by Rachel Lee
He turned her toward him, and the next thing she knew she was wrapped in his arms, and her tears were falling, falling, spilling like water too long dammed, her throat so tight it felt as if she were being garroted. Her eyes burned and her head pounded and her heart hammered...and the tears continued to flow. It had been a long time since she'd cried over this, and only in these minutes did she realize how heavy the burden had continued to be.
Eventually she became aware that Joe was rocking her gently, murmuring softly, nonsense mostly, things like, "It's okay...." It would never be okay. Never, ever. But some things just had to be lived with because there was no other alternative.
As her tears slowed and began to dry, she began to feel a bit surprised that he could be so gentle and kind. Kindness, in particular, was something she hadn't seen in his makeup, hadn't guessed was there.
Maybe, she thought, she'd been hypnotized by the marine illusion, the illusion of being tough enough to handle anything, no matter how painful. Can Do was another oft-spoken, unofficial motto. The Ruck Up, Suck Up and Press On mentality you met with if you evinced any emotional weakness.
And it was even worse for women, because women were always suspected of not being tough enough no matter what they did. Any tears she had spilled had been shed out of the sight and hearing of others, shed with shame for her weakness.
A thought occurred to her, and she lifted her face, looking up at Joe, feeling such a sudden and intense longing that it was difficult to speak. "We're not weak," she said. "We're human."
For a second he looked perplexed, then understanding dawned. "You're right."
"You're damn straight, I'm right. We have the right to grieve, just like anybody else. And when we're grieving, we have the right to lean. I just leaned on you. You can lean on me if you want. Or your sister. But you don't have to be ashamed of it."
He nodded slowly, then he drew her to the battered old sofa she'd bought second-hand because in her job you didn't accumulate furniture unless you had a family, and you certainly didn't get paid enough to buy new furniture, anyway.
It was comfortable, although it did tend to sag a bit in the middle, and it sagged now, easing them together. Bethany started to pull away instinctively, even though she didn't want to, but Joe's arm wrapped around her shoulders, keeping her close.
Never, not once in her life, had she felt such a sense of peace as pervaded her when he held her. It was like coming home after a long journey.
After a moment, her head nestled on his shoulder, and she gave herself up to the moment.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You're right, it's self-aggrandizing angst."
"That was harsh of me," she apologized. "I had no right to say that."
"But you were right about it, anyway. I was getting sick of myself days ago."
"Sick of what? You have a right to grieve."
"I was doing more than grieving. I was sinking into self-pity."
"Hmm." She snuggled closer, hardly aware of what she was doing. "So now it's ruck up, suck up and press on, as if nothing ever happened?"
She felt him move, maybe to look down at her. "Do I detect a note of sarcasm? "
"Maybe three or four notes of sarcasm," she admitted. "I mean...we may be marines. We may have jobs to do, and we may have to do them under unthinkable circumstances. But it's playing a psychological game of ostrich to think those things never hurt us. It's one thing to be tough and keep going. It's another to be emotionally self-destructive."
He didn't answer immediately, but that didn't surprise her. She swallowed a sigh, figuring at any moment he would turn on her again, accusing her of not being a good marine, or the equivalent.
But then he surprised her. "That may be true."
She wanted to look up at him, but didn't dare. "It is true. It took me until right now to figure it out, but now that I have it's as clear as a bell. There's just so much emotional pressure you can hold inside before something has to give. Either you go nuts, or you bury it so well that you become less than human. It's like amputating entire parts of your personality."
She felt his arm tighten around her shoulders, a comforting squeeze. Comforting, she hoped, for both of them.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Now she did look up at him. "Why should you be sorry?"
"Sorry for what you went through. You know, under pressure like that, we make the best decisions we can. I think I would have done the same thing you did. In fact, I'm sure of it."
She'd heard the bit about being under pressure before. It was the first thing her CO. had said to her. But nobody else had said he or she would have done the same thing. Nobody else.
"That's nice of you to say, but—"
"No, it's not nice. It's the truth. The first thing you think of is saving your buddies. I know. I've been in similar situations. Everything else can go to hell, but you gotta save your buddies. You did the right thing. The best thing. You had no way of knowing those marines wouldn't come out."
