Dimly, I’m aware that we’re out in the middle of the open, basically dry humping like horny teenagers and anyone could come along and see us.
Or worse, report us.
I need to slow things down or at least move them along somewhere a lot more private.
His hand claims my breast and my eyes roll upward. Just a few more moments…
I’m trailing my hands down the hard, muscular length of his back that I know so well when a loud beeping assaults my ears, stopping me cold. Matt continues to kiss me, his hand kneading my breast, making me want to purr in satisfaction. If only that annoying beeping would go away.
Pulling away from Matt’s mouth, I shudder all over when his lips go to my neck. “Matt,” I say, pushing him back when all I want to do is pull him closer.
His tongue teases at my collarbone. “Matt,” I try again, shifting my body under him and earning me a husky moan from him that makes my pussy clench in want.
The beeping continues and finally it seems to break through to him. Matt’s head lifts from my neck, his dark eyes heavy-lidded, the pupils blown wide with desire. He stares at me for a moment before a grimace contorts his face and he rolls off me.
Sitting up, his hand goes to his pocket, and he pulls out his phone. His grimace changes to a rueful grin. “I set an alarm so I wouldn’t be late for work,” he says, silencing the alarm. “I knew I would get distracted being with you.”
A deep chuckle leaves him, his eyes flashing with warmth when his gaze connects with mine. “I didn’t expect this kind of distraction.”
My tongue darts out and glides over my lips and I can taste him still. “I don’t mind that type of distraction,” I say, even while my cheeks burn with a flush at my boldness.
But is it bold?
No. I’m simply being honest. I wouldn’t mind getting lost in Matt’s kisses every day.
He leans over, his fingers brushing some of the errant hairs that have come loose from my braid away from my face, before he kisses me again. Slowly, tenderly, and so sweetly that I cling to his lips when the kiss ends.
We stare at each other and then his hand falls away, and it’s time for reality to take hold again.
Matt stands up and brushes the crumbs from his pants and from his hands before offering me a hand to help me up. The picnic breakfast is stowed away quickly, and we begin the walk back to his SUV hand in hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
A few geese are walking across the path, blocking our way, and we stop to let them cross. My eyes go to the straggler several paces behind. He’s favoring one leg awkwardly as he struggles to keep up with the others.
The reason becomes obvious when I see the green and white fishing lure hooked into the webbing of his foot by a nasty looking four-prong hook. “Oh no,” I moan, my heart going out to the poor thing.
“Let’s see if we can trap him in the blanket,” Matt says, yanking the red checked flannel blanket from our picnic out of the basket.
Before I can fully process what’s going on, Matt lunges forward, tossing the blanket over the goose, who honks manically like a driver stuck in rush hour. I race to Matt’s side to help him contain the goose, whose wings are beating madly as he tries to escape.
I thought my nieces and nephews were squirmers as toddlers. They have nothing on this goose who is bucking and kicking wildly, trying to get away. “It’s okay,” I whisper, though I doubt he can hear me over his own panicky honks and hisses or even understand me.
“We’re going to help,” Matt says soothingly, pulling a multi-tool out of his pocket. Grasping the goose’s injured foot, he uses the plyers to get the lure out of the thick orange webbing between its toes. “You can let him go,” he says to me with a nod.
The moment I unwrap the blanket, the goose waddles away with a jerking gait. Already he can move faster than he could with the hook in his foot.
Standing with the blanket in my hands, I watch him join his friends. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”
Matt folds up his multi-tool. “Has to be better than with a lure in his foot.” He holds it up and I wince at how wicked the hooks are and how much that must have hurt the poor goose. “At least now he has a fighting chance to heal and migrate.”
I offer him the blanket and after a few brisk shakes he rolls it up and stuffs it into the basket that he set down just off the walkway. Rubbing my hands down my pants, I can’t help crinkling my nose up at the smell. A glance down confirms there’s goose poop on my jeans. Yuck!
Thank goodness I can go home and change… that thought sends my eyes to Matt.
“Oh, no.”
His dark eyes flash my way, concern drawing his mouth tight. “What’s wrong?” he asks, coming to a halt.
“Goose poop,” I say, pointing at the green smears on his pants. “You’re heading right to work, aren’t you?”