30. Savannah
30
SAVANNAH
Kalispell was an adventure and a half. The yaks, with their shaggy coats and resolute stubbornness, matched only by the roughness of the terrain, tested my endurance like nothing before. And then there were the cowboys, each one seemingly on a quest to prove he was the alpha of the pack, their bravado as craggy as the mountains we navigated. It was a challenge that would fray even the most patient saint’s nerves.
After two grueling weeks out in the field, on horseback from dawn until dusk, my legs ache with a deep-seated soreness that’s hard to shake, and my mind feels like it’s been wrung dry. But no amount of exhaustion could ever quell my excitement at the thought of returning home—to him.
“So good to have you back,” Huxley growls low. His visceral scent saturates my senses as our bodies press against each other. The friction of our flesh against flesh ignites a shower of electric sparks, filling me up with a crackling energy despite my aching muscles.
Then, his phone vibrates against the bedside table.
“Is that Red Mark?” I ask, noting how his eyes flicker momentarily to the screen before meeting mine again .
“No, it’s nothing,” he dismisses with a kiss, his grip around my neck tightening as he presses his hips against mine, adding a heavier weight. “Just ignore it. Where were we?”
I smile at his attempt to keep us on course. “You were happy that I’m home.”
“Correction. I’m so happy to have you in my bed.” His words caress my ears, sending seductive chills down my spine as the space between my thighs pulses with desire.
As my glutes tighten and strain, I feel the immense pressure building in my core from his throbbing erection. My body is racked with pain, yet I’m compelled to continue.
I moan as Hux moves his rock-hard length just that much further.
“I know you can take it,” he says, half-needling. “Those days off the grid haven’t made you shy, have they?”
I let out a groan, expressing a state of happy annoyance. His words not only bolster my confidence but also fuel a growing impatience inside me. It’s true. After weeks of anticipation, his impressive length feels like unfamiliar terrain, stretching me in ways I’ve never experienced before. After all, not only does distance make the heart grow fonder, but it also makes the reunion of our bodies incredibly rewarding.
I surrender myself completely, embracing the torturous ecstasy.
“You miss me this much, huh?” he taunts, his fingers skillfully caressing my slick, throbbing center, matching the tempo of his fervent thrusts.
“You have no frigging idea!” I huff.
Building up momentum, he exclaims breathlessly, “I’m gonna cum, baby.”
I feel myself teetering on a cliff’s edge. The sound of his ragged breaths, the taste of his sweat on my lips, and the intoxicating aroma of our passion push me over. And I freefall—the straining pain of my muscles is swallowed into the blissful sensation of an orgasm.
After a few hastened kisses as we pant, Huxley’s steady heartbeat beneath my ear lulls me into a half-sleep, his sturdy chest a snug pillow. But it’s broken when I stir to his murmured apologies in the dark.
“Hux?” I whisper, nudging him slightly.
“Sorry… I’m so sorry…” His voice is thick, almost pained.
He’s fast asleep, his breathing even and deep. What is he apologizing for? Or to whom? It churns unpleasantness in my gut, but I force my eyelids to close, trying to drift back to sleep. It’s fleeting. A buzz from his phone disturbs the stillness. However, drowned by exhaustion, it takes me a while to open my eyes.
The bed beside me is empty, and the sheets are a chilling reminder of his absence.
I pad downstairs, my feet ghosting over the cool wooden floorboards. He’s in the dining room, bathed in the muted glow from the terrace light spilling through the window. The faint scent of the pie he baked for dinner lingers in the air, a jarring contrast to the tension emanating from his solitary figure.
He sits there, utterly absorbed, clutching a photograph so close to his face that his exhales must be fogging the paper. He dips his head, his nose almost touching it, as if he could breathe life back into the person captured within its frame. It’s Valentina’s photograph. I recognize the familiar corner peeking out from his fingers.
He doesn’t notice my approach or chooses not to acknowledge it until a floorboard creaks under my weight. Startled, he flinches, concealing the photo with a sting of secrecy.
“Why are you crying?” I can’t hold back the question, even though the possible answer knots my stomach .
He dabs at his eyes, standing up to face me with a forced attempt at composure. “It’s nothing, Sav. Just one of those nights when the past won’t let me be.” His smile is strained, unconvincing. “Let’s go back to bed, okay?”
Sleep seems impossible now, but I follow him, hoping proximity might coax him into openness.
Back in bed, he wraps his arms around me tightly, pulling me into an embrace that’s supposed to be reassuring. But the warmth I usually feel is replaced by the cold of doubt.
“You said sorry to me,” I insist, driven by a need to understand.