"I should have gone in myself!" And that was the biggest part of the wound, the part she had been trying to deal with ever since. A fresh wave of tears began to spill down her cheeks silently.
"No." Joe shook his head. "You had a responsibility to your unit. You had to stay with the rest of them. You had to keep them in order and be there to take care of them if something else happened. What you didn't do, Gunny, was abandon your post."
She closed her eyes, letting the pain take her, allowing herself to feel every aching bit of it. The grief was almost crushing, but she didn't push it away. Some part of her understood that she had to feel it.
"I sent three people to their deaths."
"That's command responsibility, Bethany. That's the hell of it."
She nodded slowly, accepting the truth of it. It still hurt, it would always hurt, but when you started to move up the ranks, that was part of the responsibility you took on.
"It doesn't feel any better," she said, her voice broken.
"No, it doesn't." He sighed, and she opened her eyes in time to see him rub his hand over his face. "It sucks, it stinks, it's hell. But it's the reality of what we do."
He turned his head a little and looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, but dry, as if he wanted to weep but couldn't. Then he shook his head and looked away again.
They sat like that for a long time, each of them lost in thoughts—thoughts that were probably very similar. Certainly Bethany didn't feel as if she was miles away from Joe. The silence was somehow comforting, soothing, as if understanding linked them at some deep level.
And gradually, something different began to grow in her. Something heavy and achy. Something that wanted to affirm life even as they were grieving their losses.
Something she tried to tell herself was utterly out of place.
Until his finger caught her chin and tipped her face up. Until his mouth latched on to hers as if he was desperate to drink the vitality of her.
Something wild and long forgotten rose up in her, answering him with all that she was.
Some wounds couldn't be healed. But they could be salved.
♥ Scanned by Coral ♥
Chapter 6
To Bethany, it seemed as if the hunger between them had a life of its own. It grew and raged so fast it was an almost instantaneous conflagration. The ache in her mushroomed until it filled every cell of her body, until her nerve endings felt as if they could bear no more.
She'd thought she'd left hunger and passion of this degree behind her years ago, but now she realized she had never truly plumbed the depths of desire. It was as if some great tidal wave had crashed over her, carrying her away, tossing her wildly with its power so that she no longer knew what was up or down. Robbing her breath from her until she was gasping.
Joe bore her down until she felt the couch beneath her back. Some part of her was loving the fact that he was carried away, too; some part was wondering at the almost animal intensity of her response.
Then thou
ght vanished completely and she became a barely restrained bundle of needs she couldn't deny. Buttons popped; she didn't know whose. Her breasts spilled free with a suddenness that was magical. The bare skin of his chest and back was inexplicably available to her palms, and she soaked up the wondrous sensation.
Not time for thought. Time only to lift her hips to allow him to ease her pants and undies down, a brief tug as her socks disappeared, a glimpse of his incredibly hard body, and then he was on her and in her so deep that she cried out with sheer amazement.
And just as quickly, they tumbled over the precipice together, with deep groans and a stiffening that drew them taut.
Then, of course, there was reality.
Lying beneath him, listening to his panting and hers, feeling his sweat beneath her palms, she momentarily considered digging a deep hole and hiding herself in it. Never, ever had she behaved this way. Never. It was as if something so raw it was scarcely human had burst out of her in a wild explosion.
Keeping her eyes closed, she considered all the ways she could escape. She was embarrassed. What would he think of her now? Oh, God, she couldn't believe how she had behaved. She wanted to crawl away in embarrassment at the way she had utterly lost control.
Oh, God, he was sliding away now. He would look at her, and she would die. How could she have given way like this?
Keeping her eyes closed, so she wouldn't have to read disgust in his face, wouldn't have to see him looking at her sprawled nakedness, she was startled when she felt his arms slip beneath her.
"Where's the bedroom?" he asked, his voice husky.
Her eyes snapped open as he lifted her from the couch. She felt as if she weighed nothing at all. The feeling, which once would have annoyed her, made her feel oddly comforted.
"Straight down the hall on the right," she answered, her voice muffled.
He carried her as if she were precious, his grip gentle yet strong. Turning sideways, he sidled down the hall so he didn't bang her against anything.
Then, carefully, he set her on her feet beside the bed, keeping one steadying arm around her waist as he pulled back the comforter and top sheet.
