Guess Who - Part 1 - (sequel to A Night with the most wanted man)

“Guess who!”

A joyful and vibrant whisper trying to hide its natural voluptuousness ran in my ear like water dripping off an icicle in the spring meltdown. I didn’t want to guess who. I was almost afraid of the answer. And yet, the clues couldn’t have been clearer to my senses to interpret the right answer for this pop-quiz.

  

 “It can’t be who I think it is.”

He pressed his body against mine, squeezed his hands on my eyes and I felt his lips brushing the edge of my ear.

“What if it is?”

“Then, let me savour the uncertainty a little longer.”

Ridiculously long and sensual fingers pressed my eyes shot, capturing me into the most blissful ignorance, deeply sensual voice flowing in my ear – I could almost see the treacherous smile snaking itself on the corner of his lips – the warmth of his breath tickling my cheek and neck, the way his upper body instantly pressed against mine, and it seemed that the chair on which I was sitting offered almost no barrier against his ardour. I imagined myself, had I been standing, and an overwhelming sensation of glorious carnal delight took me over. 

In the concrete of the reality, I contented myself of flushing red. I imagined a nice vibrant shade of it, like the silky tone of the rouge worn by the actress in the latest Revlon add, glowing with even more intensity under the spotlights. 

“Good morning Tom.”

He chuckled, released me, and smacked a wet kiss on my cheek, like a little boy would, but I found myself still being unable to open my eyes, not just yet.  I wanted to taste the darkness in which he had plunged me, so as to better delight myself of the light he would blind me with as soon as he would be seated in front of me, at the small table of the even smaller café in which he found me.

  

I swallowed and opened my eyes. I prayed I would have the strength to look him in the eyes without either getting a huge insanely absurd comment gush out of my mouth, or, faint on the floor, or drop my tea on my laptop, or do anything embarrassing of the sort. My heart was already pounding so hard I thought I wouldn’t be able to hear him.

  

The soft morning light that seemed to have such horrendous difficulties entering the window of the small pub  ̶  because in fact, as much as I wanted to call this a café, it was really one of those antique and authentic English pubs  ̶  well, that shy morning light was now completely blinding me; it shone down upon him and gave him a sort of magic impossible to deny.  The fairness of his skin could’ve been compared to the purest snow and I just loved how his cheekbones seemed soft and sculpted to perfection. His new hairstyle, an intricate mix of gold and amber, highlighted by deep threads of shining rust reminded me of the soft ocean ripples bathed by the setting sun, and an powerful image of a BBC documentary imposed itself in my mind, and I couldn’t stop but smile; he was the sea I had chased after for so many years. His whole being was in fact like the ocean; a work of art to which regular words failed miserably at giving rightful justice.

He randomly took the menu under his hands and glanced over the choices. I stopped typing, put my shyness in the desktop’s trash bin and openly installed myself to admire his new looks. 

“Tom, can you stop being outrageously beautiful once in a while?”

He peeked over the card, raised his right eyebrow, his eyes seemed to gleam even more, smiled of his typical and undeniably honest “I’m sorry” and returned his attention to study the menu’s extravagant choices. Would he take an Earl Grey tea or a green one? “And would my good sir consider giving the breakfast special a curious attention, or content himself with scones and a fruit salad?” I imagined the waiter’s voice in my head, trying to contain himself, upon realizing who his “Good Sir” was on this fine morning. 

But the server liked to give his new arriving clients a moment to settle down and enjoy the seat and the sight before he would appear out of the dark corner behind the counter to enquire upon their desire. He wouldn’t come just yet. I had some time to delight myself, and myself alone, of his presence.

He was growing a goatee around his mouth a most charming stylized line on the chin sides. I presumed it was for either the current or some upcoming project. Matter of fact was the extremely attractive end result it gave him, icing him with a certain maturity which had drastically powerful effects on me. I was already aroused by his surprising visit, but his unspeakable beauty was like a fire heated sword straight through my heart. 

“You look stylish, with that.” I traced his beard around my lips.

He smiled and put the menu down. 

Cue for the server to come inquire about the Good Sir’s desires upon this most charming morning.

I guessed half right. Fruits and tea. I renewed mine. 

“I am playing William Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth for a BBC production. You’d love the set! It’s a shame you have this other contract at the moment, it’s really all that you love! Knights, armors, mud, rain, battles.”

I smiled over my tea. I wouldn’t been able to keep a straight face, had I seen this man in armour, muddy and covered in fake blood, riding on a white horse, out of a mature version of a Disney fairy tale.

