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“I was wondering if you’d like to take part in a time-honored tradition with me?”
“What’s that?” She smiles up at him, nose wrinkling so the freckles dance and her dimple shows. He takes a step closer, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping his arms around her. This is a posture he likes, a little protective and possessive of her and he gets a cuddle at the same time. Not the most masculine admission, perhaps, but who doesn’t like hugs? There’s more to romance than sex, after all.
“A spring picnic. All the accoutrements, the checkered blanket and sandwiches and the basket. A wholesome Saturday afternoon, outside in the sunshine and fresh air.” The French word comes out in a perfect accent.
“I’d like that.” Her canine presses into her bottom lip. It makes him think of how she nipped him when he kissed her, in her hotel-room bed. Since then, there have been kisses and love-bites, none of them in a bed. Only because there hasn’t been one to be had.
“Alright, then young lady. I’ll come and get you at one o’clock.”
“Do I need to bring anything?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure?”
He bows his head to kiss her, soft and sweet at first, but then so deeply that Rissy clings to him, giggling. “You can bring dessert,” he says, winking and holding her close.
Saturday, one pm, Nix arrives at Rissy’s new address. She and Lise have recently relocated since their last land-lady closed house. Now they are living with Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Their neat, pretty house has no gate, flagstone pavers, or manicured garden. It looks like a home with white siding, clean but slightly worn, a gravel driveway, and a front door painted green, set with panes of rippled glass. Nix climbs up the two steps to the porch and knocks. The woman who opens the door is not hawk-nosed and severe. She’s smiling, hair escaping from her bun, and she welcomes Nix inside with genuine warmth.
Rissy comes down the stairs in a pink dress patterned with tiny blue flowers and trailing curlicues of leaves and vines, all smiles. She introduces Nix to Mrs. Miller, who tells Rissy to take a sweater, just in case. It looks like it might rain, she says. Then she shooes them out the door into a perfect afternoon. There is hardly a cloud in the sky. The few that are there are white and fluffy.
Nix spreads his blanket out under a huge English oak. The blanket is blue gingham, perfect for a picnic; the food is in an ammunition box. The wine is decent, red so it doesn’t have to be chilled. He tried hard to find something sweet and light enough for Rissy to drink that he could still tolerate. He carries the bottle by the neck. It doesn’t fit in the box. He busies himself taking out bread and cheese and slices of chicken, canned peaches and a chocolate bar. Rissy has cookies and sliced tomatoes, a gift from Mrs. Miller, picked that morning from a garden that she keeps from running wild by the barest of margins.
Nix leans back on the tree and pats the ground beside him. Rissy settles against his side. They have to eat with their fingers, since Nix forgot silverware. Neither of them mind. He did, however, remember a can-opener, which he waves around while he tells her about Sobel and the other can of peaches that was apparently not a can of peaches. Rissy scoffs and rolls her eyes, peeved on his behalf over something that happened over a year ago. His arm goes around her and he gives her a kiss that she returns eagerly. Hands wander a little, but not much. Rissy lies down, resting her head in Nix’s lap, so she can look up at him. She breaks off a piece of her cookie--she baked them herself--and feeds it to him, her fingers grazing his lips, lingering there.
Nix chews, eyes shut, murmuring compliments to her baking skills. Rissy sighs contentedly.
“This is a good tree,” she proclaims. “I like it here.”
“It is a good tree,” he agrees, watching the dappled light play over her freckles and the delicate tracery of veins in her eyelids, the dark crescents of her lashes. He presses the tip of his index finger to her Cupid’s bow. “The perfect spot.”
“Have you brought anyone else here?” She opens one eye.
“No,” he says with mock solemnity, and then he gives her a lop-sided grin. “I thought I’d come get you and drive around until we found the right place. And here we are.”
“A trysting spot.”
“For young lovers.”
“D’you think there’ve been a lot of them?”
“I’m sure.” He is, actually. If fairies were real, they’d be right at home among the early spring wildflowers. There’s even a stream, sparkling in the sun, wandering into a copse of trees. Maybe there’s a spring hidden there, clear and cool and private. Nix can imagine naiads playing in it, tempting human lovers out of all their clothes, or at least some of them, and into the water.
“Do you think any of them had as good a time as us?”
“No, none of them.”
She smiles up at him. “You’ve really never been here?”
“No.” He pushes a few strands of hair off her face, strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. Tiny gold flecks light up her eyes and her lips and cheeks are rosy pink. Her pupils widen. “Never in my life.”
Nix slides a hand underneath her sweater, where he can feel the heat from Rissy’s skin, even through her dress. The spring day is pretty, but none too warm. Doesn’t matter. It gives them a good excuse to bill and coo.
The temperature drops and the cotton-ball clouds turn gray while they’re occupied with trading stories between kisses and laughter. A gust of wind blows Rissy’s skirt up so the top of her long, grey, cotton sock is visible and Nix can see the soft skin behind her knee. He glances up at the sky.
“We need to go; it’s going to start raining soon.” Nix frowns up through the leaves. “I can smell it, can’t you?”
“I love that smell,” she says, not moving at all, kissing him again.
