4 comments/ 16857 views/ 6 favorites Chelsea's Garden By: lazyways Parker was having a ho-hum day when he got the call. One minute he had been absent-mindedly doodling on a legal pad and half-watching clips from The Deadliest Catch on his computer, and the next minute a young woman with an unusual voice had his total attention. She asked for a consult -- the sooner the better -- and Parker happily acquiesced. "How did you come to hear about me?" "You were recommended to me by my parents, actually. The McCluskeys, George and Anna." The voice was bubbly yet somehow sensual, and there was a sweetness in the way she spoke. "I just bought this house and, well, calling it a fixer-upper is an understatement." Parker's clients were, more often than not, couples. Sometimes they were newlyweds; sometimes they were older husband-and-wife pairs who were looking for something a little different. The first call usually came from the wife, but there was always a kind of weariness in the voice of a married woman. And he heard her use words like "me" and "I." In conversations with potential clients, every sentence began with "we." His excitement was a testament to how long it had been since he'd been with a woman, though there was a part of him that felt genuinely optimistic about her. "Well, the first step is for me to take a look at the place. We can see what we can do with it, I can get you a quote, then we'll go from there." "Sounds great. Let me give you the address." *** Parker pulled up to a big ramshackle house on the outskirts of the city. The woman had really been too kind when she called it a fixer-upper -- the front yard was overgrown with weeds, and the building's exterior seemed to sag and heave. Everything about the place had yellowed with age. Parker sighed, slammed the door of his truck, and made his way toward the house. She must have seen him approach and opened the door before he reached the front step. She was as young and lovely as she had sounded on the phone, and the two of them stared at each other for several moments before either spoke. "Hello. You must be Parker. I'm Chelsea McCluskey," she said, offering her hand. "Hey, hello. Sorry if I'm a little late." He grasped her hand firmly and shook. "Oh, no, don't worry about it. Come on in." She pivoted on her right foot like a dancer and moved into the darkness of the hallway, and he followed. "Sorry it's so dark in here right now," Chelsea apologized as she led him through the house. "The A/C hasn't been installed yet, and it gets pretty gross if I don't close the curtains. " The air inside was thick with heat, and he was well aware of how the combination of humidity and sweat made her sundress stick to her skin. Parker could feel the warmth himself and discreetly tried to wipe away the sweat from his face as they entered the kitchen. She turned suddenly and asked, "Would you like something to drink?" "Water would be great, thanks." Parker watched Chelsea turn toward the sink to get him a glass. She was a fair woman with thick dark blonde hair and light eyes. Slight but toned, with luminous skin. Her shoulder blades moved rhythmically beneath the straps of her dress as she opened and shut the cupboard. He felt compelled to say something, anything. "This place is lovely, by the way." "Thank you. I've only lived here about a month now," she said as she turned with a full glass of ice water. She handed it to him, and he couldn't help but notice how delicate her fingers were. "Everything's finally moved in, but it doesn't feel like home yet." "You a first-time homeowner?" he asked between sips. "Yes. My grandfather died just last year and left me a heap of money." She toyed with an earlobe and looked absently out the window. "I didn't even really know what to do with it. But buying a house and finally settling down seemed like the obvious thing. The adult thing. I'm happy with it," she said, looking back at him. "Moving from apartment to apartment was getting to be exhausting." "What do you do for work?" "I'm an artist," she said and smiled as though she knew the question that would come next. "I don't mean to be rude, but...that's how you make your living?" "It is," she laughed. "I hardly believe it myself. I got lucky, I guess. I do a lot of illustrations for different publications. Lots of magazines use my work. Sometimes I do children's books, too." "I'd love to see your work." "I'll show you my etchings sometime," she said coyly. Parker must have looked surprised, because Chelsea raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Let's go look at this sad sack of a backyard, shall we?" She motioned for him to follow. "This is a great arrangement." He