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It takes the ringing of the telephone to jolt you out of a sound, dreamless sleep. “Wha? Buh? Gah?” you yell into the handset. There’s silence on the other end, then a click, followed by a recorded message in a language you don’t speak.
Disgusted, you slam the phone down. Well, now that you’re awake, you might as well get up. What time of night is it anyway?
It’s... it’s... eight in the morning!? How the heck did that happen?!
How it happened is that you were up very late for three nights in a row, getting your farm cleared of wood and stone and weeds after the snow melted, and then getting the planting done so you can start making money after the long winter. You dragged yourself to bed after two o’clock last night and you could honestly do with another solid eight hours of sleep right now. But the animals aren’t going to accept excuses, and goodness knows it’s cheaper to have them eat the grass that is somehow all over your farm than it is to buy them hay, so you’d better get moving.
Even with all the planting done and no harvesting to worry about yet, there are plenty of chores to do, and you’re so tired that you’re not being very efficient. It doesn’t help that it’s much warmer than you’d expect for the fourth day of spring. Around noon, you decide to drag yourself to the Saloon and get some of Gus’s famous spaghetti. And coffee. Oh, there will be coffee. Out of a sense of obligation, you check the mailbox on the way past, and... is that... it is! A letter addressed in Elliott’s loopy, messy handwriting! That perks you up more than the coffee will. You tear it open.
4 Spring, Year ????
My dear,
You mentioned that your planting was planned to take three days. I trust the worst is now over. May I treat you to a celebratory picnic?
Meet me by the tide pools at 3:00 if you can.
Yours ever,
Elliott
You float off to the Saloon in a happy daze.
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For the past three days, time has zipped by, and you haven’t had enough time to do everything you’ve needed to do. For the past three hours, time has crawled. You’ve alarmed Gus with your incoherence; triple-checked the date on the note to make sure the picnic is today, not tomorrow or (even worse) yesterday; tried on every outfit you own several times, settling at last on a simple white sleeveless sundress; done your hair up, then down, then back up again; fussed over what to bring, decided on a jar of pomegranate jelly, spent far too long choosing between two identical jars, and wasted a lot of ribbon tying the perfect bow; run out every ten minutes to check the weather, glaring at every tiny white cloud that appeared in the clear blue sky; and disgusted your cat by squealing, grabbing her, and dancing around with her clutched to your chest.
Finally, to the cat’s intense relief, it’s almost three. You dash off toward the beach, almost forgetting your pomegranate jelly in your excitement.
You and the jelly somehow manage to arrive unscathed. Elliott rises to greet you, a slim book in his hands. He’s dressed casually for once, in a loose white poet’s shirt, open at the neck, and tight dark jeans. Your brain short-circuits a little bit.
“Jelly!” you say, pushing it out toward him with both hands. “For you! Pogri – pomgri – pomegranate!” ....Great. Well done you. Super smooth.
Being used to you by now, he handles it well, just saying, “My favorite!” and taking it. He ushers you toward the picnic blanket, and you sit down together, kicking off your shoes, and start unpacking the picnic. Apparently stress makes you hungry, because it seems like that spaghetti lunch was a very long time ago.
Soon you’re eating and chatting. There’s so much to catch up on after more than three whole days apart! There’s farm news (the most adorable new baby goat), and news of his novel (his editor is pleased with the latest draft), and Saloon gossip (Gus tried a new seasoning on the crispy bass and opinion is hotly divided; Alex was away for a day and a half, and he won’t say where he went but he’s looking smug, and Shane is taking bets on whether it’s about gridball or a girlfriend).
When you’ve packed away the last of the food, you lie down on the picnic blanket and Elliott reads to you from the little book he’d been holding. It’s a compilation he’s made of poetry, his and others’. You can’t remember a more idyllic day – you’ve found your second wind, you’re well-fed, the weather is perfect, and you’re entirely content. You close your eyes, drifting on the combined sounds of the incoming tide and Elliott’s rhythmic voice.
That voice stutters to a halt in the middle of a love poem. You open your eyes. He’s frowning, and you sit up in concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I have so many things I want to say to you, my love. You’re all I can think about, you’re all I dream about, and I... I’m supposed to be a writer, I make my living with words, but... faced with your beauty, I have only other people’s borrowed words, and they’re not enough.” He tosses his book aside in despair.
You hear yourself saying, “Well, maybe if you can’t tell me, you could show me?” You hold your breath, waiting for his reaction.