Forced to be the more responsible party, Nix finally hauls himself upright.
“I don’t want to go,” she pouts. Nix doesn’t want to leave, either. Judging from the reception he got earlier, the Millers would probably ask him in for tea, maybe even let him and Rissy have the sitting room to themselves, but it wouldn’t be the same. He can’t lie half on top of her with her arms wound around him in front of the Millers, no matter how nice they are.
“C’mon, young lady, help me.”
They gather everything up quickly, finishing just before the rain starts. They’re both soaked quickly by the fat, heavy drops. Nix crams the ammunition box and the blanket into the trunk and slams it shut. Rissy slides into the back seat, out of breath, laughing, and shivering. Nix lets himself in on the other side. He has to try the handle twice; it slips out of his grasp the first time. Rissy scoots to the middle as soon as he’s inside, before the door is even shut.
He kisses her mouth, lips moving from her jaw and down her throat, to the neckline of her dress and no farther. Her sweater is wet, Nix peels it off her arms. This is more to keep her from getting colder than she already is than to remove her clothing, but he’s not exactly complaining that she’s wearing one less layer. She doesn’t seem to mind, either. She hasn’t stopped kissing him. Her kisses are soft and sweet, not pecks; she presses her lips to his cheeks and throat, his eyelids and temples and the tip of his nose. Her mouth grazes the spot below his ear and Nix groans like a whore.
“Oh, is that the spot?” Her voice is soft and husky in his ear, the question followed by a giggle. He nods and arches his neck to the side almost involuntarily, practically offering it to her. Rissy doesn’t disappoint, she lingers over it, pleased with her discovery. She nips at his skin. He can’t think, especially once she moves in his lap and he’s pressed against the inside of her thigh. Nix’s hands slide upwards from her waist.
Rain patters gently, coursing down the windows.
Rissy’s arms are broken out in gooseflesh.
“Are you cold?” Nix fingers the thin cotton of her dress. “Come here.” He brings her closer, right against his chest, so he can hold her in his warmth. She unbuttons his jacket and he wraps that around her, too, as far as it will go. She untucks his shirt, hands sliding up his ribs on bare skin. When she pulls back, her fingers go to the pink button at her collar.
“My clothes are wet. From the rain.”
“Thank you for the clarification, Rissy,” he teases, pinching her waist.
“Will you help me take it off, please?”
“I didn’t want to presume.”
“Lew? You can.”
He undoes her buttons one by one, until he can pull the dress over her head. She takes it from him and lays it over the front seat, as if she’s setting it out to dry. Everything she has on underneath is white, except for her grey socks. He doesn’t take anymore off her, but he rains kisses on her throat and neck and shoulders. He nuzzles between her breasts, tugging at the straps of her slip, easing it down. Under that is thin, fine cotton, something between a bra and a camisole, held together at the top with a little bit of white ribbon. Her nipples poke against it; her areolae show through. He sucks at one then the other right through the cloth. Rissy clings to him, straddling his lap, her knees tight at his hips. He kisses and suckles, dragging his lips over the tops of her breasts. He returns to her nipples, sucking harder, loving the delicious sounds she makes. She takes her hair from its clip in a lazy, unconscious gesture so it falls down around them.
“Feels good?” She nods in response to his first question. He pinches her again, her nipple this time. “D’you like that?” Her answer to the second question is another barrage of kisses. She cups his face in her hands, her tongue slides between his lips, and she clutches his shoulders. His hands move from her hips to her thighs and back again, dragging the slip upward inch by inch until he can see what she has underneath. French knickers, which sound dirty but aren’t. The cotton is so light, almost gauzy, that the shadow of her pubic hair shows through. His fingertips curl under the hem, barely touching the curve of her ass. She moves against him.
She plucks at his jacket, whispering his name and the word ‘please’ over and over. He fights his way out of it, and his shirt, and then his undershirt, almost ripping it over his head as if it had deeply offended him. He eases her slip off and tugs at the ribbon on her camisole-thing, but all that accomplishes is opening the keyhole top. It does afford Nix a lovely view of her cleavage, and he can find no other buttons or fastenings. She lifts her arms, letting him undress her.
Nix gently pushes Rissy onto her back across the seat. What would she do if he dropped his head between her thighs and kissed her there? But she’s pulling him down on top of her, so his bare chest presses against her breasts. For long minutes they kiss, Nix winding his fingers in Rissy’s hair.
The first time they slept together was about months of pent-up longing, and they’ve had a lot of fun in various locales since then, but no sex. Rain patters on the car’s roof. The back seat has become a cocoon, a tiny, safe space, humid and balmy from their breathing. Rissy’s hands slide over every part of Nix she can reach. Almost. His face and hair, neck and shoulders, chest and belly, hips and his ass. The piece of him she wasn’t touching was the one she was begging for. He’s never felt so wanted in his life. When he kneels between her knees, her underwear ride up, uncovering the bare skin above her long socks.
He reaches for something in his pocket.
Rissy laughs. “You did presume, a little.”
“No, I hoped.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “The plan was to spend the afternoon outdoors. But, be prepared, you know.
“You were never a boy scout.”
