Mists of the Serengeti(84)
We were parked by the edge of a stream. A small waterfall cascaded over the rocks on the other side. Silver threads fused and spilled over a gravelly bed in whirls of foam. The moon hung silently above, casting a honeyed sheen over the trees.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I said. The gurgling, the swishing, the sparkles of shimmering spray—it was like having front row tickets to an illusory concert.
“A beautiful place for a beautiful girl.” Jack caressed my cheek. His face held an irrefutable sensuality, but in the moonlight he positively slayed me.
He opened the rear door of his Land Rover and we sat there, my head on his shoulder, our legs dangling out of the trunk as we watched the silky fall of water break over the gleaming rocks. He fed me tulip-shaped cookies, and I breathed in his skin-warmed scent. For a while, it seemed like time had stopped forever. The stars marched across the sky, galaxies whirled around us, and yet we sat still and suspended, not wanting to shatter the magic. It was the kind of magic that comes after a lifetime of searching, when you stumble upon something so perfect, you stop looking, and you say: Yes. This. I know this. I feel this. I’ve heard its footsteps echo down the hallways of my soul.
We turned to each other with kisses that were soft and greedy, reverent and selfish—each one like a pressed daisy to be hidden between the pages of our story. Falling in love with something that can never be is like piercing yourself with a honey-dipped dagger. Over and over again. It’s sharp and sweet, beautiful and sad, and you don’t always know which when you cry.
“No.” Jack kissed the damp corner of my eye. “This is not how I want to remember you. It’s not how I want you to remember us.”
“Then how? How will you remember me when I’m gone?”
“Like this.” He slid the straps of my dress off, first one, then the other. “Your shoulders gleaming in the moonlight. Crystals of sugar on your lips.” He brushed his mouth against mine, his tongue tasting the remnants of the cookies he’d fed me. “Your hair, like ribbons of satin over my palms. The thrill of undressing you. Like this.” He slid the zip down my dress, exposing my flesh, goosebump by goosebump. “The feel of you in my arms, the way your lids drop over your eyes when I bite you here.” His teeth grazed a spot under my ear where my jaw met my neck. “I will remember the perfect oval of your face, the warmth of your throat, the way you hold a pen when you write. Most of all . . .” He cupped my chin, his eyes roving over my upturned face. “I will remember a strange, beautiful girl who liked the feel of old books and drank her coffee sweet. She snuck onto my porch on a gray day and taught me to see in color. She was a thief, my rainbow-haloed girl. When she left, she took my heart. And if I had another, I would give her that too”
It was the closest he would ever get to saying he loved me because those words would bind me, and he was setting me free—free to live out my life, my dreams, my aspirations. He wanted me to find my place in the sun instead of living in the shadow of his life. But in that moment, I didn’t want to be set free. I wanted him to ask me to stay. I wanted him to demand it, command it, to leave me with no choice. But he just held me with his eyes, and I learned the power of being all tied up, without ropes or chains.
“I want a clean break.” My voice cracked when I said it, but I meant it. “I don’t want to spend my days living for phone calls and texts. I don’t want to make do with your voice when what I really want is your arms around me. I don’t want eyes that can’t meet and feet that can’t touch. I think that would kill me.”
“I know. You’re my all or nothing girl. You’re grand and special, and so beautiful that my heart aches every time I look at you. I don’t want you to settle for anything less. But I don’t want to know when you’re out with some other guy—someone you meet in a quaint little coffee shop, someone you have brunch with on Sunday mornings, someone who can hold you and love you and fall asleep beside you. I think that would kill me.” A ragged breath escaped his lips as he claimed my mouth. He kissed me hard and hungry, like he wanted me to carry the taste of him forever.
“Jack,” I said it for no reason, except that it felt right. His name felt like it belonged in my mouth, like it had always belonged.
“I want you naked in the moonlight.” He tugged my dress, so it fell in a puddle around my feet. The rest of our clothes came off in a flurry, fingertips like matches, setting skin on fire.
We made love on a blanket by the stream, slow and gentle, rough and hard, riding the currents of our emotions like waves crashing on the shore. There were flashes of bright sensation—the look in Jack’s eyes when he slid inside me, his hands molding my curves, the midnight sky above us, trees swaying around us, the first moan escaping my lips, muscles and tendons dancing to a lover’s tango, the silver glow of constellations on our skin, the rush of the waterfall, Jack’s harsh, uneven breath, our bodies caught between the intoxication of climax and wanting to extend a moment we never wanted to end. My head rocked back as all the stars in the sky condensed to a single point. Jack stifled my cry with his lips, his fingers digging into my flesh as he hurtled over the edge of pleasure.
We weren’t ready to let go so we remained locked in the aftermath of passion. When our hearts calmed and our breaths settled, he smoothed the hair off my forehead and kissed my face. I traced the groove in the hollow of his back. His skin tasted sweet against my fingertips, like the last bits of sugar at the bottom of a cup of coffee. I wanted to savor it. I wanted to drain every last drop and make it a part of me forever.