This cheese was incredible. “Oh God.”
He raised an eyebrow and grinned like I’d made an obscene noise.
I grimaced. “Too much?”
His face creased with apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Make all the noises you want.”
“Oh joy. And I can eat all the cheese without the Perry comments.”
“Perry, ugh.” He made me another cracker. “I like to see you eating.”
“Good. Because you’ll see a lot more of it in the coming days.”
We sat there a while, him sipping water, me giving little hums of appreciation when I was ready for another cracker and cheese, until I had to say no more.
“Grapes, m’lady?” he asked, holding up a bunch.
I plucked one and popped it into my mouth, chewed, then took another one. “Open wide. I’m going to throw it, and you have to catch it.”
“That old game. Okay, do your worst.” He positioned himself in front of me.
I threw wide, but he launched himself in that direction and caught it.
“I forgot how incredibly competitive you are,” I said.
“Tabs, you throw like a llama!”
I choked out a laugh, and he demonstrated the move. “Use your wrist. Like this, see? May I?”
He nodded to my hand, and after I nodded back, he took my wrist, shook it out, and guided me in a throwing motion. His fingers pressed my wrist, and my pulse throbbed hard, reacting to his touch. I looked up and caught his eyes. Did his fingers stay longer than was normal?
Not wanting to make assumptions, I joked, “Okay, my wrists are definitely ready for some action.”
He shook his head. We took turns, and I was laughing so much about using my wrist that I missed every time. The sky grew darker. Tim threw himself all over the place like a Labrador to make the catch, which made me laugh even harder and made him try even harder.
Until one.
“Missed,” I said, triumphant.
I snagged the grape from the blanket and held it up to show the evidence. He got into an athletic stance, if you could do that on your knees, looking even more determined to get it next time. I threw it upward, and he flung himself in the air,torpedoing toward me, his eyes wide as if terrified he’d hurt me. His chest bumped mine, and then, probably realizing where this was heading, braced his hands on the ground as his weight forced me backward.
He landed right on top of me, our faces inches apart, his powerful chest pressing against mine, his legs pinning me down.
“Sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
My robe had fallen aside, and I could feel the hard musculature of his chest and legs against my skin. His face was close, shadowy, with sharp cheekbones. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I could feel my lips part, instinctive and languid.
What was happening?
We lay there, his chest moving up and down on top of me, our lips almost touching.
His eyes were now as unknowable as the darkening night, his skin smelling of dust and sweat and a deep musk, merging with the smell of river water and stones and champagne.
“I should get off you,” he said finally.
Should he? Did he want to? The way his hooded gaze was holding mine didn’t seem like it. I wanted him to stay right there, his glorious, hard-muscled everything driving into my softness.
