"I want you to fuck me on the hood of this car."
She goes still.
"I missed you so much. Please.”
"Evangeline.”
"Yes."
"I am in uniform pants."
I shrug.
"Take them off."
"I am at a fire scene as far as the chief is concerned."
"You are forty miles south of the fire scene. You are at a turnout south of Riggins."
“Being here reminds me of the time in the truck bed and how amazing it was. There’s nobody going to come out here- look around, we are all alone.”
She looks at me. She does not look away.
She undoes her belt.
---
I get out of the car first.
I get out of the car at the driver's side. I shut the door. I walk around to the front. The hood of the Porsche is silver and the silver is warm at the front from the engine and the silver is warm at the back from the sun, and the lip of the hood is at my hip, and the windshield is at my back when I lean against the hood.
I take the coat off.
She gets out of the car.
She shuts the door.
She walks around to the front.
She is in the dark long-sleeve undershirt and the uniform pants are open at the belt and her boots are on the gravel and her hair is dark with sweat and the sun is on her face on the side, and she walks the eight feet from the door of the car to the front of the car, and she stops a foot from me, and she puts her right hand flat on the silver of the hood beside my hip, and she puts her left hand flat on the silver of the hood at the other side of my hip, and her arms are at my arms, and her face is six inches from mine.
"Evangeline,” she growls and I can’t wait for her to take me.
She puts her mouth on mine.
The kiss is the kiss of a woman who is in love with me, and the kiss is the kiss of a woman who knows I have just commissioned a fire for her, and the kiss is the kiss of a woman who is not going to talk about it on this hood, and the kiss is hers, and the kiss is mine.
I open under it.
I open under it the way I have opened under it so many times now.
Her hands are on my hips.
Her hands push the wide-leg trousers down at the hip.
I unbutton at the waist. The trousers slide down at my thighs. I step out of one leg. I step out of the other. The trousers are on the gravel at my feet. The boots are on the gravel under the trousers. The black silk is at my hips and the black turtleneck is at my waist and the cold air is at my thighs and the silver of the hood is warm at my back, and she has not taken her mouth off mine.
She lifts me.
