My belly twisted, feeling delightfully heavy. A shock of desire radiated from my chest to my fingertips. I’d like to say all my focus was on the slick, massaging sweep of his tongue as it expertly invaded my mouth, making me feel needy and lightheaded, but it wasn’t. My mind was scattered in a hundred different directions, all of them propelled by a sudden urgency.

I needed to get his shirt off because I’d die if I didn’t feel the smooth, taut skin of his shoulders, chest, and stomach.

I needed to remove my boots so I could free myself of these accursed pants.

I needed his hands on my nipples. Or his mouth. Or both. Yes! Definitely both.

Without my brain explicitly telling my fingers to do so, I’d untucked his shirt, managed to unlock the first few buttons, and was working on his belt buckle. I had the leather strap free in a surprisingly short period of time, with minimal fumbling, then reached for my jeans only to find Duane’s hands already there.

Therefore, I leaned away for a fraction of a second and whipped off my shirt, tossing it somewhere…anywhere…didn’t care where.

Our mouths met and mated again as I clawed at the remaining buttons of his shirt while he unzipped my pants. The sounds of our rough movements, heavy breathing, and frantic kisses filled my ears. It was a symphony of euphoric anticipation.

We were moving, he was moving us. At some point we’d turned and he was steering me backward toward the blanket, Duane’s large hands in my pants, beneath my underwear, cupping and massaging and squeezing. I tripped a little and then I was being half pushed, half guided into a horizontal position on the soft, quilted blanket. Duane covered me, nothing clumsy about his lissome movements, his shirt now open revealing a blasted white undershirt.

I growled my displeasure and tugged at the cotton, hiking it upward at his sides so I could touch his skin as he settled his muscular thigh against my center.

“Take these off,” I demanded, gripping and pulling both shirts with frustrated movements.

Duane sat up on his knees and tore off his button-down, roughly pulled off his undershirt, his gaze moving over my body.

But then, horror of horrors, he stalled his forward progress and blinked, a spark of sobriety igniting behind his eyes as he caught sight of my black lacy bra, mussed hair, and unzipped jeans.

He frowned like he was confused, shook his head, and said on an unsteady exhale, “Shit.”

I lifted my hands to reach for him and he shook his head again, his face twisted with what looked like frustration and anguish. He stood suddenly and walked away, leaving me on the blanket staring after him as he paced to the felled log, followed it to the stream, then stopped.

I inclined my torso and rested my weight on my elbows, watching his back, my chest rising and falling as I tried to catch my breath. My body was still…ready. Actually, ripe was a better word for it. And he’d looked quite ripe as well. But, despite the ripeness of my coconuts and his banana, he’d put an abrupt halt to satiating our hunger.

As I stared at his back, a song floated through my consciousness: (Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, by The Rolling Stones. Why was it difficult for him to take what he so obviously wanted? What we both wanted?

When I realized staring at Duane Winston’s muscled back and fine ass wasn’t helping matters, I stood, zipped my jeans, heaved a confused sigh, and crossed to where I suspected my shirt lay discarded.

He wanted me just as much as I wanted him, that much was clear. It was also clear we’d entered into a pattern of behavior. His withdrawal here, and in the supply closet of the garage, and at the edge of the lake, and backstage at the community center all pointed to the fact that Duane Winston wanted me—badly—but was trying to be noble. Or, something akin to nobility.

I tugged on my shirt and heaved another sigh, marinating in the oddness of the situation. When my previous boyfriends were intent on pushing me further than I was willing to go I broke things off. But with Duane, I felt like maybe I was pushing him. I didn’t want to push him. In fact, the thought of pushing him made me feel wretched. I wanted us to move together.

“You’re a siren who doesn’t need to sing.”

I turned my head at the sound of his words, cutting through the soundtrack in my head. Duane was facing me now, his muscled arms crossed over his delicious bare chest. His expression told me he was exasperated—with himself, me, or the situation in general—I had no idea where his ire was directed.

I gave him a smile I hoped communicated my regret for being pushy, but also communicated my hope that the date wasn’t over yet. “Is this your way of telling me I’m too sexy for this picnic?”

Some of his exasperation melted away and he huffed a short laugh, but then he sobered almost immediately. His focused gaze grew earnest. “Jess, doing this right, it’s important to me.”

I nodded once, faced him, and mimicked his stance. “I surmised as much when you brought flowers for my momma.”

I saw his chest rise and fall before he continued, taking a few cautious steps toward me. “I think we’re suited.”

“So you’ve said.” Something like panic tugged at my heart, and I was afraid of where this conversation was heading.

“But like you said in the car, we don’t know each other anymore, not really.”

“I get it,” I said on a rush, because I did get it. I did.

And yet...

But then he admitted quietly, “I want to know you.”

… I want to know you.

I blinked at him; stared dumbly, really.

Those words penetrated some wall—around my head and heart—I didn’t know existed. He came to a stop directly in front of me, his arms still crossed over his chest as his eyes roamed over my face, and they held reverence, hope. His expression and tone were distracted when he added, “And I want to be known.”

That’s what did it, his quiet admission. I realized I was being self-centered. And, more than that, I felt torn. Now he was forcing the issue, crossing self-preservation boundaries I’d drawn without meaning to, I was going to have to be completely honest as well…and damn it all, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want our time together to end before it even started.

I had a plan: save money, gain teaching experience, leave Green Valley. Duane’s clear-as-day intentions and my unpredictable, growing feelings were not part of the plan. His desire to court me was not part of that plan. Marriage and picket fences were not part of that plan.

I think I must’ve flinched or winced, because Duane straightened, and even though he didn’t move, I felt him draw away. I knew at once he was misinterpreting my reaction, so I unthinkingly reached for his arm and stepped into his personal space, beseeching him with my gaze.

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head at my blind selfishness, realizing I should have been upfront on Wednesday, when he’d asked me out originally. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re so right, and I’m…I don’t know how to say this without being completely honest so, here goes: I moved home with a plan. I’m back with my parents and teaching at the school, but that’s all temporary. I’m here, in Green Valley, for less than two years, tops. Just long enough to pay off my loans and save enough money to move on. I’m not ready to settle down, I don’t think I ever will be. I want to see and experience things. I have wanderlust and it consumes me. If I had the money, I’d leave tomorrow. I thought…I guess I didn’t really think. I just like you so much and I…” I couldn’t finish my thought because my voice caught.

As I spoke Duane’s eyes widened, then narrowed; their usual internal brilliance seemed to dim, fade, as it was replaced with a severe disappointment that completely pierced my heart. Then his expression hardened into understanding; and finally bitter, guarded withdrawal.