would have irritated the living hell out of him, but for some reason, today, now, it was…endearing. He took a minute to look at her.
“Come on. Let’s get inside.”
He took hold of her arm, not roughly but, still, in a gesture completely uncharacteristic, and guided her down, past him, in front of him. Then he followed her in the direction of the main cabin. He watched her, just a foot or so ahead of him, walking, the rain soaking her clothes. His clothes. His t-shirt clinging to her shoulders, sticking to her shoulder blades, her back between, sticking and bunching slightly at her waist. His sweat pants, rolled at the waist, taking up extra length. And below, her ass, the muscles rounding with each step. Fuck, he wanted her, this girl who wanted him, who found him there in the forest, who wouldn’t take what she wanted like the others, or even ask for it.
He understood, now. She wasn’t like them. Wanting, like them, but not nasty and cruel like them.
Seeking and determined, but still human. Still warm. Warm and soft. Hot and wet.
Hot with her need, soaked in rain.
He finally got it. She’d been bold enough to seek him out, but confronted with him, with a real person in lieu of her fantasy, she couldn’t pull it off, whatever act she’d dreamt up and planned out, before actually seeing him, hearing him. She didn’t know yet, how to take what she wanted.
92
It was going to make him crazy, the way the rain was soaking and curling and dripping down that dark strand of hair at the nape of her neck, between the taut masses of hair gathered in bands behind each ear, swelling and dripping every few seconds down onto the dark, already drenched, ribbed collar of his t-shirt.
And then his hands were on her. Not rough. On her shoulders, pulling her to a halt. And she halted, without a word or a sound, without turning back to question with her eyes, or smile in relief. With his hands still on her shoulders he stepped close, so close his body pressed against hers. His hands still on her shoulders he bent his head to whisper,
“What do you want?”
She didn’t say anything. Too young. No. Too shy. Something.
And something in him surged. His fingers wanted to grip, but he kept them soft.
He turned her gently, walked her slowly to the big pine a few feet away near the edge of the clearing. If she wanted to be so passive, fine. He could handle that, even if it was far from his usual routine with women. He stood her a foot or so from that pine and slid his hands from her shoulders, down her arms, wet and slick with rain, to her wrists, strangely narrow in his hands. He lifted her arms and, his body pressing against hers as he leaned forward, pressed her hands against the tree, just above her head.
This wasn’t the usual thing at all, and the way she was letting him move her body got to him. Already he was breathing hard, his body ready. Still he held her wrists. He looked at her right hand, her pale fingers pressed to the brown-black bark of the tree, the backs of her long, slim fingers startlingly white, the pads pink around the pressure points against the bark. The hand pattern of pale white and pink skin against the wood, 93
all wet and dripping and glistening, should be a photograph. He let her wrists go, and her hands stayed, splayed on the tree.
He knew she would let him do anything, have anything. Anything. It was that thought—that he could do what he wanted—that made him so hard, so hot, rather than any particular thing he could think of actually doing. That this strange, quiet girl would let him touch her, take her, look at her any way he liked, and yield to any thing he might do with nothing but breaths and sighs and that look of hers.
Somehow her pigtails seemed perverse. He wanted her hair loose. Quietly, calmly, like a child with a doll who will neither judge not protest, he took one pigtail in the loose circle of his fingers and worked her wet hair free of the elastic band. Then he did the
“Come on. Let’s get inside.”
He took hold of her arm, not roughly but, still, in a gesture completely uncharacteristic, and guided her down, past him, in front of him. Then he followed her in the direction of the main cabin. He watched her, just a foot or so ahead of him, walking, the rain soaking her clothes. His clothes. His t-shirt clinging to her shoulders, sticking to her shoulder blades, her back between, sticking and bunching slightly at her waist. His sweat pants, rolled at the waist, taking up extra length. And below, her ass, the muscles rounding with each step. Fuck, he wanted her, this girl who wanted him, who found him there in the forest, who wouldn’t take what she wanted like the others, or even ask for it.
He understood, now. She wasn’t like them. Wanting, like them, but not nasty and cruel like them.
Seeking and determined, but still human. Still warm. Warm and soft. Hot and wet.
Hot with her need, soaked in rain.
He finally got it. She’d been bold enough to seek him out, but confronted with him, with a real person in lieu of her fantasy, she couldn’t pull it off, whatever act she’d dreamt up and planned out, before actually seeing him, hearing him. She didn’t know yet, how to take what she wanted.
92
It was going to make him crazy, the way the rain was soaking and curling and dripping down that dark strand of hair at the nape of her neck, between the taut masses of hair gathered in bands behind each ear, swelling and dripping every few seconds down onto the dark, already drenched, ribbed collar of his t-shirt.
And then his hands were on her. Not rough. On her shoulders, pulling her to a halt. And she halted, without a word or a sound, without turning back to question with her eyes, or smile in relief. With his hands still on her shoulders he stepped close, so close his body pressed against hers. His hands still on her shoulders he bent his head to whisper,
“What do you want?”
She didn’t say anything. Too young. No. Too shy. Something.
And something in him surged. His fingers wanted to grip, but he kept them soft.
He turned her gently, walked her slowly to the big pine a few feet away near the edge of the clearing. If she wanted to be so passive, fine. He could handle that, even if it was far from his usual routine with women. He stood her a foot or so from that pine and slid his hands from her shoulders, down her arms, wet and slick with rain, to her wrists, strangely narrow in his hands. He lifted her arms and, his body pressing against hers as he leaned forward, pressed her hands against the tree, just above her head.
This wasn’t the usual thing at all, and the way she was letting him move her body got to him. Already he was breathing hard, his body ready. Still he held her wrists. He looked at her right hand, her pale fingers pressed to the brown-black bark of the tree, the backs of her long, slim fingers startlingly white, the pads pink around the pressure points against the bark. The hand pattern of pale white and pink skin against the wood, 93
all wet and dripping and glistening, should be a photograph. He let her wrists go, and her hands stayed, splayed on the tree.
He knew she would let him do anything, have anything. Anything. It was that thought—that he could do what he wanted—that made him so hard, so hot, rather than any particular thing he could think of actually doing. That this strange, quiet girl would let him touch her, take her, look at her any way he liked, and yield to any thing he might do with nothing but breaths and sighs and that look of hers.
Somehow her pigtails seemed perverse. He wanted her hair loose. Quietly, calmly, like a child with a doll who will neither judge not protest, he took one pigtail in the loose circle of his fingers and worked her wet hair free of the elastic band. Then he did the
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