indicated an antique fan vase on a table they passed in the hallway, which was filled with button poms, daffodils, and alstroemeria. "Oh, aren't they?" she responded with a glance back at the bouquet, though she kept walking. "I saw them at the farmer's market and couldn't resist. I'm not usually a big fan of yellow, but this place needs a shock of color. It makes up a little bit for what you're about to see." She stopped at the door and looked at him with concern. "Ready?" "Ready, I think." With that, Chelsea threw the door open and walked out onto a concrete porch. Parker followed and took it in. But "it" wasn't much. "So. This out here, uh, it's mostly sludge. And then, as you can see, the rest of it looks a little like a prison yard." "Good lord. I see what you mean." He exhaled sharply. "Do you know how it got this way?" "I'm not responsible, if that's what you're asking. The previous owners did this. Concrete everywhere. That moss over there is just about the only green thing back here. And they had kids. Maybe the parents were military?" "This really is pretty hideous, Miss McCluskey." Parker sighed and tried to map out different solutions in his head. He knew it wouldn't be easy. He looked upward and let the sun warm his face for a second, and he felt himself relax. "Chelsea's fine. And, you're right." The two of them walked out into the middle of the backyard, which was a long stretch of concrete surrounded by a battered old wooden fence. In some places, the concrete had cracked, and something that looked like mud had oozed out. Both of them looked around as though there were more to see. "So what were you thinking?" he asked. "Well, I was going to leave it up to you." Parker was shocked at her answer, and it showed. "Or do you work better with some parameters? I just figured, you know, you were the expert and I'd trust your judgment. The work you did for my parents was wonderful. Honestly, I just want this place as green as possible." She sighed and looked thoughtful. "An herb garden would be nice, too. You know, practical but pretty." "I appreciate the freedom, actually. Herb garden is doable. Colorful is doable, too." "My parents said you were a sustainable landscaper. What does that entail?" "Sustainability is my specialty, really. I like to keep things organic. I'll probably install an eco-friendly irrigation system, something called a 'smart system.' We get a cistern or two back here to collect rainwater. Get some native plants. Use a lot of mulch. Basically what that means is you save water and ultimately money. The liberal approach is really the conservative approach, in this instance. But before all that, we get rid of most of this concrete and find out what's underneath." Chelsea smiled at this. "Sounds all right to me. What comes next?" "I'd like to poke around for a bit, take some measurements. I could probably get a few different ideas sketched out and delivered to you within the next few days." "That soon?" Chelsea's head tilted. Parker nodded. "I don't have any other projects going right now, so this one is going to have my total attention." *** Later that night, Chelsea couldn't sleep. In her dimly lit bedroom, she reflected on her day, and she thought about the landscaper. There was something unusual about Parker. He was quiet, but his silence seemed thoughtful. To look at a picture of him, to take in every single feature, one wouldn't necessarily think that he was handsome: his weathered skin, hooded blue eyes, small mouth. But his bone structure was delicate and his jawline enviable. He had a certain intensity; there was something sensual in the way he interacted with the world around him. The way he'd handled a flower in the vase, how he had turned his face up toward the sun for a moment, just to feel it on his skin. Chelsea had no doubt that any woman who met Parker would find him as attractive as she did. But maybe she was biased. Chelsea could be brazen and she could be flirtatious, but she had surprised herself when she'd told Parker that she would show him her "etchings." After all, she was his client. It seemed as if she had surprised him, too. It felt as though it had been a long time since she'd even talked to a man. Her career had always consumed most of her attention; now, with the new house, her love life was on the backburner, her sex life nonexistent. But it hadn't taken Chelsea too long to remember how intoxicating it could be just to be near someone so handsome, and how attraction could sharpen the senses to the point it was almost painful. For the first time in a long while, she relished simple things, like the way her sheets felt against her bare skin or the cool breeze that