Page 19 of After We Fall (After We Fall 2)
I hopped from foot to foot, desperately wishing for another solution to magically present itself so I would not have to relinquish my dignity or give my vagina a poisonous rash. But none appeared, so I climbed over the Valentinis’ fence and ducked into the trees, cursing myself for being so out of it before I left the cottage.
Hurrying across the forest floor of dirt and pine needles and dry leaves, I moved away from the road until I couldn’t see it anymore. I was about to squat (good grief, what an inelegant word) when I heard a splash nearby. Gasping, I straightened up and looked around, frantically yanking my shorts back into place. When I heard another splash, I cautiously made my way in that direction.
Oh my God!
Not far from where I’d been about to relieve myself was a clearing in the trees, and beyond it was a small lake. Jutting into the lake was a short wooden dock, on which stood Jack Valentini, dripping wet and buck fucking naked.
It was as if an electrical switch had been flipped inside me. Suddenly I was driven by one gut instinct: I need a better view. There was a weeping willow about twenty feet closer to the lake, and without giving it a second thought, I darted toward it and then scrambled up onto a low branch.
Yes, I actually climbed a tree.
Hanging onto a branch above my head, I carefully side-stepped out a little bit and peered through the leaves. Tongue caught between my teeth, I watched him push his wet hair back from his face and stretch a little, arms over his head. Hmm, a farmer’s tan is actually a thing.
My eyes automatically went low, and my jaw dropped when I saw the size of his dick. If it was that big when it wasn’t even hard, how big would it get when it was? Suddenly I felt like a kid who’d been told she could look at her birthday cake but not taste it. A hundred irrational—and frankly perverted—thoughts assaulted my brain.
I want to see him get hard. I want to touch him. I want my mouth on him. I want to watch him touch himself. Damn, he’s huge. I want to be fucked with a cock like that. I bet it could tear me apart. Christ, he could probably fuck me from clear over there.
No! No, he should find me here. He should discover me in the woods and get angry. Then he’d have to punish me for spying on him. He’d be ruthless.
I realized I was panting.
What the hell was the matter with me? I’d never had these kinds of thoughts about anyone, let alone a veritable stranger. Was I having a midlife crisis at age twenty-nine?
He turned away from me, giving me a chance to appreciate the nice round butt I’d noticed in the photo, but also the muscular back and shoulders, the tattoos that snaked around to his ribs on his right side. What were they? I’d never known a man with tattoos before, not personally. And I’d definitely never seen one naked.
I hadn’t seen that many men naked at all, really.
Maybe that was my problem—fascination, sort of like he was a museum exhibit or exotic animal or circus sideshow. The male bodies I’d seen in the flesh were pale and thin—nothing like the beautiful work of art in front of me now, which had bulges and ridges and lines, the morning sun burnishing his skin to bronze. I wanted to—
CRACK!
The branch I was standing on snapped, and I hit the ground in an ungraceful belly flop.
(Also, I may have peed myself. Just slightly.)
I picked up my head and looked at Jack, shocked to see he’d quite literally hit the deck, his body flattened against the wood. A second later he looked up and saw me. Not the discovery fantasy I’d concocted by a long shot.
Oh, Jesus. This is worse than Sconehenge.
How the hell was I going to explain myself?
Nine
Jack
First, terror. Adrenaline-fueled, heart-pounding, blood-pumping, gut-wrenching terror.
Then, anger. That I hadn’t been vigilant enough. That I’d missed some sign of danger. That I’d failed.
Finally, awareness. That I was OK. That everyone was safe. That nothing had happened.
Well, nothing dangerous.
My heart rate and breathing slowed as I took in the scene—Margot Lewiston, flat on her belly—and realized the noise that had startled me had been the snapping of a tree branch, which had apparently given out under her weight. “Fuck,” I muttered, feeling foolish, like I always did when this happened.
And that’s when I wasn’t naked.
I jumped up and yanked on my sweaty running shorts, which were lying on the dock next to my socks and shoes. Since Pete was checking on the animals this morning, I’d decided to take a quick swim after my run. I hadn’t counted on an audience.
