The Undomestic Goddess
Page 82
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He’s not joking. I really am helping with the gardening. Cautiously I unwind a length of twine and follow what he’s doing, cutting with a pair of secateurs he passes to me. The soft leaves and petals tickle me as I work and fill the air with an amazing sweet scent.
Nathaniel comes over to take a look. “You could tie a little tighter.” His hand brushes briefly against mine as he turns away. “Let’s see you do the next one.”
My hand tingles at his touch. Did he mean to do that? Uncertain, I tie up the next plant, knotting tighter than before.
“Yeah, that’s good.” Suddenly Nathaniel’s voice is behind me and I feel his fingers on the back of my neck, tracing around my earlobe. “You need to do the whole row.”
He definitely meant to do that. No question. I turn round, wanting to reciprocate, but he’s already on the other side of the row, intent on a sweet pea plant, as though nothing happened.
He has a game plan, I suddenly realize.
Now I really am turned on.
The pulse is growing stronger inside me as I move from plant to plant. There’s silence except for the rustling of leaves and faint snap of twine as I cut. Three more plants and I’m at the end of the row.
“Done,” I say without turning round.
“Great, let’s see.” He comes over to inspect my knotted twine. I can feel his other hand edging up my thigh, pushing up my skirt. I can’t move. I’m transfixed. Then suddenly he breaks away, businesslike again, picking up a pair of trugs.
“What—” I can’t even frame a sentence properly.
He kisses me briefly, hard on the mouth. “Let’s move on. Raspberries need picking.”
The raspberry cages are further down the garden, like rooms of green netting, with dry, earthy floors and rows of plants. As we enter there’s no sound except that of buzzing insects and the flapping of a trapped sparrow, which Nathaniel shoos away through the netting.
We work the first row wordlessly, picking the fruit off the plants. By the end of the row my mouth is tangy with the taste of them, my hands are scratched and aching from the constant plucking, and I’m sweating all over. The heat seems more intense in this raspberry cage than anywhere else in the garden.
We meet at the end of the row. Sweat is pouring down our faces.
“Hot work,” he says. He puts his basket down and strips off his T-shirt.
“Yes.” There’s a still beat between us. Then, almost defiantly, I do the same. I’m standing there in my bra, inches from him, my skin pale and milky next to his.
“Have we done enough?” I gesture at the basket, but Nathaniel doesn’t even glance down.
“Not yet.”
His expression makes me damp and prickly behind my knees. I meet his eyes and it’s like we’re playing truth or dare.
“I couldn’t reach those ones.” I point at a high cluster of fruit just out of reach.
“I’ll help.” He leans over me, skin against skin, and I feel his mouth on my earlobe as he picks the fruit. My entire body responds. I can’t bear this; I need it to stop. And I need it not to stop.
But it goes on. We move up and down the rows like two performers in a courtly dance. Outwardly concentrating on our moves yet aware only of each other. At the end of every row, he brushes some part of me with his mouth or fingers. One time he feeds me raspberries and I graze his fingers with my teeth. I want to get at him, I want my hands all over him, but every time he turns away before anything can progress.
I’m starting to shiver all over with desire. He unhooked my bra two rows ago. I’ve discarded my knickers. He’s unbuckled his belt. And still, still we’re picking raspberries.
The baskets are full and heavy and my arms are aching, but I’m barely aware of them. All I’m aware of is that my whole body is throbbing, that I can’t stand this for much longer. As I reach the end of the last row I put the basket down and face him, unable to hide how desperate I am.
“Are we done?”
My breath is coming in short, hot bursts. I have to have him. He has to realize.
“We’ve done pretty well.” His gaze drifts toward the other fruit cages. “There’s still more to do …”
“No,” I hear myself saying. “No more.”
I stand there in the heat and the dusty earth, panting and aching. And just as I think I might explode, he comes forward and bends his mouth down to my nipple, and I nearly swoon. And this time he doesn’t move away. This time is for real. His hands are moving over my body, my skirt is falling to the ground, his jeans are sliding off. Then I’m shuddering, and clutching him, and crying out. And the raspberries are forgotten, scattered on the ground, squashed, crushed beneath us.
