“It’s eight,” Clarissa says, looking at her wristwatch. “The best thing to do now would be to sleep, but it’s too early, and… um… I don’t think I can sleep sitting, or lying on the cold floor, for that matter.”

Aha! I wasn’t the only one thinking about our sleeping arrangements.

It’s very tempting to suggest that my body would make for an excellent mattress, but I hold my tongue. While she obviously has a sense of humor, she’s still a refined city girl, unaccustomed to the plainspoken ways of the country.

Tread carefully, Nathan.

“You can try to sleep on the bench,” I say.

“What about you?” She clears her throat. “That’s the only bench inside the Grotto.”

“I’ll be fine on the floor.”

A deep crease forms between her brows.

Not good. She’s fretting.

Time to change the topic. “Just before you stopped recording, you said something about how that horse’s twisted feet could change our idea of cave art.”

“Yes, well, I was getting ahead of myself.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “I’ll need a lot more evidence and research before I can make that claim in public.”

“Humor me—I’m not here to judge you.”

She gives me a sidelong look. “This stays between us, OK? I may be completely off the mark here.”

“Mum’s the word.” I draw an invisible zipper over my mouth. “If I really need to talk about it, I’ll unburden myself to my herd’s head cow. She’s second to none at keeping secrets.”

Clarissa gives me a nod. “OK. So, you see, archeologists are still not sure why cave dwellers made art. One big theory is that they would get bored, sitting around after a meal, not doing anything special. So some of them made up tales. Others made graffiti.”

“It figures. I sing when I’m bored.”

“Will you sing for me?”

“Maybe later.” I flash her a smile. “But, please, go on. Is there another theory?”

“The other big theory is that making those paintings was part of some ritual.”

“What kind of ritual?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Hmm…” I scratch the back of my head. “I don’t like that theory.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It’s too easy.” I shrug before saying, in what I hope is a professorial voice, “When clueless about why folks did what they did, call it a ritual.”

She turns toward me—not just her head, but her entire body—and leans forward. “That’s exactly how I feel about it.”

“So what’s your theory?”

She stares into my eyes for a moment, before speaking. “The horse in the Dance Room would suggest that at least some of the paintings were made with the purpose of recording and transmitting practical knowledge. They had an educational function.”

“Makes sense to me.”

She beams. “Really?”

“I’d wager that paint was a lot more expensive in those days than now, so if I were a caveman, I’d make sure my art did double duty.”

She blinks and stares at me like I’ve just given her a map to the Holy Grail. “That’s an excellent point, Nathan!”

“Happy to help, ma’am.”

“Naturally, I’ll need to find many other examples in other caves before I can postulate a theory,” she says.

I give her a solemn nod. “Naturally.”

“I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself.” There’s that crease again.

“Mum’s the word, trust me.”

She nods. “I trust you.”

We stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Clarissa’s gaze is filled with excitement, and something else, something a pessimist would describe as warmth, and an optimist, as longing.

I’m an optimist.

My body tenses, aching for her touch. My hand on the bench burns to inch closer to hers and brush it. But my instincts tell me it’s too soon. Clarissa is just beginning to see a man with a functioning brain behind the jacked hick.

She isn’t flirting with me yet.

Hold your horses, Nathan.

“Speaking of horses,” I say before correcting myself, “I mean, education, do you think that was also the purpose of that shape?”

I stride to the opposite wall and point the beam of the flashlight up at what looks like an erect penis.

She comes near me and says without batting an eye, “The phallus?”

What a handy word! “Yes, the phallus. Do you believe it was a teaching aid for a lesson in human anatomy?”

She smiles. “That’s a bit far-fetched but can’t be excluded.”

“Do you think it’s life-size?”

“I don’t think so.” She tilts her head to the side and squints. “It’s much too large.”

Er… not really.

“There are men,” I say, “Living men, who would compare favorably.”

My traitorous eyes dart to my fly before I look up at the wall again.

Clarissa is silent.

No giggling, no comment, not a sound.

Shit. I went too far.

Discussing cave-art phalluses is one thing, but drawing her attention to my real cock is quite another.

She’s going to bristle. She won’t want to speak to me anymore.

“Those men, they sound… intimidating,” Clarissa finally says, laughter in her voice.

My whole body slackens in relief. “They aren’t! Their… phalluses aren’t freakishly big.”

“Then, how would you describe them?”

An adjective, quick! One that would both reassure and entice her, one that won’t be too vulgar or too—

Her lips twitch. “Would you call them fulfilling?”

Yes! “That’s exactly what I would call them.”

My eyes drill into hers.

She holds my gaze and begins to stroke the back of her neck as she did earlier in front of the horse with twisted hooves.

Dude—she’s flirting.

In fact, she’s beyond flirting.

Consciously or not, Clarissa is seducing me.

My eyes wander over her face and body. Suddenly, brushing her hand is not enough. It won’t even scratch the surface of my wanting.

Need to hold her, all of her, need to press her to me.

My control snapping, I place the flashlight on the ground, lunge forward, and grip her shoulders. The next second, my lips descend on hers, kissing and coaxing her to open up. I pull her closer to my chest, almost crushing her soft breasts. My hands roam freely, exploring the shape of her.

So fucking good.

Clarissa doesn’t resist me, doesn’t push me away. Better still, her eyes become hooded as she melts into me. She wants me, there’s no doubt about it, but… she’s too passive. Her arms hang at her sides. She’s turned her face up toward me, but she hasn’t parted her lips.

