“Better?” he asks, eyes on my face.
“Better,” I say. I sip again and tilt the glass at him.
He tips his glass to mine and drinks, watching me over the rim. The wind lifts a strand of my hair; he catches it with two fingers and tucks it behind my ear without ceremony. The simple touch sends a warm, traitorous shiver down my spine.
“Eat another,” he says, nudging the basket. “You’ll need the energy for later.”
I feel the flush work its way from head to toe. I don’t know what to say, so I just take the other half. I don’t miss his smug grin.
We fall quiet because the beauty of the sky demands it. The sun slides toward the low hills, and everything goes soft—the vines, the stone, his profile beside me. Gold thins to apricot, then to a deeper orange that glows through the leaves like stained glass.
He shifts closer, not much, just enough that our shoulders touch. Warmth moves through fabric to skin. I breathe in through my nose and let it settle me.
“Good view,” he says, low.
“Decent company,” I answer, and feel him smile without looking.
A breeze comes up the slope and sends a shiver through me.
He reaches into the basket without fuss and pulls out a folded wool throw, shakes it once, and settles it over our laps and knees. The weight is immediate and good. He tucks one corner around my hip like he’s done it a hundred times and lets the other fall over his thigh.
I ease in until my shoulder fits under his arm and my cheek finds the warm line of his shirt. His heartbeat is a steady drum under my ear. Heat pools low in my belly at how solid he feels, how effortless the shelter of him is.
“Better?” he asks again, quieter now.
“Better,” I say, and this time the word comes out on a softer breath. I slide my hand beneath the blanket, palm to his ribs, and feel the slow rise and fall there. His fingers trace the outside of my knee once, idle, like he can’t help touching me when I’m close.
The sky deepens; the first star shows off to the west. He tips his mouth to my hair, a press that isn’t hungry so much as claiming, and the lust that’s been simmering all evening wakes up, stretching like a cat. I angle closer, letting the blanket and his body trap the warmth between us, and he answers by drawing me in that final inch that says I’m not the only one whose thoughts have drifted away from the sunset.
The hand on my knee inches up until it rests on my thigh, thumb sweeping in a slow arc that stokes the heat higher, higher. His other arm tightens just a little around my shoulders, a silent question.
I turn my face toward him, my nose brushing against the rough cotton of his shirt. His breath comes out a little unsteady, and he lowers his head, his lips finding mine in the fading light.
The kiss is gentle at first. Soft, slow, a question and an answer all in one. His lips are warm, tasting of wine and strawberries and the promise of something more. I sigh against him, my fingers curling into his shirt, and he deepens the kiss, a hint of tongue, a low hum of pleasure that vibrates through my chest.
The world narrows to this small space under the blanket. The cool grass beneath us, the wool over us, and the solid heat of him beside me, around me, in me. His hand slides from my thigh to the small of my back, pressing me closer, and I arch into him, wanting more.
My hands find their way under his shirt, splaying across the warm skin of his back. He makes a low sound in his throat, a rough, needy sound that sends a jolt of pure desire through me. I pull back just enough to look at him.
His face is in shadow, but I can see the glint of his eyes, the intensity in them that has been there from the start. He looks at me like I'm the only person in the world, the only person who has ever mattered. And in this moment, I almost believe it.
I push the blanket away from us, my movements sure and deliberate. I want to see him, all of him. I want the moonlight on his skin.
He watches me, his expression unreadable, as I pull my sweater over my head and toss it aside. The cool evening air raises goosebumps on my arms, but I don't feel cold. I feel... alive. Electric.
He doesn't move, just watches, his gaze a physical caress. Then he reaches out, a single finger tracing the line of my collarbone, down the valley between my breasts. I shiver, my body responding to him as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Bibi," he says, the name a low rumble in his chest.
I lean in and kiss him again, harder this time, a clash of teeth and tongues, a desperate, hungry need that has been building all day. His hands are everywhere, in my hair, on my back, cupping my ass, pulling me flush against him. I can feel the hard length of him through our jeans, and I rock against him, a silent plea for more.
I push his shoulders until he's lying back on the blanket, and I'm straddling him. His thick cock sits snugly between my legs, the denim fabric an agonizing barrier. His hands grip my hips, holding me close, urging me to grind against him, and I do, my head falling back, a gasp escaping my lips as the friction sends sparks through my veins.
I reach for the clasp of my bra, unhook it, and let it fall away. He sucks in a sharp breath, and I look down at him, at the raw desire on his face. It’s a heady, powerful feeling, knowing I have this effect on him.
But I know he won't let me stay in control long. It's not in his nature. The idea of that brings a thrill.
A breeze caresses my bare breasts, and my already hard nipples get impossibly tight.