Nathaniel comes over to take a look. “You could tie a little tighter.” His hand brushes briefly against mine as he turns away. “Let’s see you do the next one.”
My hand tingles at his touch. Did he mean to do that? Uncertain, I tie up the next plant, knotting tighter than before.
“Yeah, that’s good.” Suddenly Nathaniel’s voice is behind me and I feel his fingers on the back of my neck, tracing around my earlobe. “You need to do the whole row.”
He definitely meant to do that. No question. I turn round, wanting to reciprocate, but he’s already on the other side of the row, intent on a sweet pea plant, as though nothing happened.
He has a game plan, I suddenly realize.
Now I really am turned on.
The pulse is growing stronger inside me as I move from plant to plant. There’s silence except for the rustling of leaves and faint snap of twine as I cut. Three more plants and I’m at the end of the row.
“Done,” I say without turning round.
“Great, let’s see.” He comes over to inspect my knotted twine. I can feel his other hand edging up my thigh, pushing up my skirt. I can’t move. I’m transfixed. Then suddenly he breaks away, businesslike again, picking up a pair of trugs.
“What—” I can’t even frame a sentence properly.
He kisses me briefly, hard on the mouth. “Let’s move on. Raspberries need picking.”
The raspberry cages are further down the garden, like rooms of green netting, with dry, earthy floors and rows of plants. As we enter there’s no sound except that of buzzing insects and the flapping of a trapped sparrow, which Nathaniel shoos away through the netting.
We work the first row wordlessly, picking the fruit off the plants. By the end of the row my mouth is tangy with the taste of them, my hands are scratched and aching from the constant plucking, and I’m sweating all over. The heat seems more intense in this raspberry cage than anywhere else in the garden.
We meet at the end of the row. Sweat is pouring down our faces.
“Hot work,” he says. He puts his basket down and strips off his T-shirt.
“Yes.” There’s a still beat between us. Then, almost defiantly, I do the same. I’m standing there in my bra, inches from him, my skin pale and milky next to his.
“Have we done enough?” I gesture at the basket, but Nathaniel doesn’t even glance down.
“Not yet.”
His expression makes me damp and prickly behind my knees. I meet his eyes and it’s like we’re playing truth or dare.
“I couldn’t reach those ones.” I point at a high cluster of fruit just out of reach.
“I’ll help.” He leans over me, skin against skin, and I feel his mouth on my earlobe as he picks the fruit. My entire body responds. I can’t bear this; I need it to stop. And I need it not to stop.
But it goes on. We move up and down the rows like two performers in a courtly dance. Outwardly concentrating on our moves yet aware only of each other. At the end of every row, he brushes some part of me with his mouth or fingers. One time he feeds me raspberries and I graze his fingers with my teeth. I want to get at him, I want my hands all over him, but every time he turns away before anything can progress.
I’m starting to shiver all over with desire. He unhooked my bra two rows ago. I’ve discarded my knickers. He’s unbuckled his belt. And still, still we’re picking raspberries.
The baskets are full and heavy and my arms are aching, but I’m barely aware of them. All I’m aware of is that my whole body is throbbing, that I can’t stand this for much longer. As I reach the end of the last row I put the basket down and face him, unable to hide how desperate I am.
“Are we done?”
My breath is coming in short, hot bursts. I have to have him. He has to realize.
“We’ve done pretty well.” His gaze drifts toward the other fruit cages. “There’s still more to do …”
“No,” I hear myself saying. “No more.”
I stand there in the heat and the dusty earth, panting and aching. And just as I think I might explode, he comes forward and bends his mouth down to my nipple, and I nearly swoon. And this time he doesn’t move away. This time is for real. His hands are moving over my body, my skirt is falling to the ground, his jeans are sliding off. Then I’m shuddering, and clutching him, and crying out. And the raspberries are forgotten, scattered on the ground, squashed, crushed beneath us.