  

“How did you find me?” 

The question sprung out of me, almost as if his presence hurt me more than it delighted me. I regretted it before I could look up into his intensely blue eyes again. I felt terrible for having asked that and I’m sure my cheeks flushed into yet another exotically vivid shade of red.

Actors are not supposed to chase their fans, even less their fan-girls and even less the ones who have admittedly a serious fondness of them. I was grateful for that side distraction we had a few months before and I cherished the memories every minute of every day and night ever since, but I had grown into that idealistic dream where I was no more than a casual recreation on his busy agenda page filled with autograph schedules, countless interviews and whatever filled the rest of his perfectly stop-clock counted time, when he was not de facto on stage shooting.

  

He took a smart phone out of his trousers’ pocket and pressed a few keys.

“You changed your Facebook status about 47 minutes ago, using the location application. It wasn’t too hard after that.”

Triumphant smile. Triumphant bite into a kiwi quarter with a long and explicit chew on it. I nearly choked on my tea again. Like some months ago. Maybe I should quit tea all in all.

  

I tried to think. But as he was such a distracting enchantment! Any other man could have been sitting there, in the same clothes he was wearing, doing the same thing as he was doing, and yet, any other man wouldn’t have that incredibly unbearable intense power over me. 

“Why do you keep running away, though?” His question stroke me like a sniper’s bullet – hitting the bull’s eye of my heart.

  

“Because loving you is a burden far too glorious for my mortal soul.”

Because it is easier to love a memory, an abstract, a public figure shown in abundance on social platforms.

  

He smiled, chuckled and putting a hand on his cheek, sort of leaned into a more comfortable position, locking his eyes on me. And he looked at me, with an almost fierce and proud glow in his eyes. I wished he was a product of my imagination, but the laws of physics had a very annoying tendency in their ability to prove me wrong. The outside morning sun was using every trick in the book to put him into even more value. His deep blue sea jacket was like a piece of science fiction sent back in time in the background of the café who was definitely the remains of two centuries ago; a real authentic English pub which had its upstairs floor converted to bathrooms, but which really were rooms to be rented a mere two hundred years ago, a few pennies per bed, per night. The stone walls which were put together and held together with the means of “back then”, the old wooden beams solidly securing the upper floors above our heads, the random wall chandeliers, still used in the evenings, most of the furniture too, was old; only the bar was maybe less than century old new and of course the kitchen which was renewed upon the re-opening of the pub. 

Tom, on the other hand, was an artifact from the very distant future thrown back in time; so modern, so well cut, so vibrant in the old dusty ambiance of the place. He seemed altogether misfit and yet as if part of the landscape. 

 

I didn’t realize he had finished his fruit salad and my tea was getting cold but the fascination brought by the conclusion that his silences were as efficient as spoken words distracted me.  I couldn’t tell if he spoke of something else after that last sentence which was still wildly running over and over in my mind.

My eyes were still captivated by the softness of his neck and how the V cut of his – I presumed – white T-Shirt was just enough to enflame imaginations, and how odd it was for a man to inspire what I thought only women could inspire to men. 

“You care for stroll on the English country side? I have a horse at our disposition for the day.”

I nearly dropped my cup on the floor, as all of a sudden, my fingers holding it, seemed to have lost their ability to do such a simple task as to squeeze the handle hard and long enough to give me the required seconds to put it gently back in the saucer. 

“Why, of all the days of the year where you could have found me, have you picked that one day where I am wearing a skirt? And on top of it, to invite me for a horse ride!”

He rose his shoulders in that adorable “I don’t know” motion which melted me on the spot.

 

“I have a fear of heights. And horses are pretty high.”

  

“I’ll be sitting right behind you.”

  

So there was no way out of this, wasn’t there.

  

“It is highly enjoyable, I can assure you! You will love it!”

  

Oh that terribly convincing smile of his! 

He knew I was sold for when he assertively put his arm around my waist and guided me to his parked rental car and I was walking a little faster than he was.

Naturally, by habit, I walked toward the right hand side of the car, and only when I got to the door did I realize it was an English car, with the driver’s seat on this side.

“I wasn’t aware you got your driving license in these last three months.” He joked as he was putting away my laptop’s bag in the trunk of the car. 

I felt like a complete idiot. Voila. Something randomly stupid had to happen. Why couldn’t I be just normal in his presence for once?

