He looked up at me as he slowly stood up, his one eye hungry with desire. I kissed his neck, careful to give his wounds extra attention. I wanted to take my time, explore every inch of his body. It would take me a lifetime to memorize it, but I might only have this one night. I kissed his chest, lavishing love on his nipples. I massaged his hard flesh, all the while studying the scars and tattoos on his muscular frame.
What was his story? Where was he from? What had happened to him?
I licked my way down all eight sections of his abs to his happy trail before dropping to my knees. His shorts were still on, so I unbuckled his belt, pushed down his boxers, and his huge cock stood at full attention. Wow, it was beautiful—thick, long, and harder than concrete.
I took a moment to look up into his eye and smile. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t taking pity on him—I wanted this, I wanted him. He was the hottest man I’d ever seen, and the scars only made him sexier to me.
He bit his lip and ran his fingers through my hair. My mouth opened and my lips created a seal around his cock, and he let out a heavy grunt. I licked the head and did my best to take him deep. I’d never really enjoyed giving blowjobs, even though I’d wanted to please my ex-boyfriends. But pleasuring the man standing above me, his sculpted body naked for my eyes only . . . for the first time in my life, I truly appreciated how sexy this act was. How giving him this pleasure might take away even a small bit of his pain.
He groaned and his eyes hooded. “That’s it, baby. Suck me hard.”
I obeyed his command, locking my eyes with his. I took him deeper, sucked harder, my hand wrapped around the shaft. I needed to give him pleasure, make him need me.
I wanted to taste his hot cum in my mouth, but he pushed me off of him. I rose, never losing his gaze. He threw me over his back like he was some caveman and I was his possession, opened his bedroom door, and tossed me down on the bed.
He reached for a condom, ripped open its package, and rolled it on his cock. I touched his hand. I had so many questions, but before I could open my mouth, his body hovered over me. He asked me if I was sure, and I gave him an affirmative nod and a breathless yes. He exhaled one deep breath, parted my thighs and slid inside me, setting my every nerve on fire. He grabbed my hips and pushed deeper. I was so wet for him, my pussy clamped around his cock.
“Baby, you’re so tight.”
I moaned and he pulled out and thrust fully inside me. He pinned my hands behind my head and fucked me.
“How do you want it, baby?”
Lust had taken over my mind. I had only one goal—to completely lose myself in this moment, and have him lose himself inside me. “Hard and rough.”
“My kind of girl. Spread your legs, baby, that’s it.”
He pushed my legs back so my knees were near my neck. I arched my back and he thrust harder, faster, rougher, my pussy stretching to take him, take him deep. His left hand clutched my ass, pulling me into him, ensuring my clit received the indirect stimulation that I craved.
“So fucking sweet. Show me how much you want me.”
And I did. I writhed under him, working my hips, rocking back and forth for him, like I was performing an intimate dance just for him.
“That’s it, baby. Take me deep.” He squeezed my hand and pumped deeper, rubbing my nipples. He was so huge I was astounded that I wasn’t in pain, but I was loving every to-the-hilt second of him being inside me.
He released my hands, pulled me up so we were facing each other, and wrapped my legs around his waist. His mouth sucked on my tits, and I almost came again, but he slowed the pace, edging me like I’d only read about in my romance books. “Not yet, sweetheart. You don’t come until I say you come. Ride me now; don’t hold back.”
My hips swiveled around his cock, my clit rubbing against him. My ecstasy came in waves, but every time I was close, he somehow managed to change his pace, not allowing me to go over the edge, to end this moment.
He slapped my ass and pulled my hair. “God, you’re so fucking sexy. Good girl. Do you want to come?”
“Yes.” I ground deeper into his body, savoring his touch, his silent intensity, his beautiful cock. I was so wet, so hot, every cell in my body bouncing in euphoria.
“Say it. Tell me what you want.”
“Make me come.”
Mouth on my nipples, he grasped my hips in both hands and pounded me down on his cock, finally setting me free. I let out a scream as he held me close, rocking my body through my orgasm. A final deep thrust and he let out a guttural groan. Then I collapsed in his arms.
