He chases her through the vineyard—a hunter after his prey—hiding—seeking--listening.
She giggles—a seductress calling to her mate—hiding—tempting—luring.
He pins her to the dusty ground—aging muscles groaning—the game is finally over.
The first kiss stops her struggles, “Oh, Jean-Luc.”
“I always win,” he bights her neck—not hard, but enough to make her moan.
He misses the wicked grin that appears, “Because I let you.” She reaches between them and squeezes his member hard.
He grunts, pushing into her hand—wanting more of her pleasure, “Beverly!”
“You really thought you won?”