  

He came from the opposite side, going around the car to meet me in the front. I wanted to look at him but all I could manage was to look at that insanely deep V cut; the delicate and yet masculine neck emerging from it resembled a white swan emerging from a sun bathed glistening splash of white foam. He was the sea, he was the merman, he was the tempest wrecking my ship in the storm of the feelings he was brewing above me.

“This is the power over me / I'm rendered helpless / You've got me on my knees / You have the power over me / Nothing is certain / I wait for recovery” (1)

I snuck as best as I could between his impressive body and the car’s nose to slide with as much agility as I could manage to get to the door’s handle.

He crossed his arms on the car’s rooftop and smiled at me.

“You sure are more tensed than I am!” 

Tom 1 – Me 0. 

I burst into laughter. 

He opened his door and I tried to open mine. 

Even his driving was charming! So focused and cautious, the little habits kicked in like breathing; seatbelts: his, mine, the radio, pulling out of the parking area, getting on the road, slowly driving out of the village, accelerating on the … what was considered a high way I presumed between two villages, slowing down before the expected curves where he turned to get to his mysterious location. 

I remained in silence, not knowing how to even start a conversation, and when I nearly would have found a topic, I rather stood in that comfortable silence in which we were. I remembered that night on the roof under the stars; silence was the best thing we said to each other. Just being near him, in his arms, in his presence, was enough; words were unnecessary weights which ruined the lightness of the moment.

I smiled.

“So… euhm… where is Asgard?” I asked, that night. And it all began there and then.

I wondered if things would have happened differently hadn’t I lost that SD card, or hadn’t I accepted his invitation, or hadn’t I asked that question or … 

The English country side gently past us by, unfolding into always the same bigger picture and yet constantly changing details; infinite green grass valleys sprinkled with a few cows or herds of drowsy sheeps here and there, some patches of wild flowers, mostly white daisies, a few short old wooden fences keeping limits, I thought, more for the visual entertainment rather than real utility purpose. 

“Tom…” I started and I lost my thought. 

The way the sun was playing in the remains of the morning dew on the grass was as if we were driving through a living emerald.

“Have you ever…”I continued, turning to face him. 

He answered my unfinished question, but not with spoken words.

His lips entered into the most delicious collision against mine and time stopped. We were 3 months ago on a rooftop under the stars; we were in a car on the English county side 3 months later  ̶  time had lost its powerful meaning. What had a meaningful significance was the way his beard tickled me, what had substantial importance was the trembling of my soul as his hand slid on the side of my chin to pull me closer as he took his first mouthful of the day. And I realized how much more I had missed him than what I was ready to admit it to myself and I smiled through his avidly ferocious kissing. His art of skilfully shutting me up remained as efficient and as delightfully entertaining – maybe even more so today with its unquestionable reality, versus the slowly fading memories and dreams that still haunted me, some nights, sharper than others. 

I vaguely heard the cliquey sound of the seatbelt’s release, both his and mine, at a small interval, and I was transported with unspeakable joy when he didn’t mind throwing himself over at me. His hand in the same exact spot as before; one finger on each side of my ear, the pinkie sliding down my  neck, the thumb rubbing my skin softly as his tongue was lost in a senselessly passionate waltz with mine. 

He pulled me closer. I dared touch his cheek and the contact of his skin under my hand was like a blind man seeing the light. I was floating in a heavenly bliss of delight and couldn’t care less how breathless I was becoming. 

“I missed you.” I managed to whisper to his V, pulling back for a moment.

“I have guessed that.” He replied, sprinkling his words with a storm of shallow kisses.

A shiver ran through my whole body as he got back to business as usual for the following most delicious five minutes of my last … let’s say a little over 90 days. 

His way of serving himself, while guilefully stopping my thinking process, was among those pesky and yet adorably annoying things he had an expertise at doing and which I missed so much! I felt as if I was a kid back in summer camp with my best friend, up to no good, playing tricks and pranks. I loved how strong and deep his desire had obviously grown since the last time, or was it mine? I couldn’t wait to finish one kiss to start the next one… or was it him? I had missed the taste of his tongue, the smoothness of his lips… the motion of his lascivious fury. 

Part 2 –

We passed through a last little village before the seemingly endless road imposed it’s sensual soft curve in front of us. 

“Are you taking me all the way up to Scotland?” I teased.

“Maybe.” He had a smug smile.

  

I tried to focus my attention on the road, but my heart was imitating a charging cavalry rushing down an appreciably inclined hill at full speed, and Tom was a man full of surprises. Just as I was trying to remember in which part of England we were by now, he simply took a turn left, as if he had done this path a thousand times, and soon enough, he pulled off on the side of a rather imposing stable’s red brick wall. 

