Chapter Seventeen #2
Queenie navigates the steps down to the lawn, and she ambles about, sniffing the flowerbeds and investigating the base of the jacaranda tree while we eat.
“This is lovely,” I say, enjoying the smooth, creamy, cheesy sauce along with the crunch of the vegetables, and he’s right—the bread is fantastic.
“Thanks.” He winks at me.
It’s impossible not to compare him to Jude, and I give myself permission to do so, tired of wrestling with my brain.
They’re very different men. Inwardly, Jude is chaotic, complicated, and messy.
Just when you think you’ve got him figured out, he reacts in a completely different way than you thought, which is exhausting at times.
Outwardly, though, he’s very particular, because appearances matter a lot to him.
He doesn’t like wearing shorts, and tends to favor dark jeans and black tops because he knows they complement his dark, carefully styled hair.
He likes it when people compare him to Jensen Ackles or a young Brad Pitt.
He knows he’s charismatic, and he uses it to get what he wants.
In contrast, Archer’s personality is organized, tidy, and calm.
He thinks before he speaks, and he considers how his actions are going to impinge on others.
But he doesn’t care how he looks. I doubt he’s glanced once at the mirror today other than maybe when he got out of the shower.
He doesn’t realize how gorgeous he is with his well-worn tee, shorts, and bare feet.
I adore the way his hair is ruffled, and his beard could do with a trim.
I adore it when he gets up to lend me one of his sweaters when the evening breeze turns cool, and how, when we finish our pasta, I discover he’s bought mint-choc-chip ice cream because he knows it’s my favorite.
He doesn’t fuss or fawn, but he makes me feel like a princess, and I’m ashamed to say that I really, really like that.
Conversation is easy with him too. I’ve always known that, but as we sit and chat, it reminds me of the way I said Jude was like a plastic mold, and I was a piece of plasticine and had to reshape myself when I was with him to make sure we fit together.
I’d grown used to watching mostly sports and documentaries in the evening because Jude liked them, but Archer’s like me and loves movies of all kinds.
We spend ages discussing some of our favorites, and going through the series we’ve seen.
Jude reads non-fiction like biographies, but Archer loves fiction, especially sci-fi and fantasy, and we talk for a long time about the best books we’ve read and our favorite authors.
Queenie eventually gets bored with exploring the garden, and she comes up to Archer and puts her feet up on his chair, so he lifts her onto his lap.
She leans against him, clearly in seventh heaven as he strokes her while we talk, and it occurs to me that my version of heaven could well be something like this too—sitting outside watching the sky turn from orange to purple, with no sounds except the singing of cicadas in the bush and the odd hoot of a morepork, pleasantly full from good food, and talking to a guy who looks as me as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
I’m almost disappointed when he says, “Shall we go in?” But it’s growing cool, so I help him carry the dishes back into the house, and we rinse everything off and stack it in the dishwasher while Queenie lies on the tiles by the door, watching us.
He dries his hands, then tosses the tea towel aside and leans back on the counter. I’m standing opposite, leaning against the hob.
“I should go,” I say. “So I get back before it’s dark.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t sigh or sulk; he just smiles, his eyes full of warmth. And that, more than anything, wins me over.
Without another word, I cover the distance between us in a few strides, lift up onto my tiptoes, and crush my lips to his.
He groans and slides his arms around me, pulling me tightly against him, and I wrap my arms around his neck, wanting to show him how much I like him, and how much I want to be with him.
I want to be one with him, I want to feel our bodies intertwining and merging, I want to give him pleasure and receive it in turn.
I tilt my head to the side to change the angle of the kiss, moaning as he delves his tongue into my mouth, and sink my hands into his hair. “I want you,” I mumble, kissing him fervently. Am I being too open? Saying too much?
But he says, “Ahhh, me too… more than anything…”
I lower both hands to the base of the sweater he leant me and take it off, then remove my top as well.
After that, I do the same with his tee, tugging it up his body and over his head before tossing it away.
He undoes my bra and draws the straps down my arms, then fills his palms with my breasts, and I groan as he squeezes them gently.
I feel as if this whole day, this whole week, maybe the last two years, has been leading up to this, to us working out how to be together. Why did it take so long? Why was I so slow to realize? I’ve wasted so much time, and I don’t want to waste a second more.
Without thinking, without worrying about whether he’ll reject me, because I’m sure that’s not going to happen, I push down my shorts and underwear, and he does the same with his.
Now we’re naked, our bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, and I can feel him hard against my stomach, and it almost makes me cry to know how much he wants me.
“Let’s go in the bedroom,” he murmurs.
But I shake my head. “Here.”
His eyes meet mine, surprised, excited, filled with heat, and then before I can react he lifts me as if I weigh nothing and turns and places me on the counter.
I squeal because it’s cold. He laughs but says, “Sorry.” He reaches over to pick up the sweater he leant me, spreads it out on the counter, and lifts me onto it. “Better?”
I nod, looking up at him, thinking how handsome he is, and how much I want him.
“Baby,” he says, cupping my face. “You’re so beautiful.” He kisses me, and I open my legs so he can move between them.
Part of me wonders if he’ll enter me immediately, and I wouldn’t have cared, but he doesn’t.
