They shot out into the water, which foamed and crashed about them, then there was desperate struggling and spluttering while Flipp and Rocky fell momentarily beneath the surface, linked in an embrace that seemed destined never to end.
When they came up, Flipp and Rocky were disentangled at the crotch, though not at the chest or legs, coughing and laughing like lunatics, enraptured with each other all over again.
“You fucking maniac.” Flipp cackled into Rocky’s hair. “I thought that might be the end then.”
“O ye of little faith,” he reminded her. “I told you I knew what I was doing.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think you’ll be doing anything else in here. I’m starting to look like a prune. And it’s bloody freezing now. Must be nearly eleven. The show’ll be over soon in there. Better get out.”
“Yes ma’am,” Rocky said, pulling her over to the edge. “But if you don’t want to have to run back to the tent in the nip, you’ll have to get to your clothes before I do.”
Flipp stirred in the sleeping bag, craning her neck back to look at the sleeping Rocky. In the 2 a.m. darkness she could see little apart from his eyelashes, fluttering in a dream, and the tumble of black hair contrasting with his pale skin.
She had retrieved her T-shirt dress and his jacket but had had to concede the knickers, running back to the tent in the soaked cotton, grateful for the cover of night that obscured the fairly obvious fact that her dress was clinging to bare wet buttocks.
He had chased her giggling, fleet-footed figure all the way along the path, demanding his jacket back, vowing twenty kinds of revenge.
She leaped back into the tent and pulled down the zip in the nick of time, hanging on to the tag for dear life while he yanked and flapped at the other side.
“Open up,” he said in a low warning voice, not wanting to waken any of their canvas-bound neighbours.
“Or what?”
“You don’t want to know. But you’ll be sorry.”
“Oooh, I’m so scared.”
“You should be. Now open up and I might be persuaded to go easy on you.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to go easy on me.”
“Oh really?” The tone of dark seduction changed abruptly to one of anxiety. “Fuck. Flipp. Open up. Quick.”
Alarmed, Flipp unzipped the flysheet, peering out nervously to catch a glimpse of whatever
had alarmed Rocky. But he pushed her triumphantly backwards onto the pile of sleeping bags, zipping back up with a flourish and holding her down with one hand on her collarbone.
“You’re easily fooled, aren’t you?” He grinned. “Which is just the way I like it.”
“Oh, you bastard.” moaned Flipp, sprawling helplessly on the nylon covers, kicking her legs to no avail. Despite her protestations, she was already anticipating her second orgasm of the night, and she hoped that this one might be a little less hair-raising. Rocky loomed over her, grabbing his jacket and shaking it next to her face.
“You never touch the threads,” he said solemnly. “Do you know what happens to girls who touch the threads?”
“No,” breathed Flipp, very much wanting to find out.
He threw the jacket aside, grasped Flipp by the shoulders and rolled her firmly onto her stomach.
The soaked dress was still suctioned to her buttocks, but he managed to unpeel it from her skin and reveal her cold, wet bottom, which she tried to wriggle out of his reach, but to no avail. One hand squeezed the generous flesh of a cheek, kneading and warming it while the other held Flipp down by the small of her back, keeping her flat on the ground. She kicked her legs, more for effect than any serious protest, clenched her teeth and waited.
“I want you to guess,” Rocky said, patting the slopes of her bum.
“I’m guessing there’s a clue in what you’re doing right now.”
“Well deduced, Sherlock. So…?”
“Not too hard,” she pleaded.
“Not too hard? What do you think I’m going to do?”