came in through her bedroom window. Chelsea rolled over to lie on her stomach and sighed. Her hand found its way below her belly. She worked her nightshirt up to her waist and lay still for a moment. Then Chelsea began to rock forward onto her fingers. She moved her hips back and forth, and she moved them from side to side. She imagined that the fingers were Parker's, and she imagined him filling her. Before long, she bit the pillow and let out a small muffled cry as she came. Sleep came blissfully fast. *** For Parker, Chelsea became the subject of a long series of vivid dreams. In the dreams, she smelled like lavender and lemon. Her skin was warm and as soft as down, her mouth wanting. She wrapped herself around him, and, as he'd hoped, she wasn't wearing anything underneath her sundress. In the dreams, he touched the wing of her cheekbone, so small beneath his hand. Parker awoke drenched in sweat each morning, hungrier than he'd ever felt. And each morning, he would try to draft a design for her garden, but the only images in his head were of her. He tried to find release in pleasuring himself, but the images stuck with him and the hunger remained. After only a few days had passed, Parker had to speak to Chelsea again. He called her in the early morning. She answered on the third ring. He got right down to it. "So, I'm a little stuck on the design. Or, honestly, I have too many design ideas," he lied. "I think it'd be better if you came with me to a nursery and told me what you liked." "Sure, when were you thinking?" "I have some free time this afternoon, but if that's too soon, then maybe this weekend or sometime next week." Parker was worried. Maybe he seemed desperate or unprofessional. He felt unhinged and hoped Chelsea was none the wiser. "Afternoon is great." He was relieved at her easy response. "Where's the nursery? Should I meet you there?" "I can pick you up," he offered. "2:30 too soon?" "2:30 is perfect. I'll see you then." *** The ride to the nursery was quiet but comfortable. Chelsea wondered what it might take to make Parker chatty, or if this was how he'd always be. The nursery was organized by climate. Parker led her past the store front, past a greenhouse surrounded by fountains and massive pots, and into a section that seemed to be comprised mostly of succulents. "Most of the plants that are native to this area or climate are here," he explained. Chelsea reached out to touch the tiny white flowers of a tall plant to her left. She had only been half listening, but tried to tune back in. "How about rosemary?" he asked. "Sage is an option, too." "Rosemary's perfect. And I like these poppies over here." "I was thinking maybe an aloe plant or two, also. One of your options for the hardscape is recycled gravel and recycled brick. 'Vintage' brick, really. When we demolish the concrete in your yard, we can turn it into gravel for a walkway." "Where do you get vintage brick? Ebay?" "I have some demolition contractor friends who end up with a ton of it. My idea was to install a fireplace in the yard and use the brick to complement your house's exterior. What do you think of bougainvillea for the fence? It has a tropical vibe but it's perfect for a summer-dry climate." "It sounds like you're doing okay in the idea department, Parker," she remarked and eyed him suspiciously. "Well, it's good to have feedback, you know? Most of my clients have an idea of what they want. Some of them even come to me with their own designs, and I just execute them." Parker seemed distracted by a massive potted plant to his left. "So what made you decide to become a landscaper?" "It wasn't my first career, actually," he said, turning his attention back to her. He leaned against the fence behind them. "I was a psychiatrist. But when I was growing up, my mom had this beautiful, lush garden and I would help her tend to it. I was good at it, and I really loved it. It's relaxing to me, meditative even, once I'm in a rhythm. Everything about landscaping feels that way to me, from design to execution. When psychiatry didn't work out, it seemed like the natural thing. The logical choice." Chelsea reeled. She wasn't sure she'd ever heard him talk so much at once. "Psychiatry? What about it didn't work out for you? It's a little more lucrative, right? Cushy." "Oh, yeah, undeniably. But I left for the obvious reasons. It just became too much for me. I got too involved. I never was good at keeping a cool distance. And that's the number one thing you need to be a psychiatrist, it's even more essential than compassion." "And you're happy with your decision?" "It's one of the best I've ever made." Parker stopped to look at a tiny tree in a