We talk as we eat, discussing favorite places we’ve been—for me, it’s Venice, for him, Dublin. We talk traveling by train, how much we hate airport security.
Talking to him has always been easy, and now it’s easier than ever. The candle flickers, and as the sun sets to my left and his right, the candle provides more and more illumination, bathing our faces in soft yellow dancing light. Evening falls, turns to night. Conversation shifts, and the topic matters less than the experience. It’s cool, but not cold. The air still holds a hint of warmth. There’s Wes, and his kind, warm, attentive eyes, and his way of listening to me as if I’m the only thing that has ever existed for him.
We finish the entree and chat more as we munch on the bread.
The chefs return, presenting between us with the same artful flourish a massive slice of flourless chocolate cake with a gooey center and a rich ganache exterior, the rim of the plate decorated with chocolate-dipped strawberries.
The moon lifts above the horizon, a delicate crescent amid a wash of countless bright stars.
Finally, in full dark, lit only by the moon and the stars and a single candle, we finish the last of the cake and sit together in silence, listening to the sea shushing and crashing. Something flits overhead with a rustle of wings.
The chefs are lit by cell phone glow, the lamps now off.
The torches flicker in the forest, lighting the way to the cabin.
I can stand it no longer. “Wes?” My voice is low, hesitant. I reach across the table and clutch his fingers. “I’m ready for the next part.”
I can see his smile in the darkness—he keeps hold of my hand and draws me around the table to his side. “Let’s go, then.”
The chefs see us standing up, and greet us with bows and flourishes, old-world grace and elegance. Wes thanks them, and then, keeping me tucked against his side, arm over my shoulder and around my waist, he leads us across the grass. The breeze is cool, now, pressing against my cheek and my side, molding my dress to my thigh.
“Are you cold?” Wes asks.
I’m not, or at least, not uncomfortably so, but I’ve always wanted to have a man drape his suit coat over my shoulders, so I nod. It’s heavy and warm from his body. His shirt is white and bright in the dark.
We’re under the canopy of the forest and lit by the torches now, bathing everything in a dancing orange glow. I smell woodsmoke—the trail curves to reveal the cabin, and a thin stream of smoke trickles from the chimney.
We pause at the door. I gaze up at Wes, and I know my adoration is glowing in my eyes.
“Are you happy?” he asks, his voice a whisper, a murmur. “Has today been everything you hoped?”
I lick my lips and smile up at him. “I’m happy. More than happy.” I touch my palms to his chest, feel his heart beating under my palm; it slams hard and fast, mirroring my own frantic pulse. “Is it everything I hoped? So far.”
His grin is hot, playful. “So far, huh?”
I shrug. Demure, flirty. “So far.”
His hands clutch and roam, one scraping down my back from shoulder blades to buttocks, the other rubbing over my scalp from forehead to nape, and then, hands at neck and bottom, he pulls me even tighter against his body and I feel his need for me and his attraction to me rising between our bodies.
“There something else you’re hoping to get from this day?” he asks, his lips moving against mine.
“Uh-huh,” I murmur. “I admit there is.”
“And what would that be, Miss Park?”
I endeavor to wipe the laugh from my lips, hold a serious face. “I really wanted to play Go Fish.”
He stares at me, and then bursts out laughing. “Is that so? Go Fish, huh? I admit, I wasn’t planning for that. I could see if they have a deck of cards here somewhere.”
I rest my forehead against his chin. “Wes, don’t tease me anymore. Please. Just…kiss me. And don’t stop. Not ever.”
He lets out a breath. “I just like making you laugh.”
He cups my face in his strong hands and tilts my head back, and he brushes his lips on mine. It’s not a kiss—it’s a warning. An invitation. I accept, greedily, tangling my fingers in his hair and pulling him down to me, claiming his mouth with eager fervor. We stumble, and twist, and the rough wood of the door presses against my back and he’s huge and blocking out the night and his mouth is hungry on mine, tongue demanding entrance to my mouth and I taste chocolate on his breath.
As eager as I am for more, I slow my expectations and settle my attention on this moment. Stop the procession of time in my soul, savor this. Ensconce my soul in this memory.
Westley Britton—he is mine and I am his.
I am Jolene Park, and I am alive. My blood sings in my veins. My flesh blazes with electric heat, afire from his touch.
There is only pleasure, all my senses alive with the beauty and wonder of this tumble and soar into the everything of us. His body, all hard lines and angles and muscle; his mouth on mine, kissing and kissing until my breath is his and the kiss is all; his hands owning my body, mine discovering his all anew. Breath and touch and skin.
I feel his hand leave my hip, hear the door unlock. He presses into me and I step backward and step backward. My eyes open briefly even though our lips are still locked in the kiss, and I see his face ultra-close and his eyes are open too, and we laugh. Pull apart. He nudges the door closed with his foot. The fireplace crackles, and I notice for the first time a thick fur rug in front of it. Through the open door of the bedroom, I see firelight flickering yellow-orange on the bed, indicating there’s a fire there, too. Rose petals are scattered across the bed.
This is real.
It’s for me.
This man, this night.
Giddy, overwhelmed with wonder and joy and gratitude, I laugh with something like disbelief and incredulity and excitement. I lean into him and kiss him, and he laughs into the kiss and we stumble toward the fireplace and the thick fur of the rug is under my feet and then there’s no more laughing, only fire and fury of building need. Desire rages in me. I want him. I want…everything. I want to know, this night, what it is to be fully loved.
I pull back the frantic pace in my mind. There’s no rush.
I swallow and part my lips from his. Push the jacket from his shoulders. As it falls, I tug the end of his bowtie and discard that. The vest, next. He watches me, hands on my hips. I unbutton his shirt, slowly, and then undo his cuffs and scrape the shirt off him and it billows to the floor, and there’s another layer—an undershirt. It lasts mere moments before joining the other garments on the floor. Belt. He kicks off his shoes, wobbles as he balances on one foot and then the other, using his toes to hook off his socks.
I pause to kiss him again, stoking the fire in my belly. But this only makes my skin tingle and makes my hands greedy for him, and I lean into him and kiss him and I open his slacks and unzip them and they fall, and he kicks them away. I fill my hands with his flesh, scouring shoulder muscle and the hard plane of his abs and the angles of his hips, and I need more and I need him and I take what I want. I curl my fingers into elastic and finish stripping him.
Clutch his arousal.
He groans, and the kiss breaks, and he pulls away.
“My turn,” he whispers.
Steps back half a step, and instead of removing my dress, just looks at me. Drinks in this picture of me, in a gown, made up, more beautiful than I’ve ever been. His eyes speak poems of my beauty. He cups the back of my neck, and his lips touch my throat. I gasp. His fingers scrape over my scalp, making me shudder. Those fingers trail now down the back of my neck. To my bare shoulders. Lower, to the zipper at my spine. His lips dance down from my throat and kiss my breastbone. His hands cup my breasts over the bodice.