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Did I speak? I wasn’t sure. I hoped he could read my mind.
Jason rolled me back, his weight on top of me, his lips, his fingers making magic inside me to the point that I thought I’d completely lose it before he had a chance to unsnap his shorts.
Then his fingers stopped.
“Don’t. Stop.”
I moved to regain the connection. Then his fingers were gone, and he put his mouth to my ear. “Someone is here.”
I froze.
Slowly, Jason pulled my skirt down and my dress up, secured my straps over my shoulders. He kissed me. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not done with you, but we don’t need an audience.” He buttoned my dress, and I shivered. I didn’t know if it was from residual lust, the promise of more, or the fear of getting caught.
Then I heard the voices, and recognized the man.
Nelson Stockton.
Jason pulled me to sitting as Nelson and his wife Anja walked from the trail into the clearing.
“We’re sorry,” Nelson said in a subdued voice that echoed lightly off the rocks. “We couldn’t sleep.”
“It’s fine.” Jason’s tone was rough around the edges.
I blushed. Yes, I was now dressed thanks to Jason, but it was clear what we had been doing and what we had been about to do. How long had they been there?
“We’ll head back,” Nelson said.
Anja smiled at me. “We are very sorry to disturb you.”
“We’re just talking,” I said lamely. Jason put his arm around my waist, making it clear we weren’tjusttalking. I’m sure my hair was a mess. My dress felt funny as if the buttons were askew.
“Continue your conversation,” Anja said with humor. “Come, Nelson.” She took his hand, and they went back the way they’d come.
As soon as they were out of sight, Jason laughed and buried his face in my neck. “That was a close call.”
“What if we go back to my cottage?” I said, not laughing.
He stared at me. “Are you sure?”
“Stop asking me that. I’m sure. At least nobody will walk in on us there.”
He jumped up, pulled me to my feet, and quickly cleaned up the picnic, not caring if sand was loaded into his basket along with the remnants of champagne and cupcake crumbs. With the basket in one hand, and my hand in his other, we hurried down the path. Then he made a detour. “Faster this way,” he told me.
I didn’t object.
In minutes, we were at my cottage from the beachside.
“You don’t get lost, do you?” I said.
“Never,” he said. “I’ve tried, but my sense of direction never lets me.”
He sounded sad about that, as if he sometimes wanted to disappear.
“It’s fun,” he said.
“What is?” I asked as I reached into my beach bag to retrieve my key.
“Trying to get lost.”