Oh, God, please don’t talk about golf or start comparing Breckenridge to Aspen.
He didn’t, having turned off the road and onto an unpaved track, probably an old logging road. The interior of the car was warm with the bright sunlight that flickered through the trees, and I hated to admit it, but I enjoyed the leather seats and the comfortable ride, the luxury of riding in an expensive car.
“I hope this wasn’t too early in the day for you,” he said. “I brought brunch.”
“That’s very thoughtful.”
He pulled the jeep to a halt in a sunlit meadow. We weren’t far from town but when I opened the door and stepped outside I was struck by the peace, the quiet. “Is this it? The place you’re going to develop?”
He nodded. “It’s still in the early stages. It may not happen.”
“And if it doesn’t? Won’t you lose money?”
“I’ll have the land. It might happen next year or in ten years. You never know.” He reached into the back of the jeep for a picnic basket and cooler and led me over to an outcropping that held the heat of the sun. He was an attentive and solicitous host—he even had a plaid blanket that he spread on the rocks—and the picnic basket turned out to be one of those fancy ones with china plates and cutlery. He’d brought bagels and lox and cream cheese and champagne in the cooler.
So who was seducing whom?
“This is nice,” I said, hoping the surprise didn’t show in my voice. “Great bagels.”
He popped the cork on the champagne, not making a big deal of it but easing it off softly. A little vapor rose from the neck of the bottle before he poured it into two glasses, pale and sparkling. Good signs—I wondered how he’d be as a lover.
“You’re the first girl—I mean woman—I’ve brought here,” he said.
“Yeah? You seem to have all the right moves.” I clinked my glass against his.
He smiled and unscrewed the cap of a bottle of sparkling water. “I have to drive, but you go ahead.”
I raised my face to the sun. Perhaps it was the champagne, perhaps it was the company of a handsome man who was not full of self-important chatter, as I’d feared, but I felt extraordinarily peaceful and at ease.
I finished my bagel and wondered if it would be crass to ask if I could have one for later—I decided it would be—but accepted an orange, one of those big, fat expensive ones that I hardly every bought. The rind peeled off with an easy grace and a wonderful whiff of scent.
“You’re a very sensual woman,” Willis said.
“Is that a euphemism for greedy?”
“No. You enjoy things. You show it.” He reached to refill my champagne glass.
“This is all perfect,” I said, indicating our picnic. “Other than your yearning to cut down trees and build ugly houses.”
“Heck, they won’t be ugly. I’m working with a green architect.”
“Green with pointy ears?” I lay back on the blanket, eyes closed, and chortled at my own joke, a little drunk on champagne and sunshine.
“You’re a funny girl.”
“Woman.”
He shifted toward me. Oh, this was so damn easy. Too easy. Without opening my eyes I separated a segment of orange and stuck it in my mouth. His face hovered over mine as I chewed and swallowed—I could feel his breath on my lips—and he moved in and licked juice from my chin. I was impressed. An enthusiastically chomping woman would not be a particular turn-on, or so I’d think, but he managed to take the moment from slightly comic to erotic with one light touch of his tongue.
His tongue touched my lips and he reached for the orange in my hand, loosening my fingers from the few segments that remained. He fed them to me before taking my hand and licking the juice from my palm.
“Nice,” he murmured.
I closed my hand around his chin, smooth from a recent shave. He smelled, very faintly, of lime, something subtle and expensive. I wouldn’t have expected this from the brash Willis I’d first met.
“More orange? Champagne?”
I opened my eyes. “You.”
He looked surprised. Maybe he expected to have to seduce me, or maybe he didn’t expect me to be quite so direct. But he didn’t think too long, particularly when I sat up and stripped off the long-sleeved T-shirt I wore and began on the buttons of his shirt. His hands flew to my breasts; I wore a pink cotton bra with a little lace, what I considered suitable for a lunchtime seduction.
He reached into the picnic basket. Yes, condoms for dessert. My bra was tossed carelessly aside as he nuzzled and kissed my breasts and I pulled his shirt from his jeans.
He had enough muscle and hair that he didn’t look like a pretty boy, but I noticed a certain awareness, a flexing of his pectorals, as though he was posing for my admiration. I suppose the equivalent for a woman was to suck it in.
“I like your chest,” I offered, feeling that all that time at the gym should be acknowledged. I stroked his biceps and glanced down. His erection pushed against his jeans.
He dipped a hand beneath my skirt. I propped myself on my elbows to watch his mouth at my breasts, his hand working between my spread thighs and my skirt bunched up at the waist. I liked that he played around my underwear, sliding his fingers under the elastic, stroking the dampened fabric of the crotch with his thumb. He took his time and when he slid a finger inside me I clenched on him hard, my breath short.
He raised his head from my breast. I wondered for a moment if I’d burn in the warm sun. “Am I going too fast for you, honey?”
“No. It’s great.”
I reached for the button of his Levi’s and slid his zipper down. White Jockeys, not my favorite (was there ever a more stupidly designed piece of underwear in the world?) but I didn’t intend to look at them for too long. I shoved his jeans and underwear down and his cock sprang into my hand.
He lost his concentration, his hand slowing on my clit, and I bounced my hips at him. What the heck were we going to do about our cowboy boots? Mine, it appeared, were going to stay on. He paused from regarding his dick approvingly to unzip my skirt and pull it and my underwear down. He raised himself onto his knees to stroke the condom over his penis, gazing at himself with adoration, jeans and underwear lodged at his calves. I was excited but at the same time I was an observer, taking notes for later.
He levered himself over me, and I saw we were about to embark on classic missionary style. And, yes, his boots were staying on, too.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said, staring at my nakedness, my cowboy boots, my darkened nipples. “I want to fuck you so bad.”
Willis was losing his cool a bit, I was pleased to see. His mouth was half-open, lips wet, eyes hot. His hand stroked his cock, up and down. I don’t think he knew he did it, but when I reached down and touched my clit his eyes widened.
“Now,” I said.
I loved the sight of his cock sliding into me, the juicy, rude sounds of our fucking, the warmth of the sun on my skin. The scent of the lime shaving product he used mingled with those of sweat and oranges and champagne. Beside my head his arms flexed as he pushed inside, withdrew, pushed again, and my hips rose to meet him. He murmured to me how good it felt, how wet and hot my pussy was, how he couldn’t last, but he’d lost me. I tried to recapture my own rhythm, but it was like watching someone run away from you, and while the experience was pleasant enough, I couldn’t catch up.
Willis was way ahead of me now, lost in his own excitement, sweat breaking out on his forehead and chest before he dropped onto me, out