There’s a lot to talk about. To debrief. About Logan. About what happened. About how close we came to losing. How we actually won. How we have the evidence we need. About what our next steps need to be.
But we don’t say anything.
I have one hand on the steering wheel and the other on her leg. Her hands are wrapped around my arm.
And that’s how we drive, in silence, through the Mexican countryside, taking backroads whenever possible. I'm guided by the sun's position and the distant silhouette of mountains on the horizon. I know exactly where we're heading: La Pesca Azul, a small fishing village on the Pacific coast.
Years ago, I spent time here. When I first left my team and tried to disappear. The locals asked no questions, took my money, and didn’t wonder too hard what the gringo was doing here. It was beautiful and calm, but there were still too many people.
Naomi doesn't ask where we're going, and I don't volunteer the information. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable. It's charged, electric. Every bump in the road that brings her shoulder against mine sends a current through my body. At some point, she leans into me, her head restingagainst my arm as I drive. Her weight, the warmth, nearly undoes me.
I wonder if she can feel it too, the force that binds us, knitting us together even tighter. It's become a physical force, pulsating in the truck cab's small space.
The afternoon sun is no less harsh than the morning one when we finally reach La Pesca Azul. The village looks much the same—a collection of weathered buildings clinging to the edge of the continent, the endless Pacific stretching beyond. Time feels like it moves differently here, measured by the pull of the moon rather than the light of the sun.
I park the truck behind an abandoned fish processing plant, and we continue on foot. I speak to an older man mending nets, my Spanish accented but easy. The older man directs us to a vacant bungalow at the edge of the beach. No one's lived there for years, he tells me, but the roof doesn't leak much.
The bungalow is small. There’s one room with a sagging bed, a kitchenette with rusted appliances, and windows cloudy with salt. The paint is peeling. But the view of the ocean is beautiful.
It's perfect.
I should be hungry. We haven't eaten since the diner. But food is the furthest thing from my mind as I watch Naomi step onto the small porch. She stands silhouetted against the setting sun, its dying light turning her skin golden. The sea breeze playing with her hair, lifting it gently from her shoulders.
When she turns to look at me, I see my own hunger reflected in her eyes, not for food neither. Hunger for me.
I cross the distance between us in three strides. My hands find her face, cradling it like something precious and fragile. The kiss softens. It’s not like the others. It’s not for show. Or desperate. Or stolen in the dark.
It’s slow. Soft. Not a plea but an offering.
My lips move against hers, asking for everything and giving all. My hands slide into her hair, down her back, pulling her against me as if I could merge our bodies through will alone.
And Naomi answers. Her arms wrap around my neck, her body arching into mine. She kisses me back with equal fervor, equal need, equal hunger.
For the first time since I became what I am, I feel human. Completely, devastatingly human.
Our hands work in tandem, as a team, stripping each other of our clothes. This time, we take our time. I take every possible moment to drink her in. Her body is gorgeous, every curve and line a testament to her strength, grace, and beauty. I trail kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, lavishing attention on her breasts, her stomach, every inch of her.
She trembles beneath my touch, her breath coming in short gasps. I can feel the heat radiating from her, the dampness between her legs. I'm rock hard and aching with need. We can't wait any longer.
We make our way to the bed. She gets on all fours without my prompting, and I follow her lead. I notch myself at her entrance, pausing for a moment. She pushes her hips back, rubbing her pussy on my cock, whining a little that I haven’t entered her.
So I do.
I grab a fistful of her hair, not pulling but holding. I don’t pound into her. I move in and out of her like the ocean waves outside—slow and deliberate, forceful and deep.
She opens further, craning her neck back, and I tug on her hair slightly. That causes her to moan. “Faster,” she begs. I begin to move quicker, each thrust more intense than the last. She’s so warm and wet. I’m not the ocean. She is. I’m submerged in her, and I can barely keep from drowning in her pleasure. Her moans climb in tone and intensity with everythrust, encouraging me to go harder. What started as tender morphs into raw, dripping, sweat-soaked passion. Our bodies slap together, the sound echoing through the small bungalow. Naomi digs her nails into my ass, urging me on. Faster. Harder. Deeper. I fist her hair harder, my teeth on her shoulder.
The room fills with the scent of sex and the sound of our ragged breaths. If she made me feel human before, she makes me feel like an animal now. Every nerve in my body is on fire, every sense heightened. I can feel her tightening around me, her body trembling with the force of her impending release.
"Walker," she gasps.
I thrust harder, deeper, giving her everything I have. She cries out, her body convulsing around me as she orgasms. The sight of her, the feel of her, pushes me over the edge. I spill into her, my release ripping through me like wildfire. Our mouths swallow each other's cries of pleasure, our bodies locked together.
In the aftermath, we lie entwined, the world outside forgotten. For a moment, spent and holding her, finally becoming one with her, I feel at peace.
But the euphoria fades quickly, replaced by something heavier, darker. The weight of my guilt presses down on me like the suffocating heat that hangs in the air of our little bungalow.
What have I done?
