Angel from Montgomery: Part 4

With her hands planted on the ground in front of her, Felix can’t see much of her front, but she seems to be straddling one of the aspen’s roots, knees in the dirt, thin calves flexing.

Continued from Angel from Montgomery: Part 3

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Created by author with Midjourney

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Two weeks after naked Dianne emerged from his woodline, Felix Finn’s ability to go more than a couple minutes without thinking about her is nonexistent. Unsurprising, given how dramatically she had entered his life, and how drastically she had altered it. For the first time in years, Felix can glimpse a world beyond the hated prison of his sexuality, a world unshackled by the past. He had longed to tear those bars apart and greet that world, whole and alive, but with Dianne no violent escape had been required. She had simply, with quiet confidence, fit the key into the lock, popping open the door.

After their bedroom escapades, in the cold light of morning, things had felt almost awkward - both of them shyly stealing silent glances. But there had been a peace to the silence as well. An acceptance. The same acceptance that, when faced with the monster within him, had caused her not to turn away but to reach out a gentle hand toward the snapping, thrashing thing and lay her palm on its heaving neck, murmuring soft words and stroking its muzzle. Taming it.

The memory of their time together still thrilled him, but with every passing day he grew less certain that the feeling was mutual. Yet - surely, she needn’t have allowed him to walk her all the way back to the cabin she was renting nine miles away (NINE miles)? Something told him that she had wanted Felix to know where she was staying.

The cool wind stirs the needles of the fir trees, rushing like water. In the distance, Felix discerns a similar sound, but steadier, more purposeful. The stream. The birds flit quietly between the trees, casting fleeting shadows on the ground. His footsteps are muffled by the thick bed of pine needles. His skin tingles. His heart thumps a rhythm against his ribs he hasn’t heard in years -

Hope.

He barely feels the weight of the logs on his back.

‘You’re getting your hopes up for nothing’, mutters a voice from the back of his mind. A clawed fist drags his guts for a moment, but he shakes it off, refusing to let doubt dampen his spirits. The day is clear and bright, the air cool. Every scarred rockface and glistening needle is hyperrealistic, abundantly present. Felix breathes the crisp air deeply, relishing the way it fills his chest, caressing his lungs from the inside.

What a beautiful day, he thinks.

The babble of the stream is growing more distinct, rippling off the stones and trees.

Must be close now.

Dianne’s cabin was located only a hundred yards from the stream. If he follows it long enough, he should find it. To be sure, he checks his satellite phone. The waypoint to Dianne’s cabin is still marked from the last time he had made this journey with Dianne at his side - a ‘D’ nestled against a squiggly blue line indicating the stream.

Only another quarter mile, he thinks, heart pounding and not wholly from exertion. Would she be happy to see him? Disappointed? He reflects on what they had talked about on their walk - the birds that had caught their eyes, the sun, the wind. Nothing of the previous night or that morning. Nothing of his past. But she might want to know more now. Rounding the bend, which should mark the final stretch between him and Dianne’s cabin, a flash of movement catches his eye on the opposite bank.

A young woman is kneeling by the river, among the roots of a large quaking aspen. Her dark hair falls down her back, swishing gently from side to side. In a rush of excitement, Felix picks up his pace and opens his mouth to call her name, then stops short. It is indeed Dianne, as naked as the moment he had first seen her.

Blindfolded.

Undulating.

Her hips are moving rhythmically, muscles rippling along her spine. Her head is tipped back, lips parted. Her form is so crushingly beautiful, his knees buckle as though he might fall to them in worship of her. His cock stirs, tingling heat at the root of his being. The beast inside licks its lips, watchful.

With her hands planted on the ground in front of her, Felix can’t see much of her front, but she seems to be straddling one of the aspen’s roots, knees in the dirt, thin calves flexing.

Felix is growing harder by the moment.

The beast paces, lips curled.

As though bewitched, he tugs off his boots and then his trousers. He drops them on the bank, along with his pack of firewood, then steps into the river.