Chapter 4: Gabby's Turn at the Fire
The game drive had been a bust.
Three hours of bouncing over rutted tracks and we'd seen exactly one elephant, a herd of impala that scattered before anyone could get a decent photo, and a distant blur that Dylan swore was a leopard but was probably just a rock.
Gabby had fallen asleep against my shoulder somewhere around the second hour. Savannah had spent the whole drive alternating between scanning the horizon and sneaking glances at Gabby's sleeping face. Dylan had narrated the entire experience like a disappointed tour guide.
"On your left, folks, you'll see absolutely nothing. On your right, more nothing. And if you look really closely at that bush, you might spot the ghost of a lion that died of boredom."
Savannah had thrown a granola bar at his head.
Now the sun was down and the fire was back up and the wine had been poured twice. The same four chairs ringed the same scorched earth. Same canvas tent looming behind us. Same moon, lower now, orange and heavy, throwing jagged shadows through the acacia branches.
But everything else had shifted.
I could feel it in the way Gabby sat—legs crossed, back straight, watching Savannah with an expression I couldn't read. In the way Savannah kept touching her own collarbone, tracing the spot where Gabby's mouth had been that morning. In the way Dylan kept grinning at nothing.
The moka pot sat abandoned by the fire. Nobody had mentioned coffee. Nobody had mentioned dinner. The wine bottle was half empty and we'd only been out here twenty minutes.
"So," Gabby said.
Savannah looked up. "So."
"Last night."
"What about it?"
Gabby leaned forward. The firelight caught her face and turned her eyes into something molten. "You owe me."
"I don't owe you anything."
"You promised. This morning. You said it was my turn to dare you."
Savannah took a slow sip of wine. Deliberate. Unhurried. She was buying time and we all knew it.
"I said you could try."
"That's not what you said."
"It's what I meant."
Dylan laughed. He was sprawled in his chair with his legs stretched toward the fire, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him in months. "Just take the dare, babe. You know you want to."
Savannah shot him a look. "Whose side are you on?"
"Yours. Always yours." He raised his glass. "But also the side that gets to watch."
She shook her head. But she was smiling. That slow, dangerous smile from this morning—the one that meant she'd already decided and was just enjoying the buildup.
"Fine," she said. "Dare me."
Gabby stood up.
She walked around the fire slowly, barefoot on the packed earth, and stopped in front of Savannah's chair. The fire threw her shadow long and crooked across the ground.
"Stand up."
Savannah raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. She set her wine glass in the dirt and rose.
They were the same height. I'd never noticed that before. Standing this close, eye to eye, they looked like mirror images—one dark-haired, one blonde, both flushed with wine and firelight and something else entirely.
"Here's the game," Gabby said.
"I'm listening."
"You answer my questions. Honestly. No deflecting, no jokes, no bullshit."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you take something off."
Savannah's lips curved. "That's not a dare. That's a strip tease."
"It's both."
"What do I get if I answer?"
Gabby considered this. "You get to ask me one. Same rules."
"And if I don't like your questions?"
"Then you lose an item. Same as lying."
Savannah glanced at Dylan. He shrugged, still grinning, still holding his wine glass like this was the best entertainment he'd had in years.
She looked back at Gabby. "Deal."
Gabby circled her once. Slow. With each step she disappeared behind Savannah's body and reappeared on the other side, until she was standing in front of her again.
"When did you know?" Gabby asked.
"Know what?"
"Don't. First question. When did you know you wanted me?"
The fire cracked. Embers popped and scattered.
Savannah didn't flinch. "The weekend at the coast. Two years ago. When you wore that green bikini and Dylan kept telling you to put sunscreen on your back and you kept saying you'd get to it."
"I remember that bikini."
"I remember you bending over to pick up your towel."
Gabby's breath caught. Just a fraction of a second. Then she nodded.
"Take something off."
"That wasn't a lie."
"I know. But I like watching."
Savannah held her gaze for a long moment. Then she reached down and pulled her tank top over her head. One motion. No ceremony. She dropped it on the ground beside her chair and stood there in a black bra, arms crossed, waiting.
