and held her to him until the soul-fragmenting waves subsided.
Immediately, a tide of regret washed over her.
She hadn’t stopped in her quest for pleasure to become a student of him—his turn-ons, his threshold for control, the places and strokes that detached his mind from his body, as he had shown her. Everything had been about her. And as grateful as she was, she found that making love to Samson had only increased her appetite to know more, do more, be more. With him.
Which was, of course, impossible.
He had all but told her he was a season.
Samson peeled back the coverlet and wrapped them up together, sheltered in the protection of his arms. This, she realized, was his most enduring gift of all. Five years ago, she had balled up her ripped, white tights, lowered her dress back in place and emerged from a dusty, chemical storage closet to find her teaching assistant grading papers.
“Lock the door on your way out, will you?” He hadn’t bothered to look up from his task.
Chapter Eleven
Dust rose from the tracks their tires carved through the reddish-brown African clay. Despite the early hour, the earth baked with the promise of an oppressive day. A trickle of sweat plunged between Angela’s breasts, and her unruly waves spiraled around her face at the speed with which Samson had instructed their driver, Augustine, to carry them to Pamuromo, which translated to mouth. According to Samson, the word encapsulated the region—food, voices, song—and the most generous part of the river that saturated the valley with life.
Angela twisted in the Jeep’s back seat. She needed proof of where she had been. In the spring-worn seats—mercifully tethering her by a belt low across her lap—in the surroundings she had only ever discovered in the pages of a book, in the tribal Xhosa beat canting from a lone speaker mounted on the dashboard, she tasted a freedom she couldn’t have imagined mere days ago. Danger and uncertainty loomed past the fertile, tree-soaked horizon, but she had made it this far and found she had never felt more alive.
Samson traveled beside her, his arm lazed on her seat back. His chin was high, and his body absorbed the terrain of his homeland with ease. The quiet confidence from which he operated was never more evident than the moment he turned the driver’s reservations at traveling into such uncertain territory into a good-humored reassurance that he would be well-compensated. In a mystifying blend of English and local dialect that slipped from Samson’s tongue as if he had never left Africa, he had secured safe passage into the devil’s heart of regional conflict.
But that wasn’t the only safe passage on her mind.
They had passed the remaining flight hours in Julian’s bed, alternating sleep and love making at intervals she had once thought quite a feat for a guy, but that barely satisfied Samson’s mission to teach her everything about her body and the pleasure she had denied it in her quest to be cautious and safe. Near dawn, as darkness lifted and the planet cycled once more into streaks of cobalt and manganese pink, Samson confessed that he felt something close to whole again. At that moment, Angela opened a passage into her heart.
Neither pretended what they were doing was safe.
At an elevated clearing, a house came into view—mustard yellow, flat-roofed, as small as Samson’s gun closet. The Jeep’s engine protested the challenge. With a squeal of brakes, Augustine brought her journey to an abrupt end.
Samson was leaving her here.
The freedom she had so recently captured uncoiled from her gut and snaked back down the hill. No doubt the crew alerted Julian to her presence on the plane. Samson had to take her somewhere no one would find her.
“Fana will take good care of you until I return tonight,” said Samson. “She is well-respected, a maternal elder. The surrounding villages watch out for her. You’ll be safe
Immediately, a tide of regret washed over her.
She hadn’t stopped in her quest for pleasure to become a student of him—his turn-ons, his threshold for control, the places and strokes that detached his mind from his body, as he had shown her. Everything had been about her. And as grateful as she was, she found that making love to Samson had only increased her appetite to know more, do more, be more. With him.
Which was, of course, impossible.
He had all but told her he was a season.
Samson peeled back the coverlet and wrapped them up together, sheltered in the protection of his arms. This, she realized, was his most enduring gift of all. Five years ago, she had balled up her ripped, white tights, lowered her dress back in place and emerged from a dusty, chemical storage closet to find her teaching assistant grading papers.
“Lock the door on your way out, will you?” He hadn’t bothered to look up from his task.
Chapter Eleven
Dust rose from the tracks their tires carved through the reddish-brown African clay. Despite the early hour, the earth baked with the promise of an oppressive day. A trickle of sweat plunged between Angela’s breasts, and her unruly waves spiraled around her face at the speed with which Samson had instructed their driver, Augustine, to carry them to Pamuromo, which translated to mouth. According to Samson, the word encapsulated the region—food, voices, song—and the most generous part of the river that saturated the valley with life.
Angela twisted in the Jeep’s back seat. She needed proof of where she had been. In the spring-worn seats—mercifully tethering her by a belt low across her lap—in the surroundings she had only ever discovered in the pages of a book, in the tribal Xhosa beat canting from a lone speaker mounted on the dashboard, she tasted a freedom she couldn’t have imagined mere days ago. Danger and uncertainty loomed past the fertile, tree-soaked horizon, but she had made it this far and found she had never felt more alive.
Samson traveled beside her, his arm lazed on her seat back. His chin was high, and his body absorbed the terrain of his homeland with ease. The quiet confidence from which he operated was never more evident than the moment he turned the driver’s reservations at traveling into such uncertain territory into a good-humored reassurance that he would be well-compensated. In a mystifying blend of English and local dialect that slipped from Samson’s tongue as if he had never left Africa, he had secured safe passage into the devil’s heart of regional conflict.
But that wasn’t the only safe passage on her mind.
They had passed the remaining flight hours in Julian’s bed, alternating sleep and love making at intervals she had once thought quite a feat for a guy, but that barely satisfied Samson’s mission to teach her everything about her body and the pleasure she had denied it in her quest to be cautious and safe. Near dawn, as darkness lifted and the planet cycled once more into streaks of cobalt and manganese pink, Samson confessed that he felt something close to whole again. At that moment, Angela opened a passage into her heart.
Neither pretended what they were doing was safe.
At an elevated clearing, a house came into view—mustard yellow, flat-roofed, as small as Samson’s gun closet. The Jeep’s engine protested the challenge. With a squeal of brakes, Augustine brought her journey to an abrupt end.
Samson was leaving her here.
The freedom she had so recently captured uncoiled from her gut and snaked back down the hill. No doubt the crew alerted Julian to her presence on the plane. Samson had to take her somewhere no one would find her.
“Fana will take good care of you until I return tonight,” said Samson. “She is well-respected, a maternal elder. The surrounding villages watch out for her. You’ll be safe
Similar Books
