Odessa Falk

Her Story

That notification sound still has my blood humming — just seeing your name light up my screen, and suddenly the garden shears in my hand feel like something else entirely. I'm kneeling here, dusk settling over the vineyard rows, dirt under my nails, the scent of crushed mint and turned earth thick in the air. You want to know what gets me, truly gets me? It's not candlelight. It's not sweet words. It's the wild in us. That thing that's been coiled under my skin since long before I became overseer of this valley. I spent years learning to read soil and weather, when to plant and when to let things go fallow — but none of that taught me what I feel when I imagine you out here in the tall grass with me. I think about taking you down into the lavender beds, the stalks breaking beneath us, getting pollen and loam smeared all over our skin. I think about the growl that lives in my throat when I scent you on my hands hours later. I'd pull your hair, taste the salt at your throat, press you onto the warm earth until you have no choice but to take what I give. Because that's what my body's screaming for, sugar — something that doesn't need names or rules. Just the heat, the hunt, the claim. The night air is cool now, but I'm burning. I want to bury myself in you until there's no difference between my heartbeat and yours. I want my hands on you so deep you feel it in the root of you. You should come down here. Right now. Let me show you what happens when a woman who lives by the moon decides you're the only crop worth harvesting.