The firelight painted her skin in shades of copper and shadow.
"Next question," she said.
Gabby circled again. This time when she came back around, she was closer. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"Did you ever think about me? When you were with Dylan?"
"Every time."
"No hesitation."
"You wanted honesty."
"I did."
Savannah's hands moved to the button of her shorts. She undid it slowly. Let the fabric fall.
"I thought about you when he kissed me," she said. "When he touched me. When I was on top and he looked up at me and I wanted it to be your face."
The shorts hit the dirt. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
"That wasn't a lie either."
"I know."
"Your turn."
Gabby nodded. She was breathing faster now—I could see it in the rise and fall of her chest, the way her pulse moved under the skin of her throat.
"Ask."
Savannah reached up and traced Gabby's jaw with one finger. Gentle. Almost tender.
"When you went down on me this morning," Savannah said. "What did you taste?"
The fire popped again. Dylan shifted in his chair. I forgot how to breathe.
"Wine," Gabby said. "And salt. And something underneath that I didn't have a word for."
"Was it good?"
"I didn't want to stop."
"Then why did you?"
Gabby's jaw tightened. "Because I wasn't done. Because there was more I wanted to do. Because I've been thinking about it for years and one morning wasn't enough."
"Take something off."
Gabby pulled her dress over her head in one motion. The fabric whispered against the fire and landed somewhere behind her. She stood in her underwear—simple, practical, nothing special. She'd worn it this morning because she hadn't planned on anyone seeing it.
Savannah looked her up and down. Slow. Thorough.
"Beautiful," she said.
"Ask your next question."
"I'm thinking."
"Then think faster. I'm getting cold."
Savannah laughed. It was the same unguarded laugh from this morning—the one that sounded like something breaking loose.
"Fine. When you and Brandon are together. In bed. Do you think about me?"
Gabby didn't answer immediately.
She looked at me instead. Just a glance. A question I didn't know how to answer and didn't need to.
"It's fine," I said.
She looked back at Savannah.
"Yes," she said. "For the last two years. Every time he's inside me, there's a part of me that's wondering what it would feel like to have you there instead."
Savannah's composure cracked. Just for a second—a flicker of something raw and hungry behind her eyes. Then she smoothed it over and reached behind her back.
Her bra came off. Dropped to the ground.
"Question," she said.
"Go."
"Do you want to finish what you started this morning?"
Gabby's answer was to reach down and pull Savannah to her.
Their mouths met—hard, messy, the kind of kiss that isn't about romance or tenderness or anything soft. It was about relief. About finally.
Savannah's hands went to Gabby's hips. Gabby's hands went to Savannah's face. They stood there in the firelight, two women in nothing but underwear, kissing like the world was ending.
Dylan set his wine glass down very carefully. Toppled over anyway.
Nobody noticed.
I sat frozen in my chair, watching. My wife. Her best friend. The fire throwing their shadows against the tent canvas like something out of a fever dream.
Gabby broke the kiss. Pressed her forehead against Savannah's and breathed.
"I want you on the blanket," she said.
"Which blanket?"
"Both of them. I don't care."
Savannah stepped back. Grabbed the two camp blankets from their chairs and threw them on the ground by the fire. Close enough to feel the heat. The fabric was rough and worn and smelled like woodsmoke.
She lay down. Looked up at Gabby with that same challenging smile.
"Show me what you've been thinking about."
Gabby didn't need to be asked twice.
She knelt between Savannah's legs. Ran her hands up Savannah's thighs—slow, reverent, like she was mapping territory she'd only visited in dreams. Savannah's breath hitched.
"Tell me if—"
"Don't stop."
Gabby didn't stop.
She started with her mouth on Savannah's stomach. Soft kisses that moved lower. Savannah's hips twitched. Her fingers found Gabby's hair and twisted.
"Please."
"You asked for honesty," Gabby murmured against her skin. "Here's mine. I've wanted to do this since the first time I saw you."
Savannah made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
Gabby kept going.
