Anyway, it's late in the day and they are by the lilly encrusted lake on a blanket. The scent of the raspberry ripple roses heady and heavy, compounded by the full bloom that he is using to lazily caress her body. Brushing her nipples, thighs, neck, everywhere. His hand is moving the stem almost reflexively. She is on her back, hands behind her hair, one leg raised, open to him. Her only garment, again his shirt, undone.
He lies beside her, head propped up on his hand, admiring the view. Their soundtrack, the crepuscular birds, insects and the soft plop of frogs returning to the water.
They are talking and laughing about last night with such intimacy, that the farmer who is watching them from the field took them to be a couple with a great history.
Yesterday had been Bastille Day. On a whim, they'd driven to Honfleur and checked into a quaint chambre d'hote near the quay. After a quick meal at one of the interchangeable harbour restaurants, they'd joined the party. Enjoying the contagion of the carousel, carnival atmosphere they became playful.
As night fell, they stumbled on to a small square where a makeshift dance floor had appeared. It was a wonderful cliché of fairy lights, local music and chequered tables. He took one.
He asked her to dance.
He acquiesced with the proviso that although enthusiastic, it was not her greatest talent.
He told her that it was one of his and lead her to the floor.
Moondance - they smiled wryly.
But this time he had not been lying. The man was a master holding her with a lightness of touch that inspired greater confidence. A touch on her waist sending her spinning away, then pause then back to his arms. The man controlled her movements with his whole body, eyes, hips, hands.
As the dance progressed so did her enjoyment and she was soon daring him to be bolder and more adventurous with the steps. Her hair had come down by now and was whipping around her pale shoulders, long limbs blurring.. The song ended he and pulled her close kissing her softly as the last few bars faded away, he could feel her heart beating wildly..
So when the young Frenchman, with the well groomed moustache, had approached and asked him if he could dance with his 'Belle Femme',it had been his pleasure to pass over her hand. He knew it would incense her in so many ways and he liked her angry too.
Surprisingly, he had expected her to refuse, she had smiled broadly into the handsome, dark face and had skipped off back to the dance. He felt a little pique, then annoyance.. The classic double bluff. He watched as they danced together to a faster tempo, wild, graceful, if not as skilled.. As she twirled, her chiffon skirt flew up revealing a flash of the pink silk.. Bare legs tonight..
