Had she answered him? Or had she just stood there, mute? She couldn’t remember.
But here she was, standing all alone in front of an abandoned barn.
Fool that she was.
There would be hell to pay if she got caught.
She stepped forward, her brown oxford heels crunching on tiny stones on the road. The barn loomed up before her, the peak of the roof seeming to get caught on the fishhook moon. Slats were missing; fallen boards lay scattered.
Elsa hugged herself as if she were cold, but in truth she was uncomfortably warm.
How long did she stand there? Long enough to begin to feel sick to her stomach. She was about to give up when she heard a car engine. She turned, saw a pair of headlights coming down the road.
Elsa was so shocked she couldn’t move.
He was driving too fast, being reckless. Gravel spit out from the tires. His horn blared: ah ooh gah.
He must have jumped on the brake, because the truck fishtailed to a stop. Dust rose up around him.
Rafe jumped out of the car in a hurry. “Els,” he said, grinning, producing a bouquet of purple and pink flowers.
“Y-you brought me flowers?”
He reached into the cab and produced a bottle. “And some gin!”
Elsa had no idea how to respond to either.
He handed her the flowers. She looked into his eyes, and she thought, This. She would pay any price for it.
“I want you, Els,” he whispered.
She followed him into the back of the truck.
The quilts were already spread out. Elsa smoothed them a little and lay down. Only a thin thread of light came from the scythed moon.
Rafe lay down beside her.
She felt his body along hers, heard his breathing.
“Did you think about me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Me, too. About you, I mean. About this.” He began unbuttoning her bodice.
Fire where he touched her. An unraveling. She couldn’t still herself, couldn’t hide it.
He pushed her dress up and pulled her bloomers down and she felt the night air on her skin. All of it aroused her, the air on her skin, her own nakedness, the way he was breathing.
She longed to touch him, taste him, tell him where she wanted—needed—to be touched, but fear of humiliation kept her silent. Anything she said was bound to be wrong, unladylike, and she wanted so much to make him happy.
Before she was ready, he was inside of her, thrusting hard, groaning. Seconds later, he collapsed on top of her, shuddering, breathing quickly.
He whispered something unintelligible into her ear. She hoped it was romantic.
Elsa touched the stubble of beard along his jaw. Her touch was so soft and tenuous that she didn’t think he felt it.
“I will miss you, Els,” he said.