We cuddled for a few minutes, our bodies intertwined in the now green-stained sheets. The silence was awkward; I didn’t know what to say. Despite my assurances to myself that I could handle this random hookup, a wave of guilt crashed down on me. I couldn’t believe I just had sex with this man.
I didn’t even know his name.
I wondered what this naked man next to me was thinking.
My fingers traced the scar on his shoulder. “What’s your name?” I whispered.
“Grady,” he said in a low tone.
Grady? Holy shit! As in Grady Williams? The war hero? I’d read a magazine article about him. He couldn’t be. But Grady wasn’t a common name.
I popped up in bed and stared down at him. “You’re Grady ‘The Beast’ Williams? The youngest living Medal of Honor recipient?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ay dios mío!
There had been a before picture of him in the magazine and I remembered thinking he was so handsome, but I hadn’t recognized him tonight underneath all his scars.
“Oh my God! You’re a hero. My dad’s, like, obsessed with you.” So obsessed, in fact, that my father dreamed of writing Grady’s war memoir. My mind raced, trying to recall all the details of the article I’d read. Grady was legendary. This badass had thrown his body on a hand grenade to save his friends’ lives.
He rolled away from me and sat up on the side of his bed. I sat next to him and noticed his hand was shaking. “I’m not a hero. I was just doing my job. Fucking bullshit that I was given an award to remember the worst day of my life.”
This guy blew my mind. “Are you kidding me? You saved the lives of your friends—you could’ve died. You threw yourself on a grenade, Grady. How are you not a hero?”
“Anyone would’ve done it.”
Um, okay. Not true. Hell, my old dance partner once used my body as a shield because he didn’t want to get wet in the Splash Zone at SeaWorld. Worse yet, he split the second my life fell apart.
“So that’s why you freaked out back there?”
I wanted to feel something, connect on more than a physical level. I’d always been fascinated with warriors—I’d written a paper for my classics course on “The Ancient Greek Hero”—it was about time to get to know the modern version.
He didn’t reply, not that I expected him to, and instead stood and walked into the bathroom. I heard the water turn on and I lay back down, paralyzed in bed.
I’d just been fucked by the man the press hailed as “America’s Bravest Beast.”
Grady
I scrubbed the green body makeup off my chest, the saccharine sweet aroma filling the shower—at least it smelled better than the coppery scent of blood. I flashed back again to that night, the image of my buddy’s brains strewn on cammies before my body imploded. No matter how many fucking therapy appointments I had, no matter how many bottles of vodka I drank, no matter how many girls I fucked, every time I closed my eyes, I was right back in Iraq.
Black Widow, AKA Isa, however, had done something that no girl had done since I’d been back. She didn’t abandon me after one of my episodes. In fact, she chased me down to make sure I was okay.
I had been shocked she ran after me. Her presence calmed me down faster than I normally would have had I been alone.
I never realized how much I needed someone to care about me.
After forty surgeries, flat-lining twice, and excruci
ating rehab, I definitely had my share of freak-outs. Fireworks, of course, were an obvious trigger, but lesser things set me off too. The sound of dogs baying in the night, the scent of diesel, the crush of a huge crowd. After a few too many flashbacks, my ex-girlfriend flipped out, packed her bags, and left without looking back. Fuck that bitch. All those nights in the hospital, dreaming about her, and she left me the second she could conjure up an excuse. But I knew the truth—it wasn’t because of my nightmares; it was because she couldn’t stand to be dating a circus freak. Her new boyfriend was one of those collegiate pretty-boy types—lean body, shaggy hair, looked like he could be an Abercrombie & Fitch model. He could blend in at her country clubs, where I’d always stand out like a mutant.
But I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to deal with my problems. Even in Beauty and the Beast, at the end the Beast turns into a prince. I would always remain a one-eyed jackass.
