Michael moved through the garden, jacket thrown over one shoulder, tie tucked into a pocket, white shirt, and black trousers, socks and shoes. James Bond she'd called him. For that, he really needed a ruffled shirt. Maybe he should buy one before dinner tonight. Clare had picked this place, not him. It had an old world charm though. Rustic brickwork, covered with flowers and as the Sun was beginning to dip he turned into a flowery avenue and saw the bench she had said would be there, and so was she. A flowery sun print dress barely hiding shapely legs, and her arms, lightly tanned, under the lowering sky. He tried for a measured step, not wanting to appear too eager, but he felt the quickening in his groin, and his stride lengthened. He hadn't seen for all of four hours, but the conference had seemed like a lifetime of torture. Now he could make out her features, and the welcoming smile of greeting.
He climbed the few steps to the bench, and he bent and kissed her, slowly, deeply, again drinking in the smell of her chestnut hair, the scent of her skin. Her lips eagerly pressing into his with equal passion. Michael had known a few women who could excite him, he had only known one who could drive his hormones into overdrive, and as he kissed her he felt again the screaming, primal lust in his body wanting her. His hands trembling as he tried to calm his racing heart.
They'd made love so many times now that he'd forgotten how often in the past few days she, or he, had orgasmed. With most women he would have become bored, and the love making would have become mechanical. Somehow though, each touch, every kiss, kept feeding his desire to have her. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for the way this woman seemed to able to stoke his need for her. And she seemed so eager to make love to him too, every time he had left, since the first meeting, a tear in his heart, every meeting, the freshness ever present, but now doubly piquant, because they had learnt what each desired from the other. They had not yet covered some of there kinkier fetishes, but they were learning each other still, most important, learning to trust the other.
Michael sat upon the bench beside her, trying her not to just throw himself on her, and he assayed a small smile of greeting, one of his hands capturing hers, knees touching. They still weren't good at small talk. There lust for one another seemed to enough, at least for now, but Michael felt that this too would eventually sort itself out. Right now they were more like randy teenagers, instead of the mature people that they suppose to be.
As before, his tongue was sticking to the roof as he gazed at her, but she seemed to be slightly distracted, because her head and eyes were moving looking all around the garden. She'd seemed happy to see him, but now she was paying him no attention at all.
"You ok, love?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, "Just thinking." Her returning smile was warm, but her gaze returned to scanning the surrounding gardens. Michael looked too. No one was around, and he was fairly sure that the gardens were due to close soon. He was surprised that people weren't taking advantage of this glorious afternoon, but he'd seen no one since he had paid to get in. He squeezed Clare' s hand and then he put it to his lips and kissed it, before putting it back into her lap. He reached down and took her sandalled foot, into his hands, slipped it from her foot, and began massaging her foot.
