Helen sighed softly against his mouth. “You always know how to make a simple evening feel like a royal banquet.”
Nic smiled, pressing his forehead to hers. “That’s because I’m having supper with a queen.”
They lingered in that soft stillness, the forest humming around them, owls stirring, leaves rustling gently overhead. She shifted into his lap, and their mouths found each other. Slow. Searching.
She traced the edge of his jaw with her fingers. He kissed her knuckles, her wrist, the delicate curve of her collarbone. She giggled when he brushed his nose against the hollow of her throat, then gasped when his lips closed over it.
The feast forgotten, they explored each other like familiar landscape rediscovered anew. Helen lay back against the quilts, pulling him with her. She unfastened the laces of her bodice, and he kissed her slow and deep as she worked at the buttons down his shirt. He took his time, brushing her skin with the backs of his fingers, watching the shiver ripple across her.
There was no hurry. The night was theirs.
He slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders, revealing the pale silk of her skin beneath. The firelight danced along her curves as he kissed his way down—tasting wine from her lips, cheese from the soft swell of her breast, honeyed butter from the line of her throat.
She responded with her whole body—moaning quietly, her hands grasping at his back, her hips rising to meet him as his hands skimmed along her thighs. He was breathless, burning, undone.
When he finally sank into her, her fingers tightened in his hair, and she whispered his name like it was the only word she remembered. Their rhythm was sweet and urgent, the fire crackling nearby like a sigh, the stars above them blurring into one glowing, infinite sky.
And when they climaxed—together—it was as if something holy passed between them, as if the grove itself bent inward to shelter the moment.
He collapsed against her, chest heaving, his body humming with pleasure and disbelief. She was beneath him, around him, her heartbeat inside his soul.
They lay tangled together, the fire crackling low, the remnants of their meal scattered, forgotten. Above them, the old pergola creaked softly in the breeze. Dolly snored at the foot of the platform, and a moth circled lazily above their heads.
Nic cradled Helen to his chest, her body warm and heavy with satisfaction. He kissed the top of her head, his hand moving in slow circles over her back, and whispered, “I never want this night to end.”
After their first rendezvous in this wonderous place, the hunger between them had only grown. The threshold they’d crossed wasn’t just physical—it had changed something unspoken. What had once been longing turned into a low, constant ache to be near one another, to feel one another, to claim stolen moments in a world that didn’t yet have a place for them.
It wasn’t just Nic’s desire that intensified. Helen, too, seemed caught in the same current, swept up by it with desperate delight. They met wherever and whenever they could—in the quiet hours of her kitchen when no one was home, in the musty costume closets after practice, in the loft of his father’s workshop, where the scent of sawdust clung to their skin for hours after. Those meetings were hurried, breathless, and always left them wanting more. They fed the fire without ever quenching it.
But here—here in the grove—time slowed. The air was warmer now, fragrant with the moss and petals of early spring.Helen’s skin, still damp with sweat, pressed against his. Her weight on his chest was like an anchor in choppy waters, and he didn’t want to move, didn’t want the world beyond their canopy of stars and soft smoke to return.
He lay back against the flattened pillows, one hand trailing along the nape of her neck, the other twisting strands of her flaxen hair around his fingers. Her breath warmed his skin in slow, steady waves.
Their campfire had softened to embers. From where he lay, he could barely see the flicker of flame, only the faint ribbons of smoke curling upward to gather beneath the beams of the old pergola. A moth danced near his foot, its gossamer wings catching the moonlight like spun silver. He flexed his toes under the quilt, gently shooing it away.
Somewhere beyond the platform, a creature rustled in the trees—drawn perhaps by the scent of their forgotten supper. The forest was alive but hushed, as if the whole world were holding its breath in reverence.
Nic closed his eyes, anchoring himself in the moment: the weight of Helen’s body, the residual heat of her skin, the fading echo of her moans still ringing in his ears. He had been with other girls before—but never like this. Never with this kind of wonder.
He dreamed of a future where their love didn’t need hiding, where they could take their time and not count it by stolen hours. He imagined a house—not just any house, but one he would build for her. A sunlit kitchen where she could sing while she cooked. A greenhouse for her hyacinths. A deep porch where they could sit barefoot on summer nights, with Dolly snoring under the rocking bench. Big windows. A fine hearth. Room for laughter, for music, for years.
Dolly let out a loud, satisfied snore from the base of the platform.
Helen stirred but didn’t lift her head. She pressed her cheek more firmly against his chest, let out a soft sigh, and whispered sleepily, “Nic?”
He hummed in response, his hand still combing lazily through her hair.
“Sing to me,” she murmured.
He opened one eye, glanced down at her nestled against him. “Now?”
“Yes.”
He gave a breathy laugh. “You know I don’t sing in front of people.”
“I’m not people,” she said, lifting her head just enough to meet his eyes. Her gaze was warm and sleepy, glowing with affection. “I’myours.”
He hesitated. “You’re going to make fun of me.”