squat planter, then looked up at Chelsea thoughtfully. "So you're an artist. Do you have an artist's temperament?" "Yes and no," she laughed. "I'm probably a little more lucid than the stereotype might suggest. I'm rational and self-aware. I don't play with crystals or believe in horoscopes. But I am prone to insomnia and anxiety. Nothing out of the ordinary, though." Chelsea smirked. "Do you still find that you psychoanalyze the people you meet? Is that way of thinking ingrained at this point?" "Well, sometimes," he responded sheepishly. I only practiced a few years, but it stays with you. Plus, I always felt I was a little more perceptive than most. What I'm trying to say is that sometimes I just can't help it." "What have you deduced about me?" "You're kind. You're spontaneous and unafraid but you seem to have it together. Difficult to read, though, but I wouldn't go so far as to say aloof. I mean, if you want me to get Freudian with you or something, that takes time. I'll have to get to know you a little better." "Oh, no thanks, that'll do," Chelsea laughed. "How'd I do?" "Sounds about right. It's funny that you think I'm difficult to read, because I thought the same thing about you. Would you say you're hard to get to know?" "Maybe. It just takes time." He paused and took one last long look around him. "I think I'm set, idea-wise. You ready to go?" "Sure." The two left the nursery by way of a narrow flagstone path, Chelsea following closely behind Parker. They both caught the look of a nursery employee who checked out Chelsea as they passed. Parker sauntered up to the passenger side of his truck and opened the door for her. "Hey, I need to make a quick stop at the gas station, is that okay?" "Not a problem. I don't have anywhere I need to be today." Chelsea wondered whether she sounded boring or too available, but she wanted to let him know that she didn't mind spending time with him. She tried not to think about it and toyed with the radio dial instead. When they came to their first red light, Parker made a quick stop, and something slid out from underneath Chelsea's car seat. She studied it for a moment. A ring box. She furrowed her brow and looked to Parker. He was facing straight ahead, concentrating on traffic; he hadn't noticed. She shifted in her seat, casually stretching one foot to cover the box. At the gas station, Parker went inside to buy a cup of coffee. Chelsea watched him until he was inside and hurriedly reached for the ring box. When she opened it, her worst fears were confirmed: it was a man's wedding band. Chelsea was deflated, and she was upset at herself for feeling as disappointed as she did. It wasn't as if they were courting, but she would have expected him to say something. When Parker returned to the car, he handed her a tiny chocolate bar. She forced a smile almost all the way home. When Parker pulled into the driveway, Chelsea found herself asking him to stay. "Do you want to come in for a second? Get something to drink before you hit the road?" She wasn't sure what she was hoping to accomplish. Even if he turned out to be unhappily married or just plain willing to cheat, an affair wasn't quite her style. She did know that, despite the ring, she wanted to maximize her time with him. *** "What would you like to drink?" she asked Parker as they entered her kitchen. "Would asking for a glass of wine be pushing it?" Chelsea paused, and Parker noticed her hesitance. "Of course not," she responded after a few moments. He worried that he'd overstepped his bounds. He didn't want to push too hard. "Red or white?" "Whatever you've got." Parker watched as Chelsea pulled herself up and into the corner where the sink and countertop met. She sat there for a moment as if to get comfortable, then opened the cupboard and reached for the highest shelf, which was apparently where she kept her wineglasses. "You know, you could just ask me to get it for you." "Oh. I'm just so used to doing it, I didn't even think of asking," she explained, looking embarrassed. "Will you get it for me then, please?" Parker moved toward the cupboard and reached for two glasses. As he reached, he brushed her knees and felt himself flush with heat at their sudden closeness. He turned to her and stared as he set the glasses down. Chelsea reddened, and Parker couldn't help wonder whether he imagined that her breathing had quickened. They watched each other for what seemed like hours. The waiting was endless, and despite his best efforts, Parker couldn't think. So he acted instead. Parker was kissing Chelsea before either seemed aware of it, their minds one step behind their bodies. Then he was thinking again and everything was