She threw her arms around me and kissed me deeply. Her tongue was gingery and nimble. I held her tight, stroked her face, her neck, her back, chanced roaming lower and when she didn’t stop me, dropped both my hands and cupped her rear. She moved my right hand around to her front, sandwiched it between cotton-sheathed thighs. I explored her heat and she did something with her hips that was pure intent. Lifting the black dress, I peeled down her panties, felt the angle of her legs widen. I kissed her, I strummed her. One of her hands was tangled in my hair, holding fast. The other fumbled at my zipper. Finally, she freed me and we were on the hardwood floor of her living room and I was in her and she was clutching me and we were moving together as if we’d been doing it all our lives.

She kissed my face and said, “I’m going to go out on a limb. With you it’s not just the training. You’re a sweet man.”

The feelings came later. After we’d slept and eaten leftovers and renewed our dehydrated bodies with gulps of water and were finally heading north on Pacific Coast Highway. Taking Allison’s Jaguar because it was a convertible. I was at the wheel and Allison stretched out on the reclined passenger seat, bundled up in a big, white Irish sweater, hair loose, flapping like an ebony banner, face to the wind.

One hand rested on my knee. Beautiful fingers, long and tapered. Smooth and white.

No scars. Robin, though a master of tools, hurt herself from time to time.

I gave the Jag more gas, sped past black ocean and gray hillside, the headlights of other adventurers. Stealing peeks at Allison’s face when the road straightened. My scalp still ached where she’d yanked my hair, and the stretch of brow from which she’d licked my sweat pinged with electricity.

I put on even more speed and she stroked my knee and I got hard, again.

Beautiful woman, sensuous woman.