“Wow, I remember that old church!” she cries out softly as the road winds us past a small stone Catholic church flanked by old headstones, some draped with what looks like Mardi Gras beads.
The road curves away from the waterfront and sailboats moored out in the bay and heads inland toward an impressive monolith of rock presiding over the valley. “That’s Mount Maxwell,” she points out. “We’ll have to go up there later, if Mr. Mean can handle potholes large enough to swallow him.”
“We’ll see,” I tell her, knowing full-well potholes are my nemeses. As is Benedict Cumberbatch.
“Oh and the vineyards,” she says dreamily as we coast up a hill, vineyards and olive groves flanking us on either side, cascading down the slopes of sun-bleached grass. So far this place isn’t at all what I was expecting. It looks more like Tuscany than Canada.
“We have to do wine tasting one of these days. There are three wineries, a beer brewery, a cider house, even a lavender farm,” she says, her eyes dancing as she takes it all in.
“I thought we were supposed to be writing,” I tease.
“It’s inspiring.”
“Drinking? Of course. Spoken like a true writer.”
“Well you said I needed to relax,” she says. “I say we play tourist in the afternoons, you know, as a break. Or a reward.”
If I can pull myself off of you, I think. Let’s not kid ourselves, writing and wine and sightseeing is all good, but we both know we’re spending this weekend with me deep inside of her, everywhere she’ll take me.
But none of that seems to be on her mind just now, even though my fingers still smell like her cum, something I want to keep sniffing but don’t want to seem like a total pervert, not when she’s in this rare joyous element. Talk about a mood changer.
So I keep my dodgy perversion to myself as we wind our way across the island, past bucolic farms and stately houses hidden among towering trees. I swerve around swaths of bike riders who are pedaling their hearts out on the narrow road, something that looks like total hell, until we finally turn off the main road and head down toward the water.
“Can you imagine living there?” she says, sighing as we go past waterfront houses, their backyards a beach.
“I think you easily could,” I point out as we come to the end of the road and head down a bumpy gravel driveway until we stop at what can only be her family cottage. “I mean, this is your family’s. Right? You’d live here during the summer, be in the city in the winter.” I pause. “Naturally I’d have to live here too. Is there an outhouse I could reside in?”
She manages to tear her eyes away from the scenery and looks at me curiously, her lips curved unsurely.
“What?” I go on. “You would go crazy here without me.”
Maybe that seems too forward but I don’t care. I park the car at the end of the driveway and she opens the door and steps out, her body drawn toward the cottage like a tractor beam.
The cottage is not at all what I was expecting. Given Amanda’s family and their wealth, I was expecting something grand and obnoxious, even though she had told me numerous times it was small and modest. Well, she was definitely right. It is small, can’t be more than two rooms, and it’s a step beyond modest. The first word that comes to mind is quaint. Which is one step above “rustic” and “dilapidated.”
It’s pretty awesome.
“Wow,” I say, stepping out of Mr. Mean.
She pauses on the stone path, the squares cracked and worn, with periwinkle and grass running between them, and looks back at me, her brow raised saucily. “Is that ever-present sarcasm I detect? Have I let you down?”
I close the car door and stride over to her, shaking my head. “Not at all. Honestly, the fact that this is your beloved cottage makes me like you just a little bit more.”
“A little bit more? That means you must like me somewhat.”
“You know I like a lot of things about you,” I tell her, running my fingers under my nose and grinning at her. “Why don’t we step inside and I’ll show you more thoroughly this time.”
She rolls her eyes, even though there’s a hint of a teasing smile on her hot pink lips. I’m suddenly hit with a strange, almost guilty realization that I hadn’t kissed her today. I should have her magenta lipstick all over my face, my neck, but instead I got her off on the ferry without touching anything more than her pussy. There’s something crude about that and though that’s a feeling I never shy away from, it just doesn’t seem right anymore.
“Okay, so maybe the cabin is nothing special,” she says as she continues down the path and stops in front of the cabin’s wide covered back porch along a high bank of grass overlooking the harbor. She spreads her arms out proudly and throws her head back. “But how can you not be impressed by this view.”
I am impressed. I briefly take in the family of quail running from the low hedges and toward steps that must lead down to the beach, the wooden stairway flanked by tall cedars. I notice the wide covered deck with the Adirondack chairs and woven blankets, perfectly set up for the sunrise or star gazing, the stack of firewood in the corner.
I also take in her arse, perky and toned from her crazy (yet well-appreciated) addiction to running, her legs, her back, that gorgeous red hair of hers, forever bound in that ponytail, and finally, when she turns around to look at me because I’ve remained suspiciously silent, those lips again.