Then again she was lifted, as easily as eiderdown, and placed on her bed. The covers fell over her, warming her. Hiding her. Then, to both her relief and amazement, he slid beneath the covers with her and drew her close.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That came out of nowhere. I usually show a lot more...uh, finesse."
That was when she realized she hadn't wanted his finesse. That if he had lingered and coaxed her, something precious would have been lost, some barriers never would have crumbled.
She felt more vulnerable and open than she had ever felt in her life. But somehow, lying curled up in his arms, she felt as if that was just how it should be.
Lifting a finger, she laid it across his lips. "It's okay," she whispered.
He kissed her finger and smiled then, and the expression tugged at her heart. He had such a beautiful smile, such a rare smile. It seemed to warm her all the way to her toes.
His hands started to slide over her again, gentle strokes that, much to her amazement, were stoking the fire yet again. But slowly, more gently this time. As if there were all the time in the world, and every second was going to be savored. The ticking of the clock on her bedside table seemed to keep time with her heart.
Then his hand passed over her right shoulder blade. It paused. She knew what he felt, and closed her eyes tight, even though the room was dark. Ugliness.
He moved suddenly, pulling away, and the light flipped on. Then he was back, turning her gently, his fingers tracing the ragged line of the scar. "What happened?"
"When the bomb hit, I was thrown from my berth. I hit the corner of a footlocker." She didn't want to think about that now, but his fingers stroked the ugly line, as if they could erase it.
"How many stitches?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Whew. Anything broken?"
"I cracked my shoulder blade."
"Aw, Bethany..." Then he did something amazing. Bending, he kissed the ugly scar. "You're a hero. You did all that while you were bleeding, with a broken shoulder. You're incredible."
Although she wasn't quite ready to hear that, it was still as if some crevice in her heart healed just a bit.
"I've got matchies," he said gruffly.
Her eyes opened and she looked at him, suddenly no longer afraid of the light. "On your shoulder?"
He pulled the blanket down and showed her his lower left back, a two-inch scar. "Knife."
"How?" she asked. Close combat was rare.
He chuckled. "Mortars were coming in and I dove behind a tree. Stabbed myself with my own damn k-bar. Fortunately, it missed all the vitals."
Moved, she bent and kissed it. "Thank God," she agreed. Then she saw another scar, this one in his side, long, ugly and jagged. "What's that?"
"Bullet graze." This time his face darkened. "Too dumb to duck. I was going to be the hero. Four of my men got killed that day."
Her heart seemed to stop. Twice; he'd come so close to death twice. But of course. What did she think that purple heart with clusters meant, anyway? "Oh, Joe," she said, and kissed him there, too, dropping kisses along every inch of the mark.
"That one hurt like hell," he admitted. "Well, they both did, like being pounded with a hammer. But that one...sheesh. Broke a rib, and like an idiot I kept charging. I should've called in artillery. Instead, I just kept running until I was in the enemy hole. Then I started shooting. They took four of mine. I got...well, some of theirs. At the time it seemed like the right thing to do."
"I can imagine." Her eyes felt hot, as if tears wanted to start again. "And your shoulder?" There was another jagged scar there, in the hollow of his left shoulder, a fresh mark.
"Shrapnel. That was the day Kara was killed."
Bethany sucked in a sharp breath and looked at him. There was no mistaking the grief in his gaze, but he didn't have the hollow look she'd seen before.
Forgetting herself entirely, she pulled the covers back and looked him over. "What about your shin?"
He paused for a moment, as if pulling back from his memories, then laughed. "That, believe it or not, was trying to get into bed on a dark night. I misjudged the end of the bed and walked right into it."
She laughed and turned to kiss the angry red scar, and felt her breasts drifting over his manhood. Felt the hardness of him. A delightful shiver passed through her.
Slowly she turned her head, looking up at him. "Any other scars?" she asked huskily.
"Oh yeah. Every square inch of me is a scar."
There was probably an element of emotional truth in that for both of them, but a breathless little giggle escaped her, and she took him at his word.
Moving downward, she kissed the arch of his foot and felt him shiver. Encouraged, she dragged her tongue lightly over the sensitive flesh, and felt another shiver pass through him. A kiss for each toe—ten, just light little kisses then a lick for each instep. Another for the inside of