I hugged him closely, relishing the moment, pushing the rest of the world away as long as possible.
But we had to come back to it, and I knew it. So I sat up and pulled my turtleneck on. Extricated my legs from his seat and flipped into the driver's seat; put my jeans on while he pulled his corduroys up.
He sat, quiet and passive, just looking at me. I stared back, thinking I ought to say something. But I didn't know what.
So I started the engine and offered, "I'll take you home."
I shifted into gear, rolled down the long gravel driveway, turned right onto the road; followed it to the highway and turned left.
Halfway up the highway, I murmured, "Please don't tell Paul."
Jonah was silent, as usual. I had never cared before. But now I wished he would say something. Something that would reassure me about what we had just done. But I could only guess at what he was thinking, and I had no right to look to him for absolution. I was the one who had made the offer: I was the mature one.
He closed the truck door carefully and walked up to his house with his shoulders hunched and his head down.
I drove home with a growing sense of unease. My rational mind was suddenly troubled. Where had it been an hour ago?
Tied and gagged and thrown in the basement by my libido! Oh God, what had I done?
I went home and took a long bath.
* * * *
I avoided Paul for the next couple days, started planning and planting my garden, and hoped Jonah didn't hate me too much - or worse, think he loved me.
But when my head sank into the cool softness of my pillow and my eyes closed at night, I could feel his hands on my skin and hear his whimpers in my ear, and suddenly my body was wanting...watering.
In the privacy of my own bedroom, I remembered the feel of him again, his sweet tenderness, as my fingertips meandered over my breasts, down my belly, and slid into the fleshy folds, finding them already wet and swollen.
In that moment, I was glad I had done it - glad I had tasted and smelled and felt him - glad for the keen memories as they came back to me, teasing and arousing.
I rubbed myself slowly as I pictured his red cock springing out of his shorts. I got faster as I thought of the sweet noises he made. I pressed harder and deeper, remembering how he felt sliding into me, squeezing my waist, touching my nipples.
"Jonah," I whispered, arching my pelvis up and out. "Jonah..."
"Jonah..." I said, pressing toward him, thrusting to meet him.
"Jonah!" I cried, as the mounting waves reached their peak and crashed over me: panting, moaning, whining, sighing, releasing, coming...
"Jonah! Jonah! Jonah!...Oh God, Jonah!"
Then I lay still, and my breathing calmed, and my hand caressed my breast, resting on my heart.
"Jonah," I repeated softly, as a tear leaked out of the corner of my eye and seeped into the pillow. I wanted to kiss that tender skin of his, and taste his thick red lips again.
But in the morning, reason was back, and I was sure that I had to quit thinking about Jonah and plant carrots today.
* * * *
It had been a week, and my days and nights were sorting themselves out. In the quiet, cloistered darkness, I dared to welcome Jonah into my boudoir - but only because I meticulously banished him from my daylight hours.
It was working pretty well.
Then Jonah came over to see Paul. I managed a nonchalant greeting as they came through the kitchen on their way to the living-room to watch TV. They sprawled on the couch, and after a few minutes, Paul came into the kitchen for a couple beers. I watched him take them back and hand one to Jonah.
Their backs were toward me, so I could peek through the doorway unobserved. I eased my heart out of my throat, thinking how appealing Jonah was in his own awkward, shy kind of way.
I turned back to the sink to finish the dishes, blocking out the sound of the TV with the radio. Then I thought about what to fix for dinner.
I was intent over the pot of soup on the stove, when I suddenly felt a pair of eyes watching me. I turned around to see him leaning against the wall by the doorway, just staring. His eyes were soft, and a little sad.
I gazed back, then averted my eyes.
"Jonah, I'm really sorry...if I've...hurt you," I said quietly.
"...which is why we should just forget about what happened..." I added quickly, before Paul decided to come see what Jonah was up to.
Jonah raised his empty beer bottle toward me, and I took it. Then he turned back to the living-room without a word.
I left the soup for the two of them to help themselves, and went outside to take a walk. The fresh air felt good, and the sun was just setting with one of those amazing fiery red explosions that only happen in the clear desert skies. It was so beautiful. I wanted to cry.
Jonah was gone by the time I came back. When I went to bed that night, I didn't think of the way he had felt the day we made love. I just thought about how his face had looked in my kitchen.
