“Would you mind?” he asks openly with a masculine tone that’s strikes you as very thoughtful, yet mingled with suggestion and heavier connotation.

You follow his eyes as he glances downward again, only this time more steeply, turning to his own thighs, and while gesturing with his hands that he’d be relieved if he too could remove his jeans, stuck heavy as they are, cold, waterlogged and sodden against his own strong limbs.

“No, of course, go ahead, you’ll be freezing else” you say, flustered, and you tug downward on your pullover to cover more of your thigh, then try to appear relaxed by sitting back on the furled fur throw that remains rudely warm with the potent ecstasy and energy you’d privately shared only a short while earlier.

Your thigh muscles sensitively contort to bring your knees tightly together and as they begin to grip one another you sense a tactile echo from your earlier tryst.

Is that a little residue from the luxurious juice your pussy possesses and generously provides, squeezing jubilant, exalted to shimmer on the surface of your still tingling labium, a covert but never the less confident confirmation of your re-awoken arousal?

Your gymnastic mind is bending, back-flips, somersaults and cartwheels, wondering how any of this is happening, this intimately familiar form from another chapter in your life, brought fourth and visceral in this moment.

You idly gaze as the rider pulls his t-shirt away from his lean and muscular frame, passing it over his head, his long hair now falling around his broad shoulders.

His torso lean and powerful, he stoops to pull his weathered, sodden, square toed, mid-calf length boots out from under his equally road worn and rain drenched boot-cut jeans.

Less glamorous, he peels his saturated socks away, then slip-slaps his unbuckled jeans down over his knees and calves, and steps clear of them, applying the clean dry towel to the cold skin of his calves and thighs, and slowly straightening upward, where you see he has no underwear and stands before you naked, but for the towel that he works against himself.

His eyes once again fix yours, and his expression shrieks of how well he knows you. Knows you inside out, back to front, upside down, and every which ways. And he knows that he wants you.

He won’t make a move, he’s not so bold, but he’s not too shy either, his eyes always had a way to make it known he’s yours if you want him, and fuck, you blush from within, remembering how he’s built, physically built, built to give mortal satisfaction and primitive attention.

If this is a dare, you take the bate. You won’t take your eyes away from his gaze and in the periphery you sense, by the undulating movement of his broad shoulders, that his equally strong forearms are moving to allow his expert hands to guide the towel around his torso.

Rainwater gathers in the matted mess of his hair and you see a single bead drop through the dark long lashes of his right eye. In reflex he pulls the towel toward his face, blinking, and in like-minded reflex you steal away for a split second and glance at the heavy cock that hangs between his legs.

Your eyes flash back to find his, feeling found out, but you both know you’re equally guilty, and while you can’t explain how any of this can be happening, you also give in to the undeniable truth.