“…not trying to skip stones,” she said wryly. “I was performing an advanced technique known as ‘throwing rocks into a river because I felt like it and wanted to be alone’.”
“You allowed me to give you a completely unnecessary and unhelpful lesson.”
“You forced your unsolicited lesson upon me, so certain were you of your superior skill and wisdom in the face of my regrettable female inferiority.”
“I…” His cheeks flushed. “I deserve that. You’re right. You didn’t ask for my help, or even suggest that you were trying to skip stones. I knew you hadn’t come to the woods in search of my company, and I forced it upon you anyway. I’m sorry. It was not well done of me.”
Gladys glared at him. Damn Reuben Medford and his pretty apology! She hadn’t known he even knew the words I’m sorry, much less would be man enough to use them.
“I don’t suppose you’d show me the trick of it?” he queried.
To refuse now would be churlish. Not to mention counterproductive. She was trying to reel him in, not spur him away.
“Very well.” She uncrossed her arms and let them fall to her sides. “Find a rock.”
He immediately set to searching for stones, then brandished five of them proudly, as if presenting her with a bouquet of flowers.
She plucked one from the pile. “Watch carefully.”
Narrating each of her slow, exaggerated movements, she assumed her favored stance, explained the motion of her arm and the grip on the stone, then sent it flying down the stream.
It skipped thirteen times.
Was she showing off? Definitely.
“You are the Michelangelo of stone-skipping,” he said, awestruck. “All right, my turn. Is my wrist in the right position?”
“You’re throwing a stone, not—” stroking your cock. The words crumpled into a cough in her throat.
Gladys the high-priced courtesan might make lewd jests of that nature, but “Miss Mary Smith” was… well, perhaps not proper, but certainly conservative enough not to lift her skirt to a rake like Medford without credible assurance that he was fully and truly in love.
“I’ll show you,” she murmured, and cupped her hand around his. Her bosom pressed into his back, and her skirts fluttered around his legs.
“I’ve already forgotten everything,” he said hoarsely. “Can I kiss you instead?”
“Earn it,” she whispered into the back of his neck. “Seven skips, and you can have a kiss.”
There had never been a more determined student.
Medford flung rocks into the spring as though firing arrows from a full quiver. The first two sank unceremoniously. The next skipped two, then three times, respectively. He visibly forced himself to take stock of his surroundings and his stance, then tried again.
Five skips this time.
He spun to face her, his eyes shining triumphantly. “Closer.”
She blew on her fingernails, as if bored. “Not close enough for a kiss.”
He collected a new batch of stones. His face was a furious mask of concentration as he set about trying to copy her stance and her throw.
Four skips. Five. Six. Two. Seven.
He let out a war whoop and swung her in a euphoric circle.
She could not help but laugh along with his infectious joy.
Rather than put her down, he gathered her close, and covered her mouth with his.
This was not a kiss of seduction. This was a kiss of triumph, of teamwork, of relief, surprise, and success. Which made it all the more seductive. This kiss was not something he was doing to her, but rather sharing with her. A kiss that was neither his nor hers, but theirs. A celebration of what they could accomplish when working together.