An adorable old man, rather short and strong, came out, holding an imposing tall and strong chocolate brown horse by the bridle. 

“Heaven have mercy! You want me to … get on that thing’s back? Are you serious?”

 

I was more petrified with fear than jumping thrilled with excitement. 

He leaned over, smacked a quick kiss on my cheek and a dropped a reassuring whisper in my ear.  

“I’ll be right behind you!” 

And with that said every possible fear was simply and absolutely dissolved, evaporated into thin air, just as the very last remains of the early morning’s mist, killed by the powerful golden arrows the sun torpedoed in the heart of the weakening bunch of clouds.

The horse, a healthy stallion going by the oddly circumstantial name of Henry, looked me straight in the eye as I was facing him by the left side, trying to make a good first impression. Inside of me, I was trembling with apprehension, but on the outside, I tried my best to approach a steady reassuring hand to his nose, which I left hovering above his nostrils a good moment so he could sniff me and make my acquaintance, giving him the right to either accept me or refuse me. 

I nearly jumped when he pushed his nose into my palm and a little squeal of surprise escaped me. 

“Do all blokes impress you this dramatically?” Tom asked teasing, observing me, holding the bridle with an assured hand, the other one steadily caressing the horse’s neck. 

I couldn’t stop the laughter which burst out of my lips faster than a formula one car starting up and I grimaced back at him. 

“So… how do you expect me to … get on his back?” I asked, half consciously putting all my weight on my feet, hoping that roots would miraculously grow to keep attached to the ground.

Tom turned around the horse, walked slowly, taking all his time, ambushing me from behind, and I should have guessed it, firmly gripped my sides with both hands.

“You will slide your left foot into the stirrup and I will raise you with a little push; you will grip firmly the pommel, slide your right leg around the saddle, sit down, and relax. You will then free the stirrup so I can get up, I will slide my arm around you, take reins and give a little kick into Henry’s side. He will most likely make some noise and start walking.”

  

Sounded so easy!

“Ready?”

So joyful and optimistic!

I was a little less beaming with enthusiasm than he was.

He guided me, once again, step by step. I remembered that night, the staircase, his hand on my eyes, his voice guiding me – step by step.

“Left foot in the stirrup.”

Up until there, I managed, even if my skirt slid back greatly on my leg, revealing my pale skin.

“I hope you are enjoying yourself.” I whispered, trying to focus on the pommel.

“Very much so, indeed.” He replied, more amused than serious.

He pushed me up, as he said he would, but for a split second, a random thought distracted me and the

theoretically easy maneuver became a charming fiasco as I fell straight back into his arms, making him

step back from the surprise and I couldn’t stop smiling as he squeezed me strong against him. 

“We should do horse riding more often. I love how passionately you fall into my arms." 

I giggled and he gently set me back into position for a second try. I felt like an animated doll in his hands and sighed with a smile, remembering how I had naturally trusted him the first time. The second time wasn’t quite the success I had hoped for, but, but a famous proverb was on my side and third time became the charm! To which I shouted out loud my satisfaction of being finally successful.

 

Obviously, for Tom, getting up and settled into position was as blissfully easy as quoting Shakespeare. And like he said, giving a gentle kick into Henry’s side, our adventure of the day really began. 

I closed my eyes to better appreciate the stallion’s confident steps as he lead us out of the farm’s premises into what had the secret flowery scent of frizzy and mostly titillating adventurous times ahead of us. Tom had quickly secured his arm around my waist, as he had promised, holding the bridle with assurance, guiding the imposing horse on a most charming dirt path that officially started a good mile in the farm’s backyard, snaking itself in the green forest, curving around clearings, going into darker agglomerations of tall darker shaded green giants.

It’s most interesting how when you have your eyes closed, everything becomes hyper sensitively acute around you. The sound of Henry’s steady pace, the tapping sound of his shoes against the dirt road, his horse smell clashing against Tom’s cologne made me smile. Sometimes, as the horse would make a comment or move his neck and I would tense up, but the man behind me pressed himself against me, and I was sent back into a most comforting cocoon of trust and dream like state. Random birds were randomly chirping in the random distance, the sun was playing the same kind of hide and seek game through the foliage, tickling my face when it pierced a bit stronger between scarce leaves, creating strong luminous fireworks behind my closed eyes. I could imagine a Disney like scenery where the sunrays pierced down to gently caress the shyly emerging wild flowers’ open petals like open arms, swooshing through leaves, creating a rich spectrum of all sorts of shades of greens, from the deepest thickest bottom of a pond green to the lightest almost see-through golden tone. And as I took in deep slow breaths, all the various scents of nature mixed in the most delicious perfume which changed, it seemed, at the pace of our noble steed. With closed eyes, every delicate scent that brushed me was a like playing fairy twinkling its tiny wings, brushing my cheeks, flying away, twirling and dancing in the late summer’s air.