perfectly clear, no detail went unnoticed. Her one small hand was at his jaw, the other hand tugging at his hair. He'd moved between her legs, so close he could feel her body heat through her dress. And she was radiating unimaginable heat; she hummed with it. He felt the pollen in her hair from the nursery, the arc of her waistline. He wondered whether she could feel his hard-on, and he wondered whether he could move his hand between her legs. It was more than his dreams, better. And in an instant, it was over. Chelsea had pulled back, and her hand was against his chest. "We shouldn't," she feebly explained. "What happened? What do you mean?" Parker's heart and hard-on both ached at this sudden turn. Something was wrong, but there was no way to divine what this might be. Chelsea jumped off the counter and looked distraught. "Uh, I think we both know why we shouldn't." A look of determination replaced her look of distress. But Parker was more confused than ever. Chelsea's Garden "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." He searched her face, still awkwardly standing by the sink. She wouldn't meet his gaze. He realized that he was waiting for her to change her mind, as though she might suddenly give him the go-ahead. He decided to get moving. "I'll let myself out," he said as he backed out of the kitchen. He took one last look at Chelsea, who remained mute. He kept walking. As he opened the front door, he shouted, "I'll see you Monday," as though it was a question and not a statement. *** The days after the visit to the nursery with Chelsea were interminable for Parker. Torturous. There had been the awkward approval of his design he had emailed her, the stilted phone conversation that ensued. He had had a week to prepare for the job, and then a week to do the job. During that week of work, he spent the majority of his time with his crew in the backyard. Often she wasn't home, and if she was, she stayed inside the house. He couldn't figure it out. Was it neuroses? It certainly wasn't that she was uninterested, of that much he was sure. Some days he would stop what he was doing and stare into her windows as though he could see her, or as though he could persuade her to come outside that way. But the glare of the sun against the glass made it impossible to see anything but his reflection. *** Parker and his workers had almost finished the job. It was a Thursday night, and his team was due to be done by the end of Friday day. Chelsea was at home and restless, her insomnia was worse than ever. After an hour of sleeplessness, she clamored out of bed and into her robe. She sat at the edge of her bed weighing her options. She could read, she could paint, she could watch television. But the idea of doing any of these things made her feel lonelier, and the heat of the day lingered inside the house. The bedroom stifled her. Chelsea wandered out into the garden and lay down on her new vintage-brick patio. The cool brick against her skin and the white noise of crickets chirping calmed her. She closed her eyes and let herself relax. She thought it probably wouldn't be so bad if she fell asleep out there. After several minutes, Chelsea became aware of a sloshing sound. She lifted herself up and moved her hair out of her eyes. The sound's origin seemed to be the corner of the yard. Chelsea stood and fumbled for the switch to the outdoor lights, then crept into the garden. The soil was cool under her feet, but she realized the ground became damper as she approached the middle of the garden. Then the sloshing became a gurgling, and she understood that the cistern must have been leaking. Chelsea wondered about her next move. The water was soaking the soil and nearby plants, and she was concerned about how much damage it could do. She wanted to wait until morning to deal with the situation, but there was the niggling feeling that the leak would destroy half of her garden by then, which was a thought that panicked her. She knew that she should call Parker. She even wanted to call Parker, but she was embarrassed to. It would be so obvious if she did. Chelsea made a decision. She would go inside to check the time. As she walked, she reasoned. If it were any later than 11PM, she would wait it out. But if it still seemed early enough, she'd have to call. She reached the living room and picked her cell up off the table. To her dismay, it read 10:30PM. She steeled herself for the call, and she dialed. "Chelsea?" Parker sounded bewildered. "Hi, Parker." "Hey, what's going on? What's wrong?" "I'm sorry to call so late, but I think I may have an emergency situation on my hands. I think the cistern cracked, and everything in the backyard