From the Baroness's Diary: The erotic escapades of Baron Beardley's wife

Chapter 13

Picnic

Mon Cher Journal,

I am so happy to see my idea for a garden effectively beginning to take form and the little seeds I have planted sprouting from the dark earth. When the baron is not at home, the hours I spend in the hothouse seem to fly.

As I have to stay long hours with Salvatore until he is satisfied with the result of our work, I always bring a picnic basket filled with food and water and fruit juice, which I partake with him on lunch time. Watching him eat and drink and work gives me such a thrill, I am shaking with desire and embarrassment, all wrapped up into one, and I can barely swallow my fruit juice. He touches me more and more each day, with silly excuses.

He would brush a lock of hair off my eyes; or hold my hand to show me how to handle a delicate flower; or—oh!—brush my breast with his forearm while picking a specimen from the table. Last week, he pretended he hadn't enough space to move without pushing his whole body against my back.

I gave up any pretense of being bothered by his advances already as I am loving all his silly excuses for flirting and touching me!

He's a good looking man and even if I get aroused, that doesn't mean I have to do anything about it! Or so I thought.

Yesterday, when I walked into the hothouse he was shirtless.

I froze on the spot and gaped.

"Oh, sorry," he said, perched on the edge of the desk, wiping his damp face and chest with his shirt. "I ran out of clean towels."

I stared as the water drops ran tracks down his smooth skin and over his muscles before focusing on one drop hovering on his left nipple.

I felt a sudden surge of wet between my legs as I finally looked up into his face. He was staring at my mouth.

I licked my lips.

He abruptly stood up, went to the bathroom, and came back fully dressed and began drilling instructions and orders.

Today around noon Salvatore dismissed Ricardo, as usual, and then suggested we pause to eat something and proposed we eat outside under the tree shade, saying, "The hothouse is...well, hot, these days."

We washed our hands and faces and walked to a secluded and shadowed place.

As he finished eating, he began his usual inquiring. "What is your favorite food?"

"I love sweets. Chocolate mostly. And I hate jelly." Oh, did I say that? I'm so lame. I drank a gulp of strawberry juice to wet my sudden parched throat.

He smiled and scooted next to me, casually resting his large hand next to my thigh.

"My favorite color is blue," he said, contradicting himself from previously saying it was green. "Yours?"

"Red," I managed, nerves tensed with anticipation, his so near body leaving me breathless.

He scooted even closer and I closed my eyes when his warm breath sent a shudder through me when he asked, "Favorite smell?"

"Smell?" I repeated idiotically.

He had moved so close I could taste strawberries on his breath as he spoke again, "You smell good."

And then he was kissing me.

I could hardly believe I was being kissed by Salvatore. I have been fantasizing about this moment for the past thirty-three days. And—Mon Dieu!—none of my fantasies have been close to this.