Louise
He looked as surprised as I felt, as if he hadn’t realized he was going to say it until the words were out. We stared at each other for several seconds.
“Okay,” I said at last. I’d brought a couple of stools from my place just so we had something to sit on. I pulled up one for myself and sat down, then pulled up one for him right next to me.
Sean walked around the tables and sat down. We were so close, we were almost touching.
I slid a seedling and a pot along the table to him, the scrape of plastic on wood very loud in the silent room. “Start by measuring out the mix,” I told him. “One cup of this, half a cup of this, one cup of this.” I demonstrated. Why are my hands shaking?
“Make a hole with your fingers,” I said, pressing two fingers into the cool, soft earth. Next to me, I watched him form two fingers into a probe. “You probably just need one finger,” I mumbled. “Your hands are big.”
He eased his thick finger into the soil. I swallowed.
“Is that deep enough?”
“Yes. Plenty deep enough.”
He stopped.
“Now ease out your seedling and carefully clear most of the dirt away from the roots.”
He lifted out his seedling and started to knock at its roots with a finger.
“Gently! You don’t want to damage the roots.”
He frowned. “I’m not good at gentle.” He turned a little and caught my eye. My heartbeat had turned into a bass drum boom that shook my whole body—slow, but gathering speed.
“I’ll help you,” I said. I stood, scraping my stool on the floor, and stepped behind him, putting my arms around him so that I could guide him. But immediately, I realized my mistake: he was so big, I couldn’t easily reach around. Not without getting very, very close.
Too late now. I stepped right up to him.
My pubis grazed his back through my jeans and I caught my breath.
As I leaned forward, my stomach and then my lower chest and finally my breasts made contact with his back.
I slid my head next to his, our cheeks inches apart.
I could smell the clean, outdoor smell of him, like the air after a storm, and feel his back rise and fall beneath me as he breathed.
“Just brush at it,” I told him, trying to focus.
The roots were like tiny hairs and I was staring at his thick, powerful fingers as they touched them.
I stroked the roots with my own fingers to demonstrate.
Every time I moved, even the slightest amount, my breasts shifted against his back.
I could feel my nipples hardening, pressing out through my bra and top to rasp against his muscles.
He tried brushing again and immediately, I was hypnotized by the sight of his two big fingertips stroking along the roots— “Careful,” I mumbled. “It’s really sensitive.”
“Sensitive?” His voice was a rumble I felt through my whole body.
I flushed. “Delicate.”
He carefully put the seedling down.
My voice sounded almost drunk. “Why are you—”
He twisted around, his back and then his front sliding across my breasts. And suddenly his lips were almost brushing mine.