is getting soaked. What should I do?" There was a pause on the other end of the line. Chelsea held her breath. "I'll be right there." *** Parker knew that he didn't have to go out to her house in the middle of the night. He told himself it was her plants that were at stake. He was concerned about the plants. Chelsea answered the door wearing a thin white sweater and denim shorts. She looked thrown together, as though she'd been in bed and haphazardly gotten ready in the few minutes it took him to get from his place to hers. She was quiet as she ushered him in, and it seemed to him there was something somber about his visit. He found himself wondering whether he'd ever see her again after this night. They continued their silent march out into the yard. The outside lights haloed her head; her hair was tousled, and she looked tired. Even standing next to her, he missed her. She finally spoke. "I really am sorry to bother you so late. But feel it, over here. And it gets even muddier by the cistern." Parker smiled at her for a brief moment, then came to and followed her gaze. He kneeled close to the cistern and felt the soil. "Yeah, it's definitely the cistern," he commented. "Should be an easy fix." Parker tried to rise but his shoe was stuck in the mud. He slipped and fell onto his hands and knees. Chelsea laughed despite herself. "Oh! Are you all right?" Parker didn't respond, and she crouched down next to him. "Hey, you okay? You need any help?" Finally, he turned to look at her. His face was mock serious. "I can't believe you laughed." Chelsea stared blankly at him for a moment, but then he noticed the slow smile. At that, Parker laughed and pushed Chelsea, who then lost her balance and fell into the mud herself. "And I can't believe you pushed me. I'm wearing white, Parker." Parker didn't have anything to say to this. He grabbed the front of her sweater and pulled her toward him. He could smell the earthiness of the mud on her clothes, and there was the soft scent of soap and toothpaste, a little bit of sandalwood and musk. He kissed her and bit her lip. She kissed back and sighed into his mouth. Again, Chelsea pulled away. They both sat on their haunches, watching each other for a few moments. Chelsea looked torn, and Parker had had it. "Chelsea, what's happening?" He waited. No response from Chelsea, not even eye contact. He decided to try being more specific. His tone softened. "Why do you start and stop?" "I found your wedding ring, Parker," she replied solemnly and finally let her eyes meet his. And it all made sense to him. "I keep meaning to get rid of that thing," Parker laughed. "Pawn it, throw it in a dumpster. Cash for gold, maybe." "What?" Chelsea was colorless. She didn't seem to think it was as funny as Parker did. "I'm divorced. I have been for a few years. When I left my old practice, she left me. I found the ring a few weeks ago and threw it in the truck, thinking I'd do something with it. Forgot I even put it there." Chelsea looked sheepish. "Well, what if you're just kind of sleazy and don't wear your ring on the job?" "Look at my hands. I'm outside all the time, even on the weekends when I'm working on my own garden. Don't you think I'd have a little bit of a tan line?" Parker showed her his hands, which had no discernible tan lines, only a little mud caked on his palms. She sighed. "I'm an idiot." "It's okay. I'm an idiot, too. I never should have left it there. And I should have told you I was divorced. But there's a certain stigma attached to that, isn't there? I was worried, I wanted to wait." He watched her face soften, but she said nothing. He sat with her in silence. Both seemed tangibly uncomfortable, and Parker felt paralyzed. "Maybe I should go," he blurted. He hoped that she would tell him not to. "No, don't." Chelsea grabbed his arm. "I mean, stay. Please." "Are you sure this time?" Parker leveled his gaze at her. "I think so." She smirked. "I can't make any promises." Without blinking, Parker grasped Chelsea's chin, his palm still sticky with mud. She gasped and gave him a horrified look, reached down into the mud with both hands, then smeared it across his neck and chest. Parker frowned at this and shook his head. "That was so stupid," he remarked coolly. He seized her sweater at the collar and tore it down the middle. The shock on Chelsea's face was genuine, but Parker ignored it and instead chose to drink in the sight of her rosy, perfect breasts. She had a surprise of her own for him: she sprang forward and tackled him, pushing him down onto his back and into the mud. Her breasts swayed over him for a blissful moment, and everything seemed to slow down. But then her hands were