I stepped out of the shower. By now, I’d given Isa enough time to flee the scene of the crime. No matter how she tried to hide it, I saw her look of disgust when she saw my face. And this girl had recognized my name—she’d definitely find an excuse to bail.
Back in the bedroom, I was shocked to find her still naked, curled in a ball on my bed. I’d expected her to already be dressed, phone and keys in hand, ready to make an exit.
She was so fucking hot and I’d seen her somewhere before, but I couldn’t remember where, which wasn’t surprising with my memory loss. Looked like an angel—well, the Victoria’s Secret kind. Her long hair cascaded around her chest, the wisps barely covering her nipples. Her green eyes were the color of kryptonite, and her tanned skin was completely smooth. And her body—full, natural breasts, tiny waist, and a tight, round booty.
I recognized her, but where the fuck from?
Before my injuries, I never forgot a face, which was why I knew I would’ve made an excellent scout sniper, my dream job. But I would never qualify anymore with one eye and a spotty memory.
Her pupils appeared dilated and she pulled at her hair. “Hey.”
Yup, she was definitely looking for a reason to bail. “Hey. I’m going to drive you home.” I walked over to my dresser, threw on some boxer briefs, gray sweatpants, and a T-shirt.
Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, okay. I hoped I could hang out for a bit.”
Kickass. Maybe I’d read her wrong and she was up for another round. Maybe she even could look past my face. “Okay. You want some pizza?”
She hopped out of bed, and I stared at her naked ass as she walked into the bathroom. This chick was fine as all hell. She looked like a movie star—she definitely didn’t want to date a guy who looked like the Terminator.
When she came out of the bathroom, I handed her a T-shirt of mine, hoping that when she finally grew sick of looking at me, she’d leave it behind and her scent could comfort me for a few days.
God, when did I become so fucking pathetic?
That was easy—the night my face was blown up.
She went into the living room, slipped on her panties, and sat down on the sofa.
I warmed up some slices of Round Table pizza. The silence was awkward. I shouldn’t have told her my fucking name. Now she’d probably interrogate me and I’d have to relive that night. Not that I could ever forget it—it played on an endless loop in my head.
I sat down next to her and handed her a plate.
Her lips widened into a smile. “Thanks. So, just wanted to tell you not to worry about what happened at the party. I’m a psych major, and I want to apply for a doctoral program in clinical psychology after I graduate. I’m a really good listener if you want to talk.”
Great. I fucked a shrink. Well, a future shrink. This chick wanted to lay me down on a sofa and instead of riding my cock, force me to confess my deepest sins. Most women tried to fix men anyway, but this woman was going to school for that shit. I didn’t need her to pity me.
“I’m good. Talking never solves anything.”
She pursed her lips, and I turned away when I caught her staring at my face. “I disagree.”
My breathing accelerated, and I could feel my pulse quicken. “Yeah? Well, you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about. All the shrinks I’ve met do nothing but try to numb me on drugs. This one jackass told me that I should just get over my friend dying, treat his death like a bad breakup with a girlfriend. Fuck that dude. I have shrapnel from my buddy’s skull embedded in my neck and my fucking psychiatrist thinks I should just get the fuck over it?”
She inched over to me on the sofa and placed a cautious hand on my thigh. I liked the way she touched me. She stroked my forearm, and I imagined her stroking my cock.
“Your therapist was clearly incompetent. But there are treatments that work,” she said, her tone warm and soothing. “I just read a study that Transcendental Meditation really helps people with PTSD.”
“Sounds like some quack hippy bullshit to me.” I glared at her. “Fucking you was the best therapy I’ve had in months.”
She bit her lip and removed her hand from my thigh.
“Hey, I’m sorry.” Man, I shouldn’t have said that. My grandma would whip my ass if she ever heard me talk to a girl like that. These days I’d lost my impulse control. The sooner Isa realized that I’d become a complete asshole, the sooner she would leave.
But I wanted her to stay.
“It’s okay.”
We finished our food in silence.
“So are you getting out of the Marines?”
