flicks back to me, his smile daring me to comment on his nakedness, challenging me not to look away.
“Er…um…are you having a picnic down there?” Great, Miranda, yet more sparkling repartee. He’ll just write you off as a dotty old lady at this rate.
Still smiling, he glances at the detritus surrounding him. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. A picnic, yes. Would you care to join me?”
Oh hell.
Excuses clamor to be made. I start confabulating stories about housework to do, shopping needed, or visits owed to friends. My bravado is in danger of withering on the vine and the sanctuary of indoors beckons me—a refuge from the dangerous temptation of beautiful young men.
I dither on, and he cocks his head on one side in a challenging way that’s also completely irresistible. Before I know what I’m doing, I say, “Great. I’d love to. I’ll be right down.”
“Wonderful.” His beautiful smile widens, and as I haul myself up from the mattress, my knees feel weak. And for once, it’s nothing to do with middle-age wear and tear, arthritis and other general aches and pains, and everything to do with skittish, flurrying excitement and a mad, sweet, ridiculously girlish infatuation. The kind I told myself, never again, never again.
I grab my hat and my sun lotion and my water bottle, and slither into my wrap. I wish I dare dash inside and check myself in a mirror because I know I’m a disheveled fright. But with every sneaky glance I cast his way, I see him staring back up at me, waiting. Looking eager…
Now don’t fret, Miranda. He’s just being neighborly, so it doesn’t matter whether you look like a sophisticated prime-time woman or a scruffy old harridan. It’s purely academic.
Clutching my belongings in one hand, I make my way cautiously down the external wrought-iron stairs leading down to the garden, then pad across to the borderline between my realm and his. The low, insignificant hedge looms like a mighty Rubicon, but before I can hesitate again, Golden Boy springs up from his blanket and comes to meet me. He puts out a hand to take mine and helps me over the scrubby little barrier.
Great, now he is treating me just like a dotty old dowager, a ruin who can’t manage to get across a foot-high hedge without toppling over. So much for my misplaced hopes he might fancy me.
And yet the cheeky twinkle in his eye is unmistakable. It’s not sympathy. It’s interest . I’m sure it is. I have to fight not to check out his cock for confirmation.
Calm down, you fool. He’s just being nice. He’s not like you. He doesn’t have a fatal weakness for older women the way you do for younger men. And if he did, he probably wouldn’t have it for women with quite so much mileage.
I offer him a nervous grin, and his answering smile makes me feel as if I’ve just drunk a glass of champagne far too fast. How could anyone feel worried or bitter or scared faced with that? It’s just heavenly. And so are his face and body. No woman on earth could think straight around a guy who so casually displays a sumptuous cock like his.
I smile back at him, again fighting a titanic battle not to ogle his crotch. And failing miserably. South of the border, he’s long and thick. Decidedly perky.
“Er… I’m Miranda, by the way. Miranda Clay,” I burble as he leads me to his impromptu picnic ground. It’s an exceptionally hot day, and I’m feeling hotter by the second just looking at him. It’s not entirely a physical sensation, but more a strange wave of well-being flowing from him to me, transmitted by his firm touch and the air between us.
Bizarre.
“And I’m Patrick,” he replies, courteously supporting me and helping me down onto the blanket. His eyes, which are blue as a crystal ocean, narrow like a blade when I flinch at a stray twinge of pain. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
Like grace personified, he settles beside me, his body as fluid and supple as my younger one once was.
“Are you in
“Er…um…are you having a picnic down there?” Great, Miranda, yet more sparkling repartee. He’ll just write you off as a dotty old lady at this rate.
Still smiling, he glances at the detritus surrounding him. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. A picnic, yes. Would you care to join me?”
Oh hell.
Excuses clamor to be made. I start confabulating stories about housework to do, shopping needed, or visits owed to friends. My bravado is in danger of withering on the vine and the sanctuary of indoors beckons me—a refuge from the dangerous temptation of beautiful young men.
I dither on, and he cocks his head on one side in a challenging way that’s also completely irresistible. Before I know what I’m doing, I say, “Great. I’d love to. I’ll be right down.”
“Wonderful.” His beautiful smile widens, and as I haul myself up from the mattress, my knees feel weak. And for once, it’s nothing to do with middle-age wear and tear, arthritis and other general aches and pains, and everything to do with skittish, flurrying excitement and a mad, sweet, ridiculously girlish infatuation. The kind I told myself, never again, never again.
I grab my hat and my sun lotion and my water bottle, and slither into my wrap. I wish I dare dash inside and check myself in a mirror because I know I’m a disheveled fright. But with every sneaky glance I cast his way, I see him staring back up at me, waiting. Looking eager…
Now don’t fret, Miranda. He’s just being neighborly, so it doesn’t matter whether you look like a sophisticated prime-time woman or a scruffy old harridan. It’s purely academic.
Clutching my belongings in one hand, I make my way cautiously down the external wrought-iron stairs leading down to the garden, then pad across to the borderline between my realm and his. The low, insignificant hedge looms like a mighty Rubicon, but before I can hesitate again, Golden Boy springs up from his blanket and comes to meet me. He puts out a hand to take mine and helps me over the scrubby little barrier.
Great, now he is treating me just like a dotty old dowager, a ruin who can’t manage to get across a foot-high hedge without toppling over. So much for my misplaced hopes he might fancy me.
And yet the cheeky twinkle in his eye is unmistakable. It’s not sympathy. It’s interest . I’m sure it is. I have to fight not to check out his cock for confirmation.
Calm down, you fool. He’s just being nice. He’s not like you. He doesn’t have a fatal weakness for older women the way you do for younger men. And if he did, he probably wouldn’t have it for women with quite so much mileage.
I offer him a nervous grin, and his answering smile makes me feel as if I’ve just drunk a glass of champagne far too fast. How could anyone feel worried or bitter or scared faced with that? It’s just heavenly. And so are his face and body. No woman on earth could think straight around a guy who so casually displays a sumptuous cock like his.
I smile back at him, again fighting a titanic battle not to ogle his crotch. And failing miserably. South of the border, he’s long and thick. Decidedly perky.
“Er… I’m Miranda, by the way. Miranda Clay,” I burble as he leads me to his impromptu picnic ground. It’s an exceptionally hot day, and I’m feeling hotter by the second just looking at him. It’s not entirely a physical sensation, but more a strange wave of well-being flowing from him to me, transmitted by his firm touch and the air between us.
Bizarre.
“And I’m Patrick,” he replies, courteously supporting me and helping me down onto the blanket. His eyes, which are blue as a crystal ocean, narrow like a blade when I flinch at a stray twinge of pain. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
Like grace personified, he settles beside me, his body as fluid and supple as my younger one once was.
“Are you in
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