at the collar of his t-shirt. Parker tried to figure out what she was doing. "It won't rip," she admitted and let her arms fall to her sides. "It's a really nice cotton blend," he explained, sounding disappointed. He gripped her waist with both hands, pulled her to him, and in one fluid motion flipped her on her back and straddled her. He ran his fingers through her hair and roughly pulled it away from her face, kissing the exposed temple. He watched her eyes close and bit her jaw. Parker straightened up and let his jacket fall to the ground next to him, then pulled his shirt up and over his head. Chelsea took over from there, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans. Her hands struggled to bring them down over his hips, but it was no use. Parker stood up, leaving Chelsea breathless on her back. His jeans and boxers fell to the ground, and he kicked them off along with his shoes and socks. As he began to sink back down to the ground, Chelsea stopped him. "Wait," she commanded. She kneeled in front of him. She was a woman with a purpose. But whatever that purpose was, she seemed distracted, and Parker realized that she was staring at his cock. She looked up at him, suddenly red. Her gaze drifted back down, and she lifted her palms to his thighs and stroked the fine hairs there. Her touch made him shiver, and he let his eyes close. It was then Parker felt Chelsea's mouth on him, her tongue teasing the tip of his cock. He exhaled sharply and opened his eyes. His hands instinctively went to her hair, and he tightened his grip around a hank of it. She opened her mouth wider and took in the head. At this, Parker began to pump his cock forward into Chelsea's wet mouth. She hummed around him, and he trembled. The nighttime humidity was tangible, and it felt like a warm mouth covering all of him. They both moved slowly at first. Her hands roamed every bit of nearby skin: to the base of his member, his balls, his stomach. She traced mysterious patterns along his inner thigh. Then she began to speed up her efforts, focusing all of her attention on his cock, which was throbbing at this point. He wasn't sure when, but at some point he forgot himself and started to thrust wildly in and out of her mouth. Despite the sudden onslaught, Chelsea's tongue kept up and swept semi-circles underneath the head of his cock. Somehow Parker remembered himself and mustered the strength to stop. He didn't want to come just yet, and he felt Chelsea probably didn't want that either. He pulled out and touched Chelsea's shoulder. She looked up at him and tilted her head questioningly. Parker reached down to her, and as she took his hand, he helped her up. He brought her in close to kiss her. His fingers went to the waistband of her shorts, which he unbuttoned and let fall to the ground. Chelsea wasn't wearing panties, and she smirked at him. Parker lifted Chelsea up, his fingers digging into her ass. He pushed her up against the side of the cistern and moved one hand down to her slit. She was soaked, and she moaned as he touched her. She lifted her leg and wrapped it around his hip. Parker took this as his cue. The head of his cock found her opening, felt the wetness there. It took all his willpower not to impale her -- she was so warm, tight, inviting. He teased her first, letting just the head push its way in. He pulled out and rubbed the tip against her clitoris. This prompted another moan from Chelsea. He pushed the tip back inside her and stopped moving altogether. "Are you sure you're sure this time?" he asked with mock seriousness. "Shut up and fuck me," she laughed weakly. Parker laughed with her for a moment but was breathless as he thrust into her. His first thrust was so powerful that it lifted her off the ground and made her cry out. Chelsea grabbed the base of Parker's neck and brought her face close to his. She placed her mouth over a drop of sweat on his cheek and sucked, her hair falling around him and cooling his skin. He grunted and rocked into her. Parker tried to keep the rhythm of his thrusting deep and slow but his arousal got the best of him. Chelsea seemed to urge him to go faster as well: she dug the back of her heel into his ass and used a free hand to latch on to his other ass cheek, pulling his length into her further. Parker lost himself to the cadence of their bodies' movements and the pulse of heat between them. Chelsea's breath quickened, and her grip on his ass tightened. "I'm going to come," she announced. "Don't stop." "Why would I do that?" he responded. "Just had to make sure," she explained breathlessly, then kissed him. It was then that Chelsea shuddered and collapsed into Parker. He felt her