Nara, still with her arms crossed, said nothing. Looked at nothing in particular. The specific, careful looking of someone who has chosen a fixed point in the middle distance and is using it as a life raft.
He moved her to the log.
The fallen palm, horizontal above the sand, the specific piece of landscape he had identified on their first walk through the island that morning as usable for — at the time he had said 'for shelter components.'
He had not meant that.
Or had meant that as one possible use among several.
He bent her over it.
Her chest against the rough bark, her arms finding it, her cheek turned sideways against the surface. Her hips behind her, his hands there, the angle of the position — her ass at the specific height that the log provided, his cock finding the angle that the position offered.
