27. Huxley
27
HUXLEY
Emerging from the river, I lift Savannah so she straddles me on my shoulder. My hands provide an embrace to her supple curves, driving her front closer to my hungry mouth. The tantalizing taste of her lingers on my lips, seamlessly carrying over from our watery escapade.
“Hux, you tricked me!” she grumbles, though her legs exert a firm grip that could almost be dangerous.
Disregarding her words, I keep lapping at her opening. Her clit hardens against the tip of my tongue, unleashing my greed. I push in, sucking all I can until I run out of breath. She follows suit as her moaning finally suffocates her.
I stop for a moment, saying, “It’s a nice trick, though, isn’t it, baby?”
Taking a break, I bring her to the bank and lay her down on the grass. In a swift motion, she rolls on top of me, sitting on my belly. Any concerns about being watched fade away as she sits before me, completely exposed in all her glory.
Now, I wonder. What if someone saw us?
Despite playing down the idea before, it dawns on me that I don’t want to share this breathtaking sight with anyone else. Fortunately, it’s just the two of us here.
I lay like a rug, she on top, shielding her skin from the rougher surface I’ve ended up at from all the movements. After scrambling to reach into my jeans pocket for a condom, she rides me. Her hunger is like those of the wolves that haunt the shadowed woods surrounding us, driven by a primal need.
“Oh, Huxley Cometti,” she moans, squeezing her core tightly around me, leaving no space untouched.
“You’re close, I can feel it.”
“Too close…”
And she explodes, revealing a mesmerizing gape, her eyes heavy with lust. Her hands desperately search for any part of me to hold on to. My buttocks bear the brunt of the forceful grip of her nails. With her strength aiding me, I jolt my manhood upward, slamming against her walls. The sheer intensity of her beautiful assault pushes me to the edge, propelling me toward an explosive climax.
Savannah milks the last remnants of orgasm from within her, grinding her pelvis against mine. I gaze up at her face, her silhouette framed against the expanse of the Starfire afternoon sky. It’s as though she’s brushed her own Milky Way, with clouds drifting lazily above her.
She finally capitulates. The river water drips from her beautiful brown hair, and the sensation of her fervor still lingers on my pelvis. My cock twinges from the countless frictions we shared. But above all, the taste of her in the water was nothing short of magical. It’s an experience I won’t soon forget.
Savannah rises. Her energy seems unstoppable, like she could easily relive our outdoor buck wild until the stars take over the sky. My tongue is already craving her flavor, and my cock is almost ready to go again. However, the thought of Mom and Micah starting to wonder about our absence weighs on me. I’m not eager to spell out exactly what we’ve been doing secluded by the river’s edge.
Savannah appears ready to leave as well, her resolve hardened by a brisk breeze that sweeps across her exposed back, eliciting a slight shiver. She pulls on her clothes swiftly, her movements fluid like the river beside us. As I stand, the imprint of shales on my back reminds me of our intense moments just shared. She bends over, her hands placid but efficient, brushing off the clinging sand from my skin before helping me straighten my own attire.
Together, we start the slow trek back to the ranch. The landscape around us breathes the serene close of day. Our horses, sensing the shift from day to twilight, maintain a calm demeanor, their hooves soft on the path despite the vigorous wind that tangles their manes and ours.
The tranquil close of the day at the ranch recedes as Savannah insists on helping Mom with the evening meal, and Micah busies himself securing the property for the night. As if tugged by a string, I find myself wandering toward the old foreman’s quarters, my footsteps heavy. Each stride away from the laughter and light in the kitchen strengthens my bond with Savannah, a commitment I had vocalized to my mother, swearing to do everything in my power to protect and cherish her.
Yet, as I approach the dilapidated structure, a sense of foreboding weighs on me.
This old quarter, once a cozy log cottage in the corner of our land, now stands as a poignant symbol of decay. During my childhood, the foreman was a close friend of my dad’s, and I spent countless hours here, sheltered under its once-sturdy roof. Now, it stands neglected, its exterior rough and worn, mirroring the turmoil within me. This wasn’t just a childhood hideaway. It represented a future I had once envisioned with Valentina and her son Rodolfo, a new beginning that never came to be.
