And I was like, “But no one would see us under there.”
And he was all, “Because it’s a ditch.”
Touché, Ken.
Finally, we compromised and settled on a spot under another wooden walkway, only this one jutted way out onto the beach and had a nice smooth patch of sand under it. No ditch.
Now that we had our location, it was time to talk logistics. Ken suggested that he could go for another “walk” tonight after the kids went to bed, and he could stash some towels outside before then for us to use as a blanket. I volunteered to wear a dress for easy access. The plan was coming together nicely. (No pun intended!)
After an absurdly romantic dinner at a quaint little Italian restaurant in downtown Charleston that night, Ken and I returned to the Little Shack of Horrors and put the kids to bed. We shot the shit with his parents until it was good and dark outside. Then, with a wink and a nod, we began putting on our shoes and jackets and fumbling for excuses as to why we were going on another walk.
“I want to see if the lighthouse really lights up!” was the best I could do.
Just before we walked out the door, I remembered that we’d need towels, and I hadn’t seen Ken stash any outside, like he’d said he would. Dramatically rushing back in to grab one, I could hear myself rambling to Mr. and Mrs. Easton about how I needed the towel because our feet would be sandy, from all the walking, on the beach, so we would need to rinse them off, with the hose, when we got back, from our walk, which would make our feet very wet, and would, in turn, necessitate the use of a towel. My circumlocution was made even more awkward by all the tripping I was doing over said feet as I tried to get the fuck out of there. When I finally made it out onto the deck, my flushed cheeks were met with cool, humid air, and I was greeted by a gorgeous man holding two beach towels, smirking like a smug son of a bitch.
“When did you put those out here?!?!”
“Right before we left for the restaurant. I just pretended like I was laying them out to dry.”
God, I felt like a dumbass. Why did he always have to be so smooth?
Letting out a defeated sigh, I dropped my towel on one of the patio chairs and linked elbows with Ken as we made our way to the non-ditch. Surely, we wouldn’t need more than two towels, right?
Wrong.
So, so wrong.
Minding the time, Ken and I made a mad dash for our agreed upon spot under the boardwalk stairs, which was just far enough onto the beach to be considered on the beach.
Although we were in a hurry—the last thing on earth I wanted was for one of the senior Eastons to get worried and come looking for us—a little foreplay would have been nice. Would have helped me relax, get in the mood. But I guess Ken was more nervous than me because as soon as we made it to our predetermined location, he spread out his towel and lay down just as supine as one of the dead jellyfish I had seen washed up a few yards away.
Great. Ken the Cadaver was back, and his timing was impeccable.
I kicked off my flip-flops and shimmied out of my panties, tucking them inside the front pocket of Ken’s hoodie, which I’d thrown on right before we left. I didn’t dare take the hoodie off, however, because I was still way too cold, and way too inhibited, to part with any more clothes. Meanwhile, Ken shoved the other towel, still rolled up, under his head as a pillow and pushed his shorts and boxer briefs down over his hips, revealing the very flaccid product of his nerves.
We were not off to a great start, but damn if I don’t love a challenge.
Straddling Ken’s tense body, I leaned down so that we could make out, but instead, I smacked him right in the face with the dangling drawstrings of his hoodie. At least that broke some of the tension. We both snickered quietly as I tucked the shoelace-like strings into the neck of his gray hooded sweatshirt. Then, I readjusted my game