Love in the Afternoon
By DesDownUnder
© Des Rutherford 2009

"What a mess!"

The moment he said it I knew he wasn't the one. How could he say that, after we had shared such joy?

"I hate the mess," he said with a smile that seemed reluctant.

How could that mouth with its curling full lips utter such contempt for the results of our pleasure?

"Why does it have to be so messy?" He looked down as he spoke.

His eyes scanned the cloth between us and I had to admit our enthusiasm had made us careless.

"We should have been more careful," he said, looking at me for confirmation, pleading with his eyes for my agreement with his judgement on the aftermath of our indulgence.

Not receiving my consent, he half closed his eyelids with their long lashes in an, oh so dreamy state, that I was tempted to cast aside my reservation, I almost caved in and agreed. It was his long lashes rising and falling over the dark sea in his eyes that had convinced me to join him, but now sated, I resisted their seduction. I couldn't join him in condemning the mess, I delighted in it, and it revealed to me how much we had enjoyed our escapade.

"Yuck," he said as he poked at the messy bits on the once white, but now stained material.

"I suppose we didn't need to fly at it with such gusto," I said, but I didn't really mean it.

His head swung up, his eye lashes parted wide to allow his eyes to seek mine.

"Is that what happened? Gusto? I suppose you are right," he said and his head moved forward as he surveyed what he considered was the mess between us.

I watched as he fingered the remnants, watched as he looked at them and then leaned forward to lick them off that finger, that delightful finger which only a few moments before had assisted him in his wholesale attack to achieve his pleasure. In truth it was my pleasure too, because I had copied every movement he had made. I had kept abreast of every tantalising spread of his fingers as they weaved and scurried, lest any delay would cool our objective. I wanted to experience and share everything he consumed.

His finger slid from between his lips. I looked at the glistening finger; it was perfectly formed and like all his fingers covered in olive hued skin, with nary a blemish nor crease in sight. We were both young enough to be beyond such worries.

He looked quizzically at the finger he had just moistened between his lips.
My eyes followed the finger as it once again dipped into the 'mess' and then with a cheeky grin he lifted that tasty morsel towards me. Who could resist the grin, the charm, the invitation to indulge him? My lips went where his had just been and wrapped themselves around his finger.

"Cleaning up the mess is so much fun," he said and at once I felt heartened.
Our eyes searched each other's and found a declaration of unending adoration.

"Shall we do it again?" he asked.
"Oh yes," I replied.

He lifted his hand off the tablecloth and waved at the waiter. "Could we have another serve of hot scones, jam and cream please?"

Then he turned to me and said, "I could never fall in love with a man who didn't love Devonshire Tea in the afternoon," and I knew he was the one for me.

For those who are uncouth in the ways of elegant afternoon teas,
a serve of hot scones (biscuits in the US, I believe), with jam and cream is called Devonshire Tea.
Usually served with a pot of tea, but these days freshly brewed coffee is somewhat acceptable.