When her mouth finally found Savannah—really found her—Savannah's whole body arched off the blanket. She cried out, sharp and sudden, and her fingers tightened in Gabby's hair hard enough to hurt.
"Oh god. Oh fuck. Gabby. Gabby."
I'd never heard Savannah say my wife's name like that. I'd heard her say it in greeting, in laughter, in annoyance, in passing. I'd never heard it like a prayer. Like a plea. Like the only word she knew.
Dylan had stopped pretending to be casual. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, staring at his wife like he'd just met her. Like he'd been seeing a photograph his whole life and someone had finally shown him the real thing.
Brandon, he said, without looking at me.
Yeah?
Are you seeing this?
I'm seeing this.
His mouth was open. He didn't seem to notice.
On the blanket, Savannah was coming apart. Her hips moved in circles, chasing Gabby's mouth. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts that matched the rhythm of Gabby's tongue. The firelight danced across her skin and hers was sheened with sweat.
"I'm—" she started.
Gabby pulled back. Just far enough to speak.
"Not yet."
"Fuck you."
"Later." Gabby's mouth returned.
Savannah screamed.
Not a loud scream. Not a performance. A real one—raw and broken and involuntary. Her body convulsed. Her heels dug into the blanket. Her hands pulled Gabby's hair so hard I was surprised she didn't scalp her.
And she kept saying Gabby's name. Over and over, like a chant, like a prayer, like a lifeline, until it dissolved into breath and whimper and the soft crackle of the fire.
Gabby crawled up her body. Kissed her cheek. Her forehead. The corner of her mouth.
"Okay?" she asked.
Savannah laughed. Weak. Shaky. Whole.
"Ask me another question."
"You don't owe me any more answers."
"I know. Ask me anyway."
Gabby looked at her. Then at me. Then at Dylan.
The fire popped. The moon hung low and orange above the acacia branches.
"Ask me anything," Savannah said. "I'm done lying."
Gabby sat up. Reached for the wine bottle. Took a long drink and passed it to Savannah.
"Later," she said. "Right now I want something else."
"What?"
Gabby looked at me. That same glance from before—but different this time. Not asking permission. Asking for participation.
I stood up. Walked over to the blanket. My shirt came off and hit the dirt somewhere.
Savannah looked up at me. Then at Dylan. She reached up and took my hand and pulled me down beside her.
"Come here," she said.
I went.
What happened next didn't happen in words. It happened in touch. In heat. In the slide of skin against skin and the taste of wine and sweat and something else—something that didn't have a name.
Gabby lay back on the blanket. Savannah positioned herself between her legs—mirror of what had just happened—and looked up at me.
"Dylan," she said.
He was already moving. Already there.
Gabby reached for me. Pulled me down beside her and kissed me while Savannah's mouth worked lower. I felt her tongue on my wife—not me—and the sounds Gabby made went straight to my spine.
I moved lower. My mouth found Gabby's breast. Her hand found my cock. Savannah's hip pressed against my thigh, warm and insistent.
Then Savannah pulled her mouth away from Gabby. Turned toward me. Took me in her hand and then her mouth and the world went sideways.
Gabby shifted. Her mouth found Savannah's shoulder. Her hand found Savannah's ass. She pulled Savannah closer and the three of us moved together—my cock in Savannah's mouth, Gabby's hands on Savannah's body, Savannah's fingers still buried inside my wife.
Dylan knelt beside us. Didn't say anything. Just watched. Just waited.
Savannah reached back without looking. Found him. Pulled him closer.
She took him in her hand. Then her mouth joined her hand and I felt her throat work around me. She was doing both of us—alternating, back and forth, her mouth moving between us like she couldn't decide which she wanted more.
Dylan made a sound. Wordless. Broken.
The hyenas laughed somewhere beyond the thornbush. A high, cackling chorus that sounded almost human.
Gabby came first. Her hips bucked and her nails dug into Savannah's ass and she bit down on Savannah's shoulder—hard, claiming, leaving a mark that would still be there tomorrow. Savannah moaned around me and the vibration pushed me closer.