“When?” There’s genuine confusion painting his features.
“Just now, before you woke up. You were looking at her, weren’t you?”
“Sav… please.” His plea is soft, almost broken.
I press on, determined to peel back the layers of secrecy that shrouded the evening. This is the night when all truths must surface. I owe it to myself and to him. “What really happened at that cottage, Hux? The foreman’s quarters?”
He looks away, his jaw tight. “I asked you to forget about it.”
“But I did forget,” I reply, my tone insistent, “until tonight.” The memories flood back with a vengeance—the scampering of rats that disrupted the stillness, the heated exchange with Micah that I had unwittingly witnessed. “I saw you, Huxley. And you tried to hide her photo.”
He exhales a sigh that seems to carry the burden of secrets kept too long. “Sav, that was the last thing of hers I still had.”
Yes, it’s a small, physical object, but what he’s holding inside is so much bigger.
I sit up, my arms folding across my chest. “We started on the right foot, Hux. You were upfront about Valentina, but you haven’t told me everything. There was this ‘angry wish’ that we kept talking about. I thought you wanted to move on because you wanted to be with me.”
“And nothing has changed. I want to be with you!”
“But what I saw tonight…” My hand gestures dismissively toward the door, hinting at the scene below. “That wasn’t just a man remembering a lost love. You were yearning for her.”
“Can’t I yearn for her?” His voice spikes, a flash of defiance in his eyes. “I thought you understood that, Sav. She’s a part of me. I’ve never hidden that.”
Anger flares within me, sharp and bitter. He has never hidden the fact, but how things have panned out, I can’t help but see a smokescreen. Perhaps he had deceived both himself and me, masquerading his unresolved feelings as mere residual anger.
When he asked me for help at the site where my mother died, I had to make a split-second decision. And I did because I deeply cared for him. I was afraid of my own jealousy, aware that he still harbored deep feelings for Valentina. He clearly said, ‘I love her’ in present tense. But now, that jealousy is eclipsed by a deeper wound. A gnawing sense of being used, of being merely a stopgap in his struggle.
“I’m here, Hux, and I feel like I’m just a placeholder, a pile of dirt filling a void you’re not ready to close.” I can’t keep the hurt from my voice. “Just now… were you sorry you made love to me?”
“No, Sav, never,” he answers quickly, too quickly.
“Then were you apologizing to her? For moving on? For being with me?” My questions spill out, fueled by insecurity and a desperate need for clarity.
“No, I—I don’t know why I said that.” His explanation sounds hollow, even to him.
I press on, the floodgates open. “I saw the photo, Hux. I took it from your wallet. She looks like me, doesn’t she? But I’m not her. You promised me.”
He meets my gaze, his eyes tormented. “No, you’re not her. I’ve never imagined for one second that you’re her.”
“And yet, I feel like you wish I was.” My voice cracks under the strain of my emotions. Have I been blind, not asking the right questions before surrendering my heart to him so completely? Was the sense of safety when he first held me after my truck hit that tree, just a mirage I’d conjured up?
His face darkens, a storm brewing in his expression. “Savannah, she was my first love.”
The words hurt more than I expected. “I get it. The first cut is the deepest, right? Thanks for reminding me where I stand!” Bitterness seeps into my words. “I believed you when you said you were looking for someone who’d accept your history and that the person was me. But what did that exactly mean?”
“Savannah, you are that person. I want you,” he emphasizes. “I may not show my gratitude to you?—”
“It’s not about gratitude. It’s about where your heart is. You’ve used me as a crutch because you can’t get over your dead girlfriend.”
“That’s not fair, Sav! Valentina and I happened. It’s history. But you, you’re now. You have to accept that.”
“I can accept it. But it’s clear you still love her more than you love me. You were honest at first, which is why I fell for you. Maybe I’ve been so na?ve, or it’s you who was good at using my vulnerability. When I met you, you left me in awe, giving me no choice but to fall for you. Hard. No questions asked. I thought you’d give yourself to me completely despite your past. Because I’ve given you all of me. Now, I feel like I’m just second best.”
“You can’t force me to unlove someone.”
Betrayal hurts, but to know that I’ve allowed myself to be betrayed, it crushes me. I’m on my feet now, the distance between us growing. “Well, you can keep kissing that paper girl!”
He’s on his feet, too, anger written all over him. “You don’t know anything, Sav!”
“Maybe it’s better that way,” I retort, my voice thick with tears. “Goodbye, Hux.”
I throw on my clothes and leave in the dead of night, heart wrecked, mind spinning with a thousand unasked questions. But one thing is sure. When you think it’s too good to be true, chances are, it is. Just like Hux and me.