The state of disrepair cuts deeper than mere nostalgia. It signifies the collapse of dreams I’d meticulously planned, much like an architect envisioning a grand design now crumbled into dust. The weight of lost possibilities presses like a stone on my chest as I rummage into my wallet, a finger reaching into a compartment that’s almost sealed shut after all this time.
From there, I pull out a time-worn photograph. Valentina Rojas, with her radiant smile and eyes full of life, stares back at me.
I kiss the photo, a gesture mingled with pain and guilt. Savannah’s words come to me, advising a day-by-day approach to handling my angry wish, yet I falter at the first step. Her counsel feels distant. Being physically in the place that embodies my deepest desires and darkest regrets is a far cry from merely harboring a lingering wish. The reality of the situation grips me, and I find myself questioning how one can possibly ‘dress up’ a vision steeped in such personal destruction that it has become both a tangible and symbolic presence in my life.
The idea of transforming my past into something less harsh seems like an insurmountable task, leaving me caught between the need to move forward and the powerful pull of the woman I lost.
Anger and sorrow twist inside me, recounting the brutality Valentina faced, discarded by the cartel as if she was nothing more than trash. This cottage, in its decay, embodies all my failures .
But I’ve made a promise to Savannah. She cautioned that letting go could be perilous, a process that might rebound with even greater force. But I have to do just that, releasing my hold on Valentina. With a heavy heart, I stir the loose soil at my feet and carefully bury the photograph in what would have been our room.
Just then, a sudden movement at my feet startles me into a jump. A rat, all fur and tail, skitters past, sending a shiver of disgust through me. I retrieve Valentina’s photo. She doesn’t deserve to be left here with those disgusting creatures! No! No! No!
I don’t know what I’ve stirred with the digging in that corner. Another rodent darts past, and I curse and swear at it as if it’s the one thing I hate most.
My brother’s laughter halts my action, interrupting as if he’s been watching a comedy, his amusement at my startled reaction clear as he mimics the rat, wiggling whiskers with his fingers.
“What’s so fucking funny?” My voice booms through the small space of the cottage, savage and jagged with pain.
“Gee, Hux. I didn’t…”
“How dare you let this place rot!” I shout, hiding Valentina’s photo inside my back pocket. The rodent is gone, but the sudden burst of anger isn’t just about that. It’s about this place, about everything that’s been lost and left unattended.
Micah freezes, his earlier humor evaporating into a cold standoff. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snaps back, his face hardening. “This damn shack has been a crumbling mess for ages, Hux!”
“Under your watch, Mic!” I point at him in reaction to his tone that claims its fate.
“The hell with you! If you’re having problems with your missus down by the river, don’t let it out on me! ”
My fists form, but I rein myself and kick a three-legged chair in the corner instead, sending it crashing to the dusty floor with a sound that seems too loud, too final.
And there, behind the door, stands Savannah, her eyes wide, a silent witness to my unraveling.
Micah’s expression shifts from defiance to confusion and then resignation as he realizes this isn’t just about the cottage or the rat. Without another word, he turns and leaves.
Savannah moves toward me, her presence like a warm blanket against the cold bite of my rage. She wraps her arms around me. “Hux, he was just poking a joke,” she murmurs against my shoulder. Perhaps she thinks I’m offended because Micah just called her my ‘missus’ in a comedic way that I didn’t welcome.
“I know,” I grumble back, the image of the rat tangled up with darker, deeper threads of pain. “But—damn rat!” My voice breaks.
“Right. It was just a rat,” she says.
I growl. Not her, too. “Yeah, just a rat,” I rein in my anger. I don’t blame her for not understanding, and I’m not about to explain why those critters set me off.
“Let’s go,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry. I just hate those pests, okay?” I reply, the words feeling hollow, insufficient to cover the breadth of my grief. Her embrace tightens, her might and compassion a juxtaposition against the raw edges of my own vulnerabilities. For the first time, it feels wrong. How will she handle knowing that my heart is still entertaining the ghost of ‘what ifs’ with Valentina?
Together, we step out of the cottage, leaving its shadows behind as the scent of Mom’s cooking reaches us, a reminder of the world outside my grief. The commonality of rats on a farm might not stir a second thought under normal circumstances, but for me, it’s a trigger, a stark reminder of the brutality that once invaded my life, as vivid and harrowing as if death itself had left its mark.