Then Savannah. She pulled her mouth away and buried her face against my thigh and shook her way through it, her hand still working Dylan with a rhythm she couldn't stop.
Dylan came with a groan that set the hyenas off again. He spilled across Savannah's hand and she lifted it to her mouth and licked it clean without breaking eye contact with him.
I finished looking at my wife.
She was watching me—watching all of it—with this expression I'd never seen before. Not jealousy. Not judgment. Something closer to wonder. Like she was seeing me for the first time. Like we'd been married for years and only now were meeting.
I came with my fist wrapped in Savannah's hair and my eyes locked on Gabby's.
Afterward, we lay tangled on two blankets dragged together. The fire had burned down to embers—low and red and pulsing like a heartbeat. The moon had moved past the acacia branches and the shadows had shifted.
We smelled like smoke and sweat and spilled wine. Someone's leg was over someone else's hip. Someone's hand was in someone else's hair.
Savannah reached over and found Dylan's hand. Squeezed.
"Best holiday we've ever had," she whispered.
He laughed. Low. Tired. Happy.
"Bush rules," he said.
She elbowed him. "Shut up about bush rules."
"Make me."
She did. Leaned over and kissed him slow and lazy and spent.
Gabby rolled onto her back. I found her hand in the dark. Laced our fingers together.
"How are you?" she asked.
"Good. You?"
"I don't know yet." She turned her head. Looked at me through the dying firelight. "Ask me tomorrow."
"Okay."
Savannah sat up. Slowly. Reluctantly. The blanket fell away from her shoulders and she didn't bother pulling it back up. She looked at Gabby. At me. At Dylan.
"I want to do it again," she said. "Not tonight. But soon."
"Tomorrow?" Dylan asked.
"Maybe." She smiled. "Depends on how good the coffee is."
Gabby laughed. That warm, open laugh I'd fallen in love with years ago. The one she'd had before the wine and the game and the heat.
"It's instant," she said. "So probably not tomorrow."
"Then the day after."
"Deal."
Savannah lay back down. Curled against Dylan's side. He wrapped an arm around her and closed his eyes.
I looked at Gabby. She was still watching me.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." She squeezed my hand. "Everything."
The fire was almost out. The hyenas had gone quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a nightjar started its churring song.
Gabby shifted closer. Pressed her face against my chest.
"I love you," she said.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"I love you too."
She sighed against my skin. Not sad. Content.
Tomorrow there'd be coffee to make and camp to break and a five-hour drive back to the city. Tomorrow there'd be inside jokes and sideways glances and the soft afterglow of asking for what you want and getting it.
But right now there was only this. The four of us on two hard blankets. The last embers of the fire. The first pale fingers of a moon that had seen everything and judged nothing.
I closed my eyes. Felt Savannah's hair against my ankle. Dylan's foot against my shin. My wife's heartbeat against my ribs.
The last thing I heard before sleep was Savannah whispering something to Dylan into the dark.
He laughed. Soft and low and happy.
Then nothing but the nightjar and the breeze.
I woke to the smell of rain.
Not the polite drizzle you get in the city—thin and apologetic, barely enough to wet the pavement. This was the real thing. Fat drops hammering the canvas of the tent, sliding down the seams in sheets, hammering the ground outside like a drum.
Somewhere in the night we'd moved inside.
I didn't remember doing it. Didn't remember waking, didn't remember gathering blankets or stumbling across the clearing. But here I was—on my back on the bedroll, staring up at the canvas roof, listening to the storm try to drown us.
Gabby was curled against my side. Her hair was a disaster and there was a bruise on her shoulder that I hadn't put there.
Savannah's leg was still tangled with mine under the blanket. Dylan was snoring on the far side of the tent, flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes like he was blocking out the sun he couldn't see.
The fire outside was dead. I could picture it—a soggy ring of ash and half-burned wood, the wine bottle tipped over in the mud, two blankets abandoned on the wet ground.
Nobody had picked up. Nobody had cared.