“No.”
She sits up, kisses him, and her hands drop to his belt buckle. She unbuckles and unbuttons, draws him down, between her knees. Her plain, simple underwear end up tangled with his things on the floorboards, and then the socks join them. He likes this, when the girl is naked and he’s not. It’s a fun way to play, leaving her vulnerable. Rissy’s knees are spread wide, and it strokes his ego to see her like that, leaving herself open to him. She trusts that his mouth, his hands, any other part of his body is only going to touch her to give them both pleasure.
She reaches for him; he touches her. Touches himself. The paper sleeve crinkles. Nix grins at her, raising an eyebrow. In the few seconds he’s looking down at himself, Rissy plays with his hair, traces the top edge of his ear. Please, she whispers, please. She contorts herself to get at the spot below his ear again, and for a moment he can’t think.
“Stop it, baby, I have to do this.”
“Is that what you really want, Lewis?”
“God, just for a second so I can get this thing on, and then you can get right back to it.”
Once Nix has himself sorted, Rissy’s thighs tighten around his hips, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders. The girl is wound all around him. Her lips find the spot again, then travels along his jaw to his mouth. Nix lies heavily on top of her, and even though he’d only need to move a little, the kissing, not to mention prolonging the moment, is so sweet that he stays right where he is. She’s the one who pulls him closer by his hips. Her eyes open wide and she sighs; he groans in response. Their movements are small and slow, controlled. The way she whispers his name and moves underneath him leave him incoherent in their give and take. Her lips are all over his neck and face and shoulders, her hands roam from the nape of his neck down his back and up his sides.
The windows are fogging. The car’s back seat is not an ideal setting for love--there’s not much room to move, and anyone walking by would see Nix’s pale ass moving up and down, his pants sliding down his thighs. He still has his boots on for fuck’s sake, and Rissy is completely naked underneath him. He calls her honey and sweetheart and baby. Nix rests his forehead on hers. He props himself up on his elbows, his hands under Rissy’s shoulder blades, cradling her and kissing her while she kisses him back.
This is the most tender sex he’s had since--well, ever. More so even than his wedding night, or the last night he spent at home before he shipped out, or the very first time he’d ever done it with anyone. He’d tried to be careful, afraid he’d hurt her, nervous and excited, and then surprised at how warm it was. Which is ridiculous if you think about it, of course it will be warm inside someone’s body, but you don’t think of it before. The first time you don’t know what you’re doing and you can hardly think of anything besides what’s happening between your legs. Except of course, ‘Oh my God, I’m having sex with another person,’ which Nix suspects might be a nearly-universal thought upon losing your virginity. It gets better the next few times when you start to figure it out, but it’s still new. Until today, he didn’t know that slow and sweet could be more passionate than angry fucking or eager inexperience.
Rissy clings to him, holding him and kissing him and whispering love words against his lips. Then he’s not thinking about anything, and neither is she.
He lies on her afterward, still inside her. Nix doesn’t want to move and Rissy is content underneath him. They stay that way until he slides out of her, and then it’s time to clean up. No one wants any little accidents. Rissy pulls her clothes back on, giggling. He has his shirt on but it’s still unbuttoned when she climbs back into his lap. She gives him a flurry of tiny, butterfly kisses. Rissy’s cheeks are pink under their freckles; she’s practically glowing. She looks purely happy. Nix’s grin feels idiotic and he doesn’t care. Rissy hugs him until he lets go.
Rissy climbs over the seat and Nix takes a minute to make sure there’s no evidence of love left behind. He balls everything up in his hankie. Rissy, turned around in the front seat, watches him.
He gets into the driver’s seat and starts the car. He shoves the handkerchief into his pocket.
“Did you know,” she asks dreamily, “that I crawled around on the ground to make sure I got all those?” She taps his pocket. “I didn’t want the hotel people to know how many times we did it.”
“Why did you care?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe we should’ve been proud.”
“It was a commendable performance, I have to say.”
“Agreed.” Rissy leans against him and yawns. “You know, we ought to roll the windows down a little to air the car out.”
“Yeah. That’s two time-honored traditions for us today. A picnic and making it in the back seat of a car.”
“It seems like such an American thing to do, doesn’t it? But I’m pretty sure it happens everywhere.”
“As long as it happens with you and me.” He kisses the top of her head and stops her from getting at his neck again. “We have to go, miss, and I refuse to be held responsible for what’ll happen if you do that again.”
“I found your weakness.”
“You sure as hell did.” If she thinks he means the place just below his ear she’s wrong. He’s talking about her. “And now we can’t waste any more gas, so off we go.” It’s time, anyway. The spring picnic is a tradition both time-honored and ephemeral. At the mercy of the weather, you are there, and then you pick up all your things when you’re done and it’s like you were never there at all.
Nix takes Rissy’s hand, twining his fingers with hers, and squeezes it. He brings their joined hands into his lap, steering with one arm, driving her home through a spring rainstorm. When they get to hers, he’ll get out first, so he can hold the umbrella over her head. He’ll kiss her good-bye on the porch, just as wholesome and sweet as you please, and go back to his billet happy.