“I don’t want to, but I’m pretty fucked up, so I’ll probably get forced out—it’s for the best. I don’t wanna be some fucking POG stuck at a desk, a twenty-year staff sergeant.”
Her brow crinkled. “I don’t understand. What’s a POG? I thought you were a sergeant?”
I’d forgotten how to talk to civilians. “Person Other than Grunt. I am a sergeant. I meant that being a scout sniper was the only thing I ever wanted to do. I’d been selected for sniper course, but because I lost my eye, I’m ineligible. So I’m nothing but a grunt.”
Grunt, that’s who I was.
A warrior.
A motherfucking beast.
“Oh. Well, you can do anything now. You’re a hero. Go to college, go on one of those cheesy reality shows, write a war memoir . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Fuck that. Why was everyone nagging me to go to college? I wasn’t a dumbass, and I didn’t need a goddam degree to prove that I was smart.
I hated reality television. My buddies gave their lives for our freedom and no one remembered their names. Yet these asshat celebrities posted selfies of themselves licking donuts and wearing American flags and were treated like gods.
As for writing a book, that sounded worse than therapy. I never wanted to be a public figure. The last thing I wanted to do was to have the details of my fucked up childhood exposed for the whole world to read.
“I’m not cut out for college because I can’t remember shit with my brain injury. And actually, a producer asked me to be on that dumbass dance show—Dancing under the Stars. I guess every year they try to get some fucked up vet to compete, to balance out all the fame whores. I told him I’d rather go back to Iraq.”
She closed her eyes for a second, a pained look on her face. “Don’t blame you. I hate that show. It’s so fake.”
Her tone sounded bitter, but it was refreshing to meet a girl who didn’t seem to be obsessed with celebrities.
“And I’ve had several agents and writers hassling me about writing a book, but I can’t write and I don’t trust anyone with my story. So that’s never going to happen.”
Her mouth gaped, as if she wanted to say something else, but instead she just took another sip of her beer.
This sucked. I didn’t want some chick telling me what to do, trying to inspire me. I yearned to take care of a woman, have her need me, not the other way around. “Why do you want to be a shrink? You must be pretty messed up—all the shrinks I’ve met had some serious
issues.”
She shifted in her seat and stared toward my balcony. “My mom died four years ago. I went through a really rough time, so studying psychology helped me.”
Fuck, I was being a complete dick. I wasn’t used to people being this open with me. Most girls just blew smoke up my ass. Even so, Isa clearly saw me as a project, someone to fix. Not as an equal. Not as a man. Definitely not as potentially her man.
“Sorry about your mom. My dad left before I was born, and then my mom abandoned me—I haven’t seen her in years, though she must think I’m rich because she keeps trying to contact me ever since I got my medal. My grandparents raised me.”
She nodded, and I could almost see her mind racing, creating some kind of psychological profile of me, pieced together from her knowledge of my actions that led to my Medal of Honor, the flashback she witnessed, my scarred face and body, and the brief tidbits I’d just offered.
Enough. This session was over.
I turned on the TV, landing on a channel airing the Country Music Awards. I didn’t want to talk anymore, but I didn’t want her to leave.
I never wanted to go out anymore—I’d become a recluse, holed up in my own world, alone with my demons. I’d only left tonight because I could go in costume, and look how that turned out.
Even so, I felt comfort in sharing our silence. After a few more songs, I knocked back my beer and knelt in front of her.
I lifted the T-shirt off of her body and just stared at her, sitting on my sofa in nothing but her black lace panties. Her cheeks were flushed; her breasts were soft and round, real. Her nipples looked like ripe cherries.
Her gaze focused on my face. She reached her hand out to touch my skin, and I recoiled.
“No, let me look at you,” she whispered.
Fuck it; I wanted to get laid again, so I’d do whatever it took. If she wanted to examine me like some sort of circus side-stage attraction, I’d let her. Her soft fingertips traced my flesh, the charred remains of my ear, my scarred body.
Heroes Ever After Boxset: Books 1-3 Page 4