The rain didn’t fall; it threw itself at the earth in heavy, silver curtains, hammering the deep green leaves and turning the forest floor into a slick, breathing mire.
She was barefoot. She had left her shoes in the back of the car, abandoned on the gravel, because she couldn’t stand the feel of them for one more second. The mud was cold, soft, and alive between her toes, squelching against her arches as she ran.
The white cotton dress was a thin, pathetic shield against the downpour, and it failed immediately. Within seconds, the fabric had turned to liquid. It clung to the hard points of her shoulders, the taut lines of her ribs, the soft curve of her waist. The sheer material melded to her skin, no longer hiding the pale, nude geography of her body but painting it with a wet, translucent sheen. The white lace at her neckline sagged, heavy and slick, grazing the tightened peaks of her breasts as she moved.
She didn't care.
The water plastered her dark hair to her scalp, into her eyes, down the long, bare line of her neck. She laughed out loud, a raw, breathless sound that scratched her throat, her eyes squeezed entirely shut against the sting of the rain. She tilted her head back, letting the downpour hit her face, her lips parted, her teeth gleaming.
Her legs carried her deeper into the woods, her thighs driving forward, the wind flaring the soaked hem of her dress up against her hips. She wasn't running from the rain. She was running with it, letting it beat against her skin, letting the sheer, clinging fabric rub against her body in rough, electric friction every time her legs crossed. She felt the sharp, cooling rush of water on her stomach, the hot, buried flush of her own blood fighting against it.
She held a long, green leaf in her hand, crushed from the underbrush. She didn't know why she had grabbed it. It was just something living. Something wild.
She twisted her torso, looking back over her shoulder toward the empty trail behind her. The mud slid under her heel, and she felt the delicious threat of falling, the fine, vibrating tension of her own body fighting for balance.
She was alone. The air smelled of crushed grass, wet dirt, and the raw, animal scent of her own skin. The thick, dark woods swallowed the world, leaving nothing but the white, glowing orbs of rain catching the sun—suspended, shimmering halos drifting around her like ghosts.
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest rising and falling heavily against the wet, clinging cotton. She was soaked to the bone, shivering, her nipples taut and visible through the layered, damp sheer of the bodice. And still, she laughed.
She was running, soaking wet, barefoot in the mud, fully exposed under a flimsy white dress that was no longer covering her. She felt the heavy, sensual weight of her own flesh, the sharp, grinding heat building in her thighs as the wet fabric slid against them.
She was completely wild. Completely loose. And for the first time in years, she felt the raw, terrifying, thrilling ache of her own body taking over.