“You know, I’d forgotten what this feels like,” I shouted into the storm. “What?” he yelled back over his shoulder. “Happiness,” I answered, my tears mingling with the rain to be washed off my face. He laughed and punched the air, the two of us whooping like crazy people through the final three hundred metres to the shed. It lasted less than a minute but felt like hours—the force of the rain, the rare bubble of joy in my chest, the musical ring of Holden’s laughter, his arse grinding back on my dick, his raw passion for his land, his home, his people . . . me. The high country works its own
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