They are in the shadows, about thirty feet ahead of me, walking briskly, huddled together, headed for the auxiliary parking lot. They do not look around. His hand is on the small of her back.

I love the way they sprinted out the door after the meeting, hurriedly waving goodbye, the rain and umbrella providing an obvious unspoken excuse for urgency and closeness.

I match their pace, closer to the wall to avoid detection, but I do not want to look like I am lurking should they turn their heads when they turn the corner.

All through the meeting there was a tension between them, an almost visible energy. I did not see them touch, though of course I could not see under the table.

They disappear around the corner, turning behind the umbrella into the driving wind, collars up, oblivious. The wind makes it impossible to hear them. Perhaps they are discussing pottery, or life in Tennessee. But somehow I doubt it.

I have seen them touch before, at Christmas parties and picnics, and in the passing of the peace. I have seen the winks, and long glances, and watched them disappear separately out opposing doors that ultimately lead to the same place. Perhaps tonight I will see more than hints and speculation.

There's another ten feet between us when I turn the corner. They're walking faster now, still touching, and then a second sharp turn to the right into the parking lot.

I can see their cars from here. There is no need to go further yet. They stop at his car. There is whispered discussion, a hug goodbye, and then a kiss goodbye, surrounded by anxious glances to make sure nobody is watching, followed by another hug, another kiss, and his hand up under her poncho, under her blouse, on her extremely generous breast and, I imagine, rapidly-hardening nipple. This kiss is more urgent, a leaning in kiss, a groping kiss, as he fumbles behind his back for the car door handle.

Even in the rain and the dark with one hand on her breast and his tongue in her mouth he still manages to open the door to the back seat with his back turned. I am extremely impressed.

The door is open. He sits down, she steps toward him, pushes him back on to the back seat and crawls in after him, closing the door behind her.

I move toward the car not so quickly as to appear rushed but not so slow that I might miss anything.

Fortunately my own car is close enough that I have an excuse if anybody notices me.

There is some danger of course that they may notice me. If it is possible for me to see them in the car then it is even more likely that they will see me out of the car, but I am assuming that they will be too distracted to look. And so they are.

Her poncho is off. Her blouse is undone. Her skirt has disappeared. His shirt is open. His pants are down. She is bent over him. Riding him. Thrusting back against his cock and then forward, those lovely breasts I waited so long to see dangling over his mouth for a quick tongue flick and then back again to be filled by him, and then forward again to his mouth, slowly and lovingly over and over, the haste they exhibited in racing to the car lost in the slow steady fuck of the moment, their faces masks of pure lust and endless pleasure.

I have seen enough. I have seen what I wanted. I have seen what I was asked to see. I pull my cell phone from my poncho pocket to make the call, cupping it carefully in my hands against the rain.