He kisses me for ages while he strokes his hands over my skin, and then he uses his mouth to arouse me, kissing down my neck to my breasts, and teasing my nipples until my breaths are coming fast, and need is building inside me.
He kisses back up to my lips and slides a hand between us, slipping his fingers down into me, and I moan against his mouth as he gathers up my moisture and then circles his fingers over my clit.
“Oh, that feels so good,” I whisper, feeling as if I’m a tuning fork that’s been tapped, and I’m now reverberating and humming. “Please…”
He lifts his head and searches my eyes. “You’re sure?” When I nod, he pulls me towards him a little so I’m perched on the edge of the counter, and guides the tip of his erection to my entrance. Then he pushes his hips forward, and he slides slowly inside me.
“Ohhh…” My head drops back at the sensation of being filled and complete, at one with him.
“Beth…” He says my name like a caress, the word soft and gentle in his mouth. “You feel so good.”
“Mmm.” I close my eyes as he moves inside me, moving back before filling me again with slow thrusts.
His hands continue to travel over me, lightly caressing my skin, and it feels as if every nerve ending is coming alive after a long sleep.
I love the way he touches me, his fingers gliding as if he’s determined to connect every freckle, touch every inch of me.
I love how our skin tones are so different—we’re both brown, but mine is naturally cool-toned, the color of the sand in Sunrise Bay very early in the morning, while Archer is tanned, the color of the beach in the late afternoon, a rich golden brown.
His hands are large and warm, and yet he handles me gently, with finesse, teasing my body oh-so-slowly towards an orgasm as he slides his hand between us and arouses me with his thumb while he continues to thrust.
“Ohhh… I’m going to come,” I tell him eventually as the climax creeps up on me, and he growls his approval and thrusts a little harder, making me spiral out of control.
I give in to the amazing sensations and let the orgasm sweep over me, clenching around him with hard, powerful pulses that make us both gasp.
He thrusts firmly, filling me to the brim with every push of his hips, and less than ten seconds later, he comes too, illustrating how he’d been holding back, waiting for me. He shudders, stiffens, and his hand clenches in my hair as he gives in to his passion, his sighs mingling with mine.
Oh, it’s so amazing to be wanted, to be desired… I bite my lip, overwhelmed with emotion and desire and pleasure.
When he’s done, his eyes open, and he looks into mine.
“Baby,” he murmurs, “are you okay?” His first thought is of me.
“Oh yeah. I’m fantastic.”
He chuckles and kisses my neck and shoulder. “You drive me crazy.”
“I drive you crazy?” I shake my head in disbelief. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Maybe I do… a little.”
“Maybe.” I sigh as he gives me a long, lingering kiss.
“I’m going to cook for you every night if that’s the kind of thanks I get,” he murmurs.
“Mmm.” I know he’s probably exaggerating, but the thought that it’s possible a man might want to have sex with me more than once in a blue moon fills me with wonder.
He wants me. He desires me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
He chuckles then, and I follow his gaze to see Queenie still lying on the tiles. As we watch, she snores gently, clearly not interested in the entertainment.
He tears off a piece of kitchen roll and hands it to me with a sparkle in his eyes, and I clean myself up and get dressed while he does the same.
Then he pulls me into his arms again. He hums You to Me Are Everything by the Real Thing, takes my right hand in his left, and dances with me, making me laugh.
He has a nice singing voice, deep and melodic, and I sing along to the words with him, appreciating the sentiment.
“That’s very soppy,” I tell him.
“I think I’m allowed to feel soppy after what we’ve just done.”
“Fair enough.”
He kisses my nose. “I’d like you to stay, but I absolutely understand if you’d rather go back to the cottage.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Whatever you want.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
I am tempted. It would be so easy to go to bed with him now and have him wrapped around me all night.
But I need to call in at Four Square—the ‘eight-till-late’ supermarket—and pick up a few bits as I don’t have any food at the cottage.
It makes sense during the week to stay there so I have all my clothes for work the next morning.
And it just feels… right. What we’ve just done is necessary and perfect, but we both need time.
The dust has to settle so we both feel right about how we’ve done this.
I collect my backpack, and Archer picks up Queenie and accompanies me to the door. I kiss her head, then lift up and kiss him.
“I might not see you tomorrow,” he says. “I’m working in the morning, and I’m meeting a few possible new members of staff tomorrow at two.”
“Okay. I saw the sign today. It looked great.”
“Yeah, we’re getting there. No going back now.” He widens his eyes as if to say, for good or for bad, and smiles.
“You’re doing a fantastic job,” I say softly. “It’s going to be an amazing place, I just know it.”
“Thank you.” He gives me a final kiss, and I go out.
I get on my bike, wave goodbye in case he’s watching, and head out of the gate and down the hill.
It’s nearly dark, but the streetlamps are on, and it’s not far to the Ark.
I grew up here, and I’ve always felt safe, even at night.
Still filled with a warm glow, I head for the supermarket, thinking about his words, No going back now.
Creating the center is a huge undertaking, and he’s doing all that alongside this personal adventure.
I feel a twinge of worry, and try to snuff it out like a candle, unsuccessfully. I have to be careful not to make things more difficult for him. I want to be someone he can lean on, someone who supports him when things get tough. I just don’t want to become something he has to carry.