I shifted onto my side. Gabby mumbled something and burrowed closer. Her breath was warm against my collarbone and her skin smelled like smoke and the vanilla lotion she'd brought from home.
"Time's it," she whispered.
"No idea."
"Where's the sun?"
"Behind the rain."
She opened one eye. Closed it again. "What time did we come inside?"
"Don't remember."
"Mm." She pressed her face into my shoulder. "Good."
Savannah stirred. Her leg pulled away, then came back. Her hand found my ankle in the dark and squeezed once before letting go.
"You awake?" I asked.
"No."
"Liar."
"Fine. I'm awake." She rolled onto her back. Stared at the canvas. "My mouth tastes like the floor of a shebeen."
Dylan snorted. Not quite awake. Not quite asleep.
Savannah kicked him. "You too."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
He sat up. Slowly. Groaned. Scrubbed both hands over his face and through his hair until it stood up in directions that defied physics.
"Where's the water bottle?"
"Somewhere out there." Savannah gestured vaguely toward the tent flap. "With the blankets. And the wine. And my dignity."
"Your dignity's fine." Gabby's voice was muffled against my skin. "You left it somewhere between the fire and the third orgasm."
Savannah laughed. Then winced. "Don't make me laugh. Everything hurts."
"Good hurt?"
"Ask me in an hour."
I sat up. The tent spun gently and then settled. My back ached from the blanket on the hard ground. My shoulder throbbed where Gabby had bit me that first night—the mark was still there, yellowing at the edges, a perfect crescent of teeth.
I touched it. Pressed down. Felt it.
Gabby opened her eyes. Watched me touch the mark she'd left. Didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
"What are we doing today?" Dylan asked.
"Not moving," Savannah said.
"Not ever?"
"Not until the rain stops."
"Forecast said it would clear by noon."
"Forecast said we'd see a leopard."
He flopped back down. "Fair point."
The rain kept coming. Heavy and relentless and rhythmic. It was the kind of storm that made the whole world smaller—shrunk it down to the canvas walls and the body heat and the soft percussion of water on fabric.
Gabby sat up. Pulled the blanket around her shoulders. Looked at me, then at Savannah, then at Dylan.
"So," she said.
Savannah propped herself on her elbows. "So."
"Last night."
"What about it?"
"I want to talk about it."
Savannah was quiet for a moment. The rain filled the silence. Then she nodded.
"Okay."
"No games. No dares. No wine."
"I'm sober," Savannah said. "Unfortunately."
"Me too." Gabby pulled her knees to her chest. "I'm not—I don't want you to think this was just. A thing. That happened."
Savannah waited.
"I've wanted that for a long time." Gabby's voice was quiet. Steady. "Two years. Maybe longer. Since that weekend at the coast."
"The green bikini."
"Yeah."
"The green bikini." Savannah smiled. Small and private. "I remember trying not to stare at you the whole weekend. Dylan kept asking what was wrong with me."
Dylan raised a hand without opening his eyes. "I figured it out eventually."
"You didn't say anything."
"What was I going to say? Hey babe, I noticed you keep looking at Gabby's ass like it owes you money. Want to talk about it?"
Gabby laughed—a real laugh, startled out of her. Savannah threw a pillow at him. It hit him in the face and he didn't move.
"I'm just saying," he mumbled into the pillow. "No secrets. That was always the deal."
Savannah looked at him. Something passed between them—a whole conversation in a glance. Married-people shorthand. Then she turned back to Gabby.
"He's right," she said. "No secrets."
"And you're okay?" Gabby asked. "With all of it?"
"Which part? Watching you with my husband? Having your husband inside me while you watched? Or the part where I couldn't stop saying your name?"
Gabby's cheeks flushed. Even in the dim tent, I could see it.
"Any of it."
Savannah reached across the space between them. Found Gabby's hand. Held it.
"I'm more than okay," she said. "I've been waiting for this since the coast. Probably longer. That time we all went to that wine farm—remember? And you got tipsy and kept putting your head on my shoulder."
"That was nothing."
"That was everything."