He looks at you, a range of emotions playing across his face – hope, doubt, tenderness, desire. Then he reaches out for you. You nestle close to him and lift your face to his.
He kisses you hard, licking into your mouth. This is new from Elliott, who has always been gentle and reticent to a fault. You respond enthusiastically to his unspoken demand, leaning into the kiss and reaching out to unbutton his shirt. He shucks it off as you run admiring hands along his toned chest.
When you break the kiss to come up for air, Elliott opens his mouth as if to speak, but again he can’t seem to find any words. With an imploring look, he pulls you halfway into his lap, then lets go of you, leaving it up to you what happens next.
You pull the skirt of your dress up around your hips, out of your way – Elliott gasps as he gets a glimpse of black lace panties – and scoot forward, making him groan as you grind down on his rapidly hardening cock. He wraps one arm around your back to steady you and pull you closer, and cups your breast with his other hand, gently pinching the nipple through the thin fabric. You whimper out a soft yes, and emboldened, he unzips your dress. You fumble with the button of his jeans, and...
...a boat horn sounds in the distance. You stop and look at each other with wide eyes. You probably can’t be seen, but... “Inside,” you say at the same time. The two of you scramble to your feet and dash across the bridge and into the cabin, with you clutching your dress to your chest.
As he shuts and latches the door behind him and turns the light on, you let your dress fall to the floor and pool around your ankles. He turns and sees you. His eyes widen and he swallows audibly, slowly looking you up and down. As he watches, you slowly shimmy out of your panties. “My love... you’re breathtaking,” he manages.
You step forward out of the puddle of your clothes and run a teasing hand across the bulge at the front of his jeans. He shudders and quickly pulls off his jeans and boxers. You lick your lips at the first sight of his thick, heavy cock, and looking up at him through your lashes, you wrap your hand around it and start stroking.
Elliott thrusts forward into your hand but warns, “I won’t last if you keep doing that.” He chuckles at how quickly you pull your hand away, sweeping you up into his arms – the small part of your brain that’s still thinking coherently is surprised and delighted that he can carry you so easily – carrying you across the cabin in a few short steps, and laying you down on the narrow bed.
He sits beside you and kisses you once more, sliding his hands along your body and letting them come to rest on your breasts, squeezing them gently and playing with your nipples, enjoying the soft whimpers you make. Your hands alternate between tangling in his hair and caressing as far down his back as you can reach.
“So beautiful,” he says against your mouth, and starts slowly kissing his way down your neck, murmuring half-coherent endearments as he goes. “My sweet... my darling... so lovely....” You slide one hand down toward the throbbing between your legs. “Impatient,” says Elliott, trapping your hand and lacing his fingers into yours. You whine in frustration. “All in due time, my love.”
At last his mouth reaches your breasts. He sucks on each nipple in turn, moving his free hand down to slide up and down your inner thigh. You rock your hips, shifting against his hand, desperate for his touch.
Finally he slips one finger into your soaked pussy and circles your clit, agonizingly slowly, with his thumb. Your breath is coming in soft whimpers. He slides in a second finger, then a third.
“Please, Elliott,” you say in a breathy, needy voice you barely recognize. “Please fuck me, I need you inside me, please.”
He rewards that with a hard rub of his thumb across your clit. You thrust your hips, crying out. The cry turns into a whimper as he pulls his hand away, then a breathy sigh as he climbs on top of you and replaces the friction from his hand with his cock. He slides into you, stroking your hair and watching your face to make sure you’re okay. You’re more than okay. He feels so right inside you, filling you completely. You nod to reassure him, and he starts thrusting, slowly at first, then faster as you adjust your pace to match his.
“Sweetheart, come for me,” he pants into your ear, and you do, raking your nails down his back, the world shattering around you. He works you through your orgasm and then lets himself come with a soft, hoarse cry.
You both need a few minutes to lie still and recover, then he reluctantly pulls out of you, and you arrange yourselves together in the narrow bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. You’re still catching your breath, and suddenly you’re very tired.
“That was a wonderful celebration,” you say. “It’s too bad there’s nothing to celebrate tomorrow.”
He laughs, stroking your hair. “Don’t worry, my sweet love,” he replies, “we’ll find another reason to celebrate. Tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.”
“Oh good,” you say through a yawn. “I’ll look forward to that,” and he presses a fond kiss to the top of your head as you drift off to sleep curled up in his arms.