An excerpt by Devon Scott
Around midnight is when Taj awakens. He has been sleeping quite peacefully; the room is silent save for the soft whirling of air conditioning. Taj hears the tranquil sound of rain, soft at first then rising to a crescendo as thick drops slap against plump leaves. He lights a candle, then goes to the windows that face the ocean and flings them open. A fair wind is blowing and the palms surrounding the exterior of his room are dancing to the breeze. Taj watches the rain from the comfort of his room, the windowsill cool to the touch as he leans forward to let the breeze bathe his face.
The wind dies. The rain remains, a steady patter that is soothing and refreshing. Taj can taste it. The freshness hovers in the air.
It is after midnight and her room is black, but Cheyenne is wide-awake. Her room, like Taj’s, is silent. She has shut off the air so that she can listen to the rain. The sliding door to the balcony is open, allowing her senses to be unobstructed. She sits fully nude directly in front of the open door, face in hands, toes pressed into the carpet (heels up, like a dancer). A thin layer of sweat adorns her bare skin giving her an appealing sheen. The rain is falling vertically; there is no wind to cause raindrops to collide. Across the expanse she can hear the rumble and growl of the ocean as tumultuous waves crash against the shoreline. These distinct sounds of rain and ocean meld to create a symphony that moves her to tears.
Like Taj—she is remembering that day.
She recalls a rainstorm similar to this one—a long time ago when their fate was yet unknown. They had been pushed to the limit, worn down by a crazed man, acute hunger, and the elements—the hot, relentless sun that beat down every day, and the sudden rains that could soak to the bone.
A steady rain fell, the cadence of raindrop chatter hypnotic; uncanny shadows moved to a ballet orchestrated by the storm. They had sought shelter in the wrecked cabin, their sleeping nest and refuge from the darkness and elements. But when they heard the rain, they ventured outside.
Cheyenne first—slowly, because of her wounds and fatigue that clung to her like a constricting hug. She was cautious, as if something or someone might be waiting for her out among the shadows. But she swallowed what little fear she had left—at this point most of her actions were autonomous—and stepped into the driving rain.
She was soaked in minutes. As Taj watched from the shelter of the derelict cabin, Cheyenne tipped her head back and allowed the water to pelt her face and neck. The feeling was therapeutic and she drank it all in, allowing the power of the rain to massage and heal until her muscles were once again pliable.
She had moved off into the distance, away from Taj and the damned cabin, toward a clearing where even in this steady rain one could see details. She knew Taj was staring at her. And she had no doubt that he was moved.
When she reached the clearing she paused, spent a moment feeling the fabric of her soaked clothes. Methodically she removed them—without fanfare—first her top that was grungy and torn, then her tattered jeans, finally her bra and panties. She left them in a heap by her feet and stood tall, her back to Taj and the cabin. Fully nude, she allowed the rain to cleanse her, infuse her with only what was good, and rejuvenate her spirit and mind—wash away the remnants of everything that was bad.
Taj recalls watching her, the desire he felt that night stirring inside of him like a hornet’s nest. The way she moved with such grace and litheness, almost catlike; her form exquisite, inspiring, breathtaking . . .
Taj followed her with his eyes, his gaze never faltering or leaving her side. He was seeing a woman for the first time in all of her splendor—not a grainy photograph from some men’s magazine his friend had found under his father’s mattress, but a real, live-blooded woman.
Cheyenne’s breasts were firm and upturned; her nipples were emergent like a flower to the sun’s radiance. Taj watched her in profile and his breath caught in his throat.
As she turned her back to him, the fullness of her spoke to him. The curves of her waist, her long golden legs were magical. And when she pivoted like a ballerina and turned to face him, he saw the patch that covered her sex. Taj was overwhelmed with unfamiliar, intense sensations.
Taj ached for her—wanted her more than anything in his life. He longed to go to her, take her hand, lay her down on the softness of dark, moist Jamaican soil, lie down alongside of her, and devour those luscious lips. He craved to explore her body with the kind of passion reserved for soul mates and first-time lovers, a yearning more than the pangs of hunger that nagged at him constantly. He wanted to know her, memorize her features, imprint and emblazon the sights, sounds, touches, tastes, smells, and emotions of this day in his mind, so that he could return to this place, over and over, whenever he chose.
As he watched from the confines of the downed Beech King Air, he thought that he had never seen anyone as magnificent as Cheyenne, and he doubted that he would ever be blessed to see something this delightful and miraculous again. He was experiencing an orchestration of feelings and emotions that rose in pitch until his entire being was singing. The experiences of love and passion ignited inside him, leaving Taj forever changed.
He thought about following her into the clearing that day. Taj bit his lip until he tasted blood as he pondered his situation. He stood, exited what remained of the Beech King Air, and stretched as his head cleared the top, unsure of what to do next.
Cheyenne turned the instant that Taj exited the cabin to feel what she was experiencing: the pounding, revitalizing rain on his skin. She was facing him now, hands at her sides, her long bronze hair dripping and hanging straight down her back.
With his own clothes soaked, his thick hair dripping as he eyed her jealously, he held onto the bark of a palm tree for fear of passing out. Inexperience paralyzed him and held him steadfast. In the end Taj could only watch his angel from afar . . .
Cheyenne is massaging her neck, reminiscent of the rains that had relieved her aches. Her hair hangs free, and as her fingers glide among the thick, strawberry-scented strands, she thinks that it is his fingers that touch her now, tugging gently, stimulating her scalp. Her hands move downward to her full breasts, where they pause on the rising ridges of areolas, circling them like honeybees, lightly pressing against both nipples in synchronous motion.
She remembers Taj and how his eyes followed her across the clearing; she could feel the weight of his stare on her. And despite the blaze that had sparked and smoldered between them, Cheyenne knows how that day ended.
Cheyenne closes her eyes, allows her fingers to snake down her torso to her navel, playfully probing the hole before moving on down toward her waiting sex, and recreates the final scene between her and Taj—the way she wished that it had ended:
Taj reaching for her—his touch sending a quiver through her body like that of a tidal wave—caressing her arms, legs, back, and stomach with a light touch, feeling her cry out silently for him—opening her wings, inviting him in, out of the relentless rain, to a place that is warm and cozy.
She finds her opening easily and allows a finger to slip inside effortlessly. Cheyenne sucks in a breath and throws her head back as another finger finds its way inside toward her molten core. Cheyenne is moaning, her fingers are thrusting, and the rain continues its song.
She imagines him inside of her, his nectar-filled kisses and strong, lithe flesh pressing her into the muddy earth as he pummels against her, the yin and yang of loving—soft and hard, fast and slow, in and out.
She increases the drive, plunging her hand into her well with frenzied abandonment. Soon she cries out in song.
Cheyenne is thinking of Taj.
Taj is thinking of her.
The rain binds them, connecting them in the way an umbilical cord unites mother and unborn child. As the rain sprinkles the landscape, Cheyenne and Taj are far closer tonight than either of them knows.
©️ 2016 by Devon Scott. All Rights Reserved