The coffee shop is busy. They have biked for
10 miles this morning. Chatting companionably in the early morning
sunshine. The aroma of farmland and the dust of the road embedded
in her sweat.
They laugh as they order their breakfast and find a place outside
under an umbrella. Lattes in hand. Eggs, bacon and toast arrive
quickly.
She pulls her fingers through her sweat-drenched hair lifting
it to impudent spikes, her eyes laughing.
He is cool, shades covering his green eyes, a slight sheen
on his clear skin. He is fit enough that 10 miles is a leisurely
ride before breakfast, hardly a workout.
Her hand brushes his as she reaches for the pepper. A deliberate
move.
She needs to touch him.
She wants to taste him.
She knows he will taste of salt and dust. His lips are smiling.
So luscious.
He's finished every morsel on his plate. She passes him her
toast which he accepts without comment, adding butter and
jam before allowing it entry to his mouth.
She licks her lips, pulls on her shorts to relieve her discomfort.
Later on the path through the woods, they
leave the bikes and wander into the thick brush, cool and
green in the mounting sunlight.
His hand in her hair
takes control, lips crushed against teeth, his hands on her
ass, under her shorts.
She offers her submission.
He accepts.
Tomorrow, perhaps they will ride 13 miles.
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