Is this her way?

Nah. It doesn’t track.

Driven, independent women like her don’t make inert lovers. Something’s holding her back.

“Rissa,” I whisper against her mouth. “It’s OK. Let go—I have you.”

I have no idea why I called her Rissa. Nor do I fully understand what I’ve asked her to let go of. But, somehow, it feels right. Both felt right.

On a gasp, she parts her lips.

I push my tongue between them and devour her sweet mouth. Can’t get enough of her taste. Standing on tiptoe, she kisses me with passion. As our tongues dance together, she lifts her arms and grips my neck.

I back her against the closest stalagmite column, and allow my erection to prod her tummy through her layers of clothing.

Will she shrink from it?

Rissa moans softly and pushes into me. Sweet Jesus, she’s pressing her taut stomach against my cock. I begin to grind, all while kissing her and fondling her breasts.

And then her right hand lets go of my neck and settles, fingers splayed, on my bulge.

Inert, you say?

Bending my knees, I reach for the hem of her narrow skirt and push it up her smooth thighs. Up, up, up, until the skirt is bunched around her waist. Then I make quick work of unzipping both jackets.

Need to see her.

Tearing my mouth from hers, I draw back a notch and look at her. “Oh my God, Rissa…”

The sight before me is sexier than anything I’ve seen.

My cock twitches beneath her palm. She smiles.

She’s killing me.

Her legs, clad in tight little boots and stay-up stockings, are long and shapely. Made to be stroked and kissed. She’s wearing black panties with a bit of lace. I picture them dangling from one of her ankles, her legs wrapped around my waist, ankles crossed, squeezing me as I fill her.

Whoa, going too fast, Nathan!

I shoo that image away… only to make room for another one in which her legs are on my shoulders.

That’s it, I must touch her. I simply can’t go on living if I don’t.

I cup her between her legs and find she’s already wet.

“Yes, please,” she whispers, nuzzling the side of my face.

I must have died and gone to heaven.

She throbs under my fingers, pressing into them. When I push the crotch of her panties aside and slip in a finger, she lets out a ragged moan and clenches her muscles around it. I’m loving how wet and eager Rissa is. What I’m loving a lot less is that she’s tight.

Much too tight.

Truth is, calling my cock “fulfilling” rather than “freakish” doesn’t shrink it to… manageable proportions. I’m not complaining. Better too large than too small, right? But experience tells me she might recoil when she sees it.

With her hand still on my cock, she gives it a gentle upward stroke. “You weren’t lying about your size.”

My lids grow heavy. “Why would I?”

“Men often do.”

She trails her hand down, then up again. Her fingers reach the buckle of my belt and stop there.

Will she undo it? Will she free my cock and stroke it, skin to skin? What will her expression be when she looks at it?

My hand is still between her legs, but I’ve stopped thrusting.

She takes my wrist and pulls my hand away from her. “We’ll continue this later.”

“Promise?”

She nods.

I wait for her next move.

Slowly, she unbuckles my belt and opens the fly of my jeans. Her gaze locks with mine as she fumbles with my underwear, freeing my raging erection.

Her fingers begin to explore me, but she won’t look down.

Is she panicked by what she’ll see? I try to read her expression, but I’m too crazed with lust to play shrink.

“Look at it, Rissa,” I say softly.

She gives me a tight little smile and lowers her eyes. “Oh my.”

Hooking my index finger under her chin, I tip her head up to see her face. Rissa’s eyes are wide, but there’s no distress or, worse, dread in them.

That’s a start.

“You were telling the truth,” she says. “The one on the wall can’t hold a candle to it.”

I arch an eyebrow in mock affront. “I’d never lie about something so sacred.”

She giggles.

So far so good.

“It’s too big for me,” she says just as I begin to relax.

“You don’t know that.”

She looks down and studies me. “It’s absolutely gorgeous, Nathan, but if you… it’ll hurt me if you—”

“Shush.” I press a finger against her lips. “Hurting you is the last thing I want.”

She nods.

I brush a gentle kiss on her mouth. “You don’t have to decide anything now. We can just fool around and see where it leads us.”

“OK.” She gives me a relieved smile and tightens her grip on my cock. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s a privilege.”

“Is it?”

She nods. “May I?”

Before I realize what she’s asking, she squats and gives the tip of my cock a tentative lick. I shudder, my hips twitching involuntarily. She licks again and again, stroking the base with her hands, squeezing gently and kissing it.

When she looks up at me, her gaze is dark and intense.

“I’ll come if you don’t stop now,” I rasp.

“That’s OK.”

“No.” I grab her shoulders and pull her up. “Ladies first.”

“You fiend,” she protests. “I was enjoying myself!”

“I have principles.”

“They are too old-fashioned.”

I shrug.

“So what do you suggest?”

“For starters,”—I hook my thumbs into her lacy panties at the sides and pull them down—“we get rid of these.”

She helps me remove her panties. I leave the rest of her clothing on, so she won’t be too cold. Her pubes are dark and only lightly trimmed, which is a godsend for a man who’s never liked bald pussy. Reaching down, I play with her moist curls and spread her folds, exposing her hooded little bud. My breath hitches and my cock pulses like crazy as I stare at her.

She lets out an amused snort. “You look like you could eat me.”

“That’s the plan.”

She chuckles.

“Lean back on the column,” I say, my voice coarse.

She does immediately.

I kneel before her and settle her right thigh on my shoulder.

And then I carry out my plan.