I smiled at the shear thought of where I was, with who I was, and what I was doing. It seemed a dream, and yet, my senses were too sharply excited at every passing second to be able to deny the unquestionable reality of it all. I felt his arm move up and down at each breath I took, sometimes he would squeeze me against himself – I thought – for the simple and delicate pleasure of feeling me, or to remind me that this was neither an illusion nor a daydream. Sometimes, he would slow down the horse’s pace to bring my attention on a scenery’s specific detail, knowing I would appreciate the finer detail of the sunlight against the green leaves and how two leaves, seen from under, would be of two different shades, lit differently from above, and how at their united center a third shade would exist, gently moved by the late summer breeze. 

Other times, I would be lost in wonder, trying to imagine the scenery in my mind, trying to paint the odd and yet picture perfect reality; a tall and strong chocolate brown stallion walking at a casual pace on a small dirt trail in the midst of an English forest, with tall leafy trees on all sides, wild flowers sprouting randomly in the painted landscape, discreet birds, some butterflies perhaps, fluttering here and there. On the horse’s back, a man in his very early thirties, with beauty worth of a prince, wavy hair of an undefinable shade between a golden blond and deep tones of amber, eyes of a soft deep blue under the shades, which would illuminate into a sky blue when lit up by a random sun ray. He was wearing a deep blue sea jacket and black suede trousers, contrasting with the surrounding environment and even more so seeming miss-fitting the activity he was enjoying. Seated before him and held safely, and strongly against him, the young woman of a merely a few years younger, was equally a fashion misfit in this natural activity with her almost see-through white sleeved shirt covering a pale peach top completed with an equally soft peachy pink ruffled skirt, which in this odd position was pulled up, revealing her pale thighs. 

“Hold on tight, we will accelerate a little.” He warned me just as we arrived at a clearing’s edge, a little atop a hill, softly reaping me from my half dream.

My heart suddenly accelerated into an untamed race. I felt Tom’s leg giving that signal kick into Henry’s side and the horse hastened and unleashed his own tamed desire, letting his vigour be known and appreciated, bursting into a passionate speedy canter which soon became an honest galloping. I felt Tom’s grip around me tightened, and I couldn’t have been happier for it. I felt his body leaning over me, just slightly, his chest practically fusing with my back, his legs pressing against mine, the bridle shortly wrapped around his hand.

Henry seemed to enjoy the speed as much as Tom did, and I thought to myself that this sure beated any amusement park in terms of thrilling sensations and excitement! I wanted to close my eyes, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to do so, eager to appreciate how fast the landscape unravelled under my eyes, how the grass was practically reduced to blurred horizontal lines, how the wind was strong against my chest and in my hair – which I hoped would hold in place until the race finished. 

As my heart was palpitating with unreasonable strength, I realized the full blown arousing side effect of this whole thing. There was something absolutely raw and sensual, untamed and primitive in this improvised race and I wondered if Tom had planned it consciously or if it was the randomness of the moment’s inspiration.

I was still on that indescribable high when the stallion slowed down and I could make out Tom’s voice in my ear.

“Fun, wasn’t it?”

  

It was the horse who had furnished most of the effort and it was me who was panting, still under the power of what I felt, and still was trying to tame inside of me. I swallowed and tried to gather my thoughts.

“Sure beats amusement parks!”

The landscape in which we stopped seemed as if ripped out of a children’s illustrated fairy tale book; if the woods would have been a giant hand, we would have landed on the edge of the palm, I imagined we came from an unseen place from the thumb, and rode a trail up to the hill top which was constituted by the Thenar’s eminence so to speak; in front of us, an appreciable clearing divided in its center by a most charming little stream, on this side, gifted by the presence of a venerable willow tree gently brushing the clear water’s ripples by its sorrowful branches, on the other side, the forest continued, as if the index, middle and ring fingers were jointed in a graceful figure, leaving to sight a small breach before the line of the pinky would dive into another section of thick dark woods.

