Her Secret Life

A crash of thunder woke her. Kytra glanced out the window and in a flash of lightning, saw Ransom standing on the edge of the cliff in a violent rainstorm. He stood naked, his muscular legs apart and arms outstretched, his head thrown back, receiving the rain fully onto his face and over his body. His hair clung in a slick, yellow steak down his back. His wet body glistened outlines of his muscles in brief light flashes as a swirling black firmament roared around him. Kytra pulled on her bed slippers and a coat over her nightgown, and unlatched the door. It blew open with a cold spray of rain, knocking her back into the room. Unable to pull it closed after her, she left it, swinging at the mercy of the storm, scattering rain inside the house. “Ransom!” Kytra called to him, but she could barely hear herself and knew he did not hear her at all. She pushed against the furious rain until she stood next to him. But, when she opened her mouth to speak, Kytra found herself unable to say anything, to do anything, but to stop and to stare at him. In the downpour, Ransom was worshipping the Creator of Creation of his Indian tribe. She could only gaze upon his magnificence as he worshipped in his own way. His spirit and his body merged into one perfectly molded sculpture of raw emotion. Wet, naked, passionate, Ransom was the most beautiful work of art Kytra had ever seen. She sank, shivering, onto the icy wet rock, next to his feet and watched the rain stream rivulets along each line of his taut muscles, before dripping onto her. The long black braid down her back grew heavy with water. Stray hair hung in wet clumps about her drenched face. Kytra’s coat was soaked as was her gown underneath. Rain filled her slippers. Looking up at him, her eyelids batted the onslaught of cold rain. She did not know to what god he extended himself in humble nakedness and shameless spirit. She did not know what sacred image his heart and soul reached out to in silent communion. She had no idea what holy meditation kept him still and powerful on the edge of the cliff in the rain. But, whatever was sacred to him, Kytra knew only that her love for Ransom was sacred to her. Sitting next to him, she felt the warmth of his nearness. Touching the wet string of beads that hung loosely around his slick bare ankle, she slowly traced its circle with her fingertip along his skin. Kytra bent and kissed his ankle the beads rested on. Her tongue became thirsty for the rainwater that touched his body, and she felt she could not drink it from him fast enough with kisses.