Gabby looked down at their hands. Then at me. Then back at Savannah.
"I don't know what this looks like," she said. "After we leave. Back home. Back to normal."
Savannah nodded slowly. "I know."
"I don't want it to be just a holiday thing."
"Neither do I."
Dylan sat up. This time he was actually awake—rubbing his eyes, yawning wide, looking at the three of us with an expression that was patient and gentle and completely without judgment.
"Nobody's saying it has to be," he said.
Gabby looked at him. "You'd be okay? With—whatever this is?"
"I don't know what this is." He shrugged. "But I know I'm not jealous. I know I liked watching. I know my wife—" he paused, looked at Savannah, "—has been happier these last twenty-four hours than I've seen her in months."
Savannah's eyes went glassy.
"And I know," Dylan continued, "that I'd rather figure it out with all of you than pretend it didn't happen."
The rain softened. Went from hammering to steady to a gentle hiss.
Nobody spoke for a while. We sat in the tent with the sound of water dripping off the canvas and the smell of damp earth and each other and the weight of something new settling over all of us.
Then Gabby let go of Savannah's hand. Lay back down. Pulled the blanket up to her chin.
"Breakfast?" she said.
"Pancakes," Dylan said immediately. "There's a place outside Hoedspruit. Forty minutes. Best in the province."
"That's forty minutes in the rain."
"It's a real breakfast. Hot. Not instant coffee and stale rusks."
Gabby turned her head. Looked at me. "What do you think?"
I thought about the rain. The long drive. The four of us in a car together, smelling like smoke and sweat and the last two nights, sitting around a table like normal people.
"Let's go," I said.
Savannah was already reaching for her clothes. Paused halfway. Looked at Gabby.
"Come here."
Gabby crawled across the bedroll. Savannah kissed her—slow and soft and without any agenda. Just a kiss. Just because she could.
"Okay," Savannah said, pulling back. "Now I'm ready."
I found my shirt. Pulled it on. It smelled like smoke and spilled wine and something that might have been Savannah's perfume.
Dylan was already dressed. Already at the tent flap, already unzipping it, already staring out at the rain and the mud and the gray morning sky.
"Road's going to be a mess," he said.
"We'll take it slow."
"We'll take it very slow."
Savannah pushed past him. Stepped out into the rain. Tilted her head back and let it soak her face and her hair and her borrowed flannel shirt.
Gabby watched her from the tent. Watched the water run down Savannah's neck. Watched her turn around and grin like a kid.
"Coming?" Savannah asked.
Gabby looked at me. I shrugged. She smiled—that warm, open smile from before everything changed. From before the game and the dares and the dark.
She stepped out into the rain.
I followed.
Dylan was last. He zipped the tent closed behind us and stood there for a second, looking at the three of us standing in the mud and the rain and the gray morning light.
"Bush rules," he said.
Savannah threw a handful of wet leaves at him.
"Shut up about bush rules," she said. But she was laughing. We all were.
We walked to the car. The ground squelched under our feet. The rain kept coming and the fire pit was a soggy black circle and the two blankets we'd made love on were soaking wet and nobody cared.
Dylan unlocked the Land Cruiser. We piled in—wet and muddy and smelling like the last two days.
The engine turned over. The wipers scraped the windshield. The road ahead was a wash of brown water and red earth.
I sat in the back with Gabby. Savannah rode up front with Dylan, her hand resting on his knee. He drove carefully—slower than I'd ever seen him drive—and the rain kept coming.
Halfway to breakfast, Gabby leaned over. Her mouth found my ear.
"Hey," she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not making it weird. For—" she paused. "For letting me figure it out."
I turned my head. Looked at her. Wet hair and smudged mascara and a mark on her shoulder that I hadn't put there.
"You figured it out?"
She glanced at Savannah—at the back of her head, at her hand on Dylan's knee. Then back at me.
"Not yet," she said. "But I'm getting there."
The rain kept falling. The road kept going. The four of us sat in the warm cab of a borrowed SUV, heading toward pancakes and whatever came next.
That was enough.
For now, that was everything.