pussy clench around him, and this sent him over the edge. He drove into her once more as he came and fell against her. "So glad I don't have neighbors close by," Chelsea murmured into his shoulder. They were slick with sweat and mud, and Parker could feel his muscles straining. "You do have a bed in there somewhere, don't you?" he asked, pointing at her house. "Oh yeah. Why don't we find it?" Parker pulled himself away from Chelsea and stared at her for a moment. She frowned at him. "What's wrong?" "I can look at you, can't I?" "Oh, sure." She smiled, and Parker began to scoop up their things. "Sorry about this." Parker held up what was once Chelsea's white sweater. It now looked more like a muddied rag. "Oh well. It was old anyway. And I guess it was worth it. Come on," she said and beckoned him to follow her. Chelsea led Parker through the garden and into the house. She walked up to the bedroom door, and he opened it for her. She stared at her bed for a moment, then looked back at Parker. "How about we hit the shower first?" The bathroom was roomy and luxe. It almost felt as big as her bedroom. The interior was gold and cream, and there was a large shower with a tile seat. Chelsea took his hand and walked him into the shower and shut the glass door behind them. She turned the knob and the water came out instantly hot. She swiveled to face him and let him watch as the water hit her face and breasts. Parker closed the space between them and kissed Chelsea, placing his hands at the dip of her waist. They continued their slow kissing under the water until Parker shut the water off and lifted Chelsea onto the tile seat. He kneeled in front of her and forced her legs open, bringing his fingers to her pussy and pressing his thumb against her clit. Chelsea gasped, and he massaged her mound and her outer lips. He then traced lazy circles around her clit. Her breathing became ragged, and her hips bucked against his hand. Parker took his free hand and licked his middle finger, then drove this into Chelsea's opening without warning, keeping it motionless inside her. Chelsea gasped again and moved her hips forward, rocking against him. She fucked his hands with a slow, steady rhythm. "More," she rasped, and Parker obliged and pushed a second finger into her, filling her. He began to let his fingers match her thrusts, and in only a few seconds, Chelsea was crying out. He continued to pump his fingers into her as she rode out her orgasm. Finally, she fell against the side of the shower and sighed. Parker let his fingers slide out of her and licked them as she watched. "Pervert," she laughed. "That's a fine way to thank me," he retorted. "Sorry. I mean, thank you." Chelsea paused and looked around, as if suddenly realizing where she was. "Do you think we're clean enough now?" "I don't think 'clean' is the right word for us, but sure." She began to rise from the seat, but Parker stopped her. "Let me be a man for a second." He placed one hand under her ass and wrapped the other around her back, then lifted and carried her to the bathroom sink. The towels hung from a rack on the wall. Parker brought one to Chelsea and started to dry her hair with it, then caressed the rest of her skin with it, starting at her shoulders -- taking special attention to her breasts, which glowed even under the fluorescent light -- then down all the way to her toes. He took the towel and dried his own hair with it, then wrapped it around Chelsea and lifted her again. Parker dropped Chelsea on the bed, then fell next to her and brought the covers over the both of them. They watched each other for what seemed like an eternity. "I think this is the part where we confess things to each other," said Chelsea, finally interrupting the silence. "What's your confession?" he asked as he touched her face, lightly stroking her jaw. "That I never thought this would happen, but that I wished it would. That I thought about it constantly." Even in the dimly lit room, Parker could see her redden. "Hey, that's my confession." Chelsea gave him a skeptical look. He smiled back at her. "Really, though. I dreamed about this. Every night since I met you." "I'm glad you're not married." "Me too. And you're sure you don't have a husband or boyfriend stashed somewhere around here?" "Pretty confident I don't." "Wait," he said sleepily. "What about the cistern?" "Screw the cistern." Parker laughed at this and pulled Chelsea closer to him and gave her a squeeze. "Fine by me." He paused. "You know, you never did show me your etchings," he said sleepily. "You're right. But I think maybe we showed each other something a little more interesting than that." Parker couldn't have agreed more.