  

Tom jumped off the horse’s back with as much ease as he got up and securing both hands on my waist, helped me down. I slightly lost my balance and landed directly in his arms – yet again.

“I am seriously considering taking you out on horse rides more often. You have this charming habit which is becoming most addictive!”

I smiled and rolled my arms around his neck as I leaned forward to kiss him. My turn to. I was burning from the ride and I couldn’t possibly think of restraining my burning momentum. I wanted him so much, so badly, so intensely, so senselessly, so strongly, so eagerly, so ardently, so fiercely, so thirstily …

I pulled back. 

He smiled looking me in the eyes.

“That was agreeable, why did you stop?”

“I ran out of synonyms to describe how badly I want you.”

“Let me help out.”

His adjectives were as sharply intense as the fiery tickling sensation inside of me; vigorous, long, deep, detailed, demanding.

I could feel his chest raising and lowering against mine. If my hands were casually thrown around his shoulders, his arms were a bit more possessive around my waist and back, pulling me closer to him, squishing my chest against his, locking me into a most delightful cage of craving passion, of which I wouldn’t have wished to escape.

I had forgotten how much I loved and most essentially how I missed kissing him. There was just something sublimely natural about him. I couldn’t define it precisely, nor could I deny it. It was just one of those statements of life like when you love a fruit, or a dish or a color; you love it, end of story. I loved kissing him. And he didn’t quite do anything to inspire me the opposite train of thoughts.

“Do you still hate me?” He whispered in my ear after a very long moment and it seemed as if someone had wide opened the blinds of a dark chamber, unleashing the blinding and burning power of morning’s sunlight.

I blinked and rested my head on his shoulder as I burst into laughter. So, he did remember that.

“Yes. Very much so, yes.” I replied in an equally low whisper.

  

Tom was lying on his side, a hand on his cheek, his elbow in a thick and soft patch of fresh grass, twirling random blades with his free hand.  He had taken off his jacket and I refrained myself from giving him that cheesy pick up line “Did it hurt much when you fell from heaven?”, and yet, behind his composed smile, I could see that twinkle in his eyes as he was clearly enjoying every moment of my internal struggle to remain calm in his presence.

It was odd, and yet so natural, this silence composed of smiles, of glances and of random little grimaces as we both tried to start a conversation and yet not quite finding the proper words. Almost as oddly, I realized that in fact, words were not as much needed to express whatever we wanted to say to each other.

A good few ten or twenty meters behind him a rather thick pool of daisies caught my attention and by a random strike of inspiration – to Tom’s open surprise and unhidden deception – I sprang up and ran to collect a few.

“Isn’t it normally up to the gentleman to gather flowers for his lady?” He asked bemused when I came back with a huge stack in my hands.

I gave him a single one.

  

“Nope. Not in our modern era.”

He smiled and I sat down to craft him a crown.

He looked at me with curiosity, trying to guess where I was going, but soon his smile widened and a chuckle escaped him as he lay back on his back, playing with his daisy. 

By the time I was done, he had his fingers crossed behind his neck; eyes closed and seemed to enjoy a little nap. The scenery itself – had I had a camera on me – would have been worthy of a classic romantic painter’s vision on an outing. The man, lying on the tender green grass, enjoying the sun’s warmth, the random chirping of birds, the faint whispers of the wind the trees around the clearing; the girl sitting near him, silently working on her craft, making a crown one flower at a time, for the man who had wan her heart in the most charmingly unexpected possible way.

I grinned with malice. I could have just called out his name, to get his attention, or bend over and kiss him on the cheek, maybe on the lips to play Sleeping Beauty, but since he was so freely offering himself to me, why not raise the fun bar just a little higher?

Trying my best not to unravel my evil plan, I snuck up on his crouch before he would open his eyes. He got half up, resting his weight on his elbows and grinned at me.

“You lied. The daisy’s last petal confirmed it. You love me.”

“I guess daisies can’t lie, can’t they?”

He silently shook his head to a no. 

“So then, I have no other choice but to…” I started, and was as soon caught off guard as he suddenly raised himself to a more appropriate sitting position and locked his arms in my back.

“… But to crown you my king.” I finished.

The white of the daisy crown in the flamboyant rusty gold of his hair gave him an even more so unbearable beauty and I sighed, regretting the absence of my trusty camera to capture the perfect of the moment. Maybe it was my imagination playing tricks on me, making me believe he could read my mind, ore more realistically, he knew me all too well, for he quickly snuck out a mobile phone from his trousers’ pocket and offered it to me.