"So what do you say? Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

It was an unseasonably nice night. The sun was setting and the ocean breeze was steady, cool, but not overpowering. We decided to bring the basket down to the ocean.

As we strolled along the beach, a handful of people passed by—joggers, couples, sometimes with their pets or children. For the most part, though, we were alone and no one paid us much mind as we took a seat on an abandoned dock.

Skylar immediately kicked off her sandals, rolled up her jeans, and dangled her feet into the water. I did the same so that I could sit next to her. Then she pulled her basket closer and began unloading it—white plastic china, wine glasses, forks, spoons, cloth napkins, two thermoses, white wine, and three identical Tupperware containers.

She popped the cork, poured the wine, and then portioned out the contents of the thermoses. It was a thick chicken stew with dumplings and vegetables. Along with it, she served fresh dinner rolls and chicken salad finger sandwiches.

As soon as I had a bowl of stew and a spoon in my hand, I dug right in. I don't think I came up for air until my second portion. The food was that good. I never tasted anything like it.

"Do you do this a lot?" I asked between mouthfuls.

She took a deep breath and gulped her wine as if it were liquid courage. Then she picked up her bowl, but she didn't seem too intent on eating anything. "Show up on the doorsteps of men I just met and guilt them into eating my food? No, this is a first."

"Ha. I meant picnic. You seem like an expert."

"Hmmm. . ." She shrugged one shoulder. "I guess you could say that. Among the idle rich, picnicking is like a competitive sport. And yes, I play to win."

She smiled, lifting an eyebrow. It was hard to believe she was nervous before, or at all, but she was coming around. And she was poking fun at herself again. I never met a woman who did that. Fairies were not known for their senses of humor. There was never much to laugh about, for those on the run or any of us still living in societies marked as "unworthy." It was doom and gloom all the time, either way, and I had lived through both scenarios. But I did hope, someday, laughter would come as easy to me as it did to her, or I might turn into the next Van Orden after all.

When I finished my dinner and some of hers too, she handed me the last container. I opened it with bated breath. Inside were . . . (drum roll) . . . maple oatmeal raisin cookies! The air around me filled with the smell of butter and spices—nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves. After I devoured the first one, I spent a moment wondering if it would be rude to ask if I could keep the leftovers. If so, I would have to do my part and finish the entire container.

Skylar, meanwhile, was nibbling on a cookie and staring at the ocean. She had her own worries, I realized, and they were not to be underrated just because I had been to hell and back. I found myself watching the corner of her eye, smoky blue in the dusk, searching for some hint as to what was going on in there. Then my eyes fell to her left hand, set in her lap, and I was too slow to glance away when her eyes flicked to mine.

"You're staring at my hand again."

"Sorry." My eyes dropped repentantly to the water below my feet. "I was just wondering. . ."

"What happened?"

I turned my head and gave her my full attention. "Yeah."

There was a long pause. I almost thought she wasn't going to tell me, but then she sighed and began. "Last night on the phone I said I wasn't happy and that I wanted out. And he said, and this is very like him, 'We'll talk about it when I get back.'"

"And when's he getting back?"

"May. He's involved in some real estate endeavor in Morocco."

I nodded once. That's almost a month away. "So that means. . . ?"

"I'm not sure. His response could mean many different things."

"What does it mean to you?"

She pushed herself to her feet and walked to the edge of the dock. Then she stretched out her arms, high to the sky, and spun back to face me, her arms swinging back to her sides. "I feel lighter than I have in years!"

With her arms and blouse flowing in the breeze, she danced in circles and finally stopped when she was facing the water again. She stood still for a while, perhaps taking in all Gloucester had to offer on a calm night. The seagulls were fishing and cawing nearby. There were a few sailboats out and one merchant vessel was cruising in the distance. Behind it all was the last sliver of light for the day.

Then, out of nowhere, or as if I suddenly slipped into one of my wildest fantasies, Skylar gripped the sides of her blouse and pulled it over her head. And I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. "Uh, what are you doing?"

She crossed one arm over her chest and peeked at me over her shoulder. "I'm going swimming. What are you doing?"

She threw her blouse at me and I caught it against my chest. After setting her blouse in my lap, I reclined back on my arms and plopped my crossed feet down on the dock. "It's April. I'm going to sit here and watch."

"Suit yourself."

With her back facing me again, she shimmied out of her jeans next. Her underwear were a lacy white and were a match set to her bra. They clung with exactness to her backside and revealed a hint of cheek. I assumed she'd stop there and later, suffer the consequences of wet underwear. But then she unhooked her bra at the back and removed every last article of clothing. I received a full view of her ass and a side-view flash of one breast. And then she dove into the water.

I sprang to my feet and went to the edge of the dock. "Cold?" I asked when her head surfaced.

"C'mon, Nova Scotia!" She tried to splash me and didn't even come close. "Afraid of a little cold water? Or worried you won't be able to catch me?"

Force of habit, I looked over my shoulder. "Would you keep your voice down? There're people around!"

"Nova Scotia!" she leaned back and shouted.

Her crawl stroke away from me was competent but daintily not fast. I sighed and shook my head, though I did pull off my shirt. Then I unbuckled my belt in no hurry. She was already losing steam. My jeans dropped next and I was down to my underwear. I didn't want to be presumptuous or for her to know which part of my anatomy was being presumptuous already, the part of me that was so pathetically, hopelessly human.

Ex-wife, ex-wife, ex-wife. . .

Thoughts of her were a lot colder than the North Atlantic and if that didn't calm me down, then nothing would.

I left my underwear on, the right choice, I thought, and dove after her. The water was dense and a little numbing. I liked it, though. It was physically and mentally invigorating.

When I caught up to her, one hard pull and no breath, I tugged on her slender, hardworking ankle. She yelped as I pulled her underwater. Trying to free her leg, she thrashed and twisted. She gave me a nudge in the chest with her other foot. Then I gained control of both of her legs and lifted her to the surface for a breath.

She immediately leaned on my shoulders and tried to dunk me. She almost succeeded because her buoyant, ample, fucking fantastic chest was right there, in full view, and close enough to bury myself in if I had the nerve or permission. Then, on her way back down, slow, as if she had lost all urge to retaliate, her legs settled around my torso. Her breasts may have been tucked underwater once again, but they were hardly out of mind. As she shifted her legs to be closer to me, I could feel them grazing my chest. And as my hands inched up her sides, I grazed them back.

"Scott," she said, and I could feel the warmth of my name on her breath. "Can I tell you something I shouldn't say?"

"Sure. Anything."

"I can't stop thinking about you . . . or that kiss."

She waited for me to find words to say and I couldn't come up with any, though not for lack of trying. I felt the same way and I wanted to tell her. I wanted her more than anything, and she wanted to hear that. But I knew I wasn't good for her. Having her in my life would just be inviting trouble, the kind where she would be in danger. But I didn't want to tell her that either. Not with her eyes upon me, searching for answers I didn't have. Not with her body, warm, close, and fearless, her lips trembling, probably due to the temperature of the water, but also, maybe—a disgraced prince could hope, right?—with desire she had never felt before for anyone.

Maybe she was tired of waiting. Or tired of talking. Maybe she knew the only way to get a decent response out of me was to take action. Like a woman who knew what she wanted, she moved in for the kiss, a better one than our first.

It began as a tantalizing nip, gentle with quick tongue and then a hasty retreat. I think she pulled away to gauge my reaction. But I didn't give her a chance to judge or question, and I didn't give myself the chance to succumb to my worst fears. I kissed her back with everything I had in me. All the passion that was buried deep within, so obviously not dead. It was just stored away for a while, as if I were a child collecting pennies for some responsible use, who one day decided, instead, to indulge in one mind-blowing treat.
This time, she had no regrets. She didn't slow me down with a nudge or a weak, reluctant mouth. She didn't enforce an appropriate distance between our bodies. If anything, she was goading me on. It was her speed, her distance, and she picked fast and close and dared me to keep up. Before I was satisfied, though, her kiss tapered off and ended. I thought for good, until, that is, her hand left my shoulder. It drifted down my stomach and into my underwear.

"It's apparently not that cold."

Her firm tug made my whole body clench. "Nope, not enough," I ground out, and then I was hers. She shimmied my waistband down until I was mighty and free.

I pulled her closer by her shoulder blades, lifting her chest from the water. I kissed the front of her until I could no longer stand the taste of salt. Then she slid lower, lower, and lower, leaning her hips back. And then our needy, greedy bodies found a way to connect with each other on their own, and with their own agenda.

The overwhelming heat of her made me involuntarily gasp. I pinched my eyes shut so she wouldn't have to watch them rolling around in there and I bit my lip as if that would help prevent my premature detonation. But she kissed my lip away from my teeth, removing that artificial sense of control. Then we started moving, steady and shallow at first to make the experience last.

I wish I could say the ocean was accommodating. It was more like an unwilling third party, but we did our best to overcome it. And soon we found our pace, discovered our limits and then we tried to defy them in both depth and speed.

I was just about there, ready to pull out, but then her movement slowed, her mouth opened and her eyes fell shut. It was my time to shine. I gave her everything I had and then felt us quake . . . together.

Her head rested on my shoulder as we struggled for breath, and even though her legs slipped away from my waist, she stayed close and held me tight around my neck. I wrapped my arms around her and there we stood, naked, shivering, and fighting for warmth from each other's bodies.

"Thanks for joining me for dinner," she whispered before taking my earlobe in her mouth.

"Yeah, anytime," I said, and I lifted my open eyes to the heavens to prevent my tears from overflowing.

Then I gave up. Closed my eyes. And let them fall.

~~~

I thought this scene needed a song. It was tough to choose--nothing quite "fits"--but after much deliberation, I picked John Denver, Annie's Song (1974).

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]