to protect our backsides from the damp earth. I also spotted a few cushy pillows, a throw blanket presumably just in case we got cold, and an array of covered dishes to one side.
Duane Winston had come prepared.
He intercepted me where the felled tree met the land and placed his big hands on my waist. With one smooth movement, he lifted me from the log and set me on the ground.
He hesitated.
We stood still for a moment—him staring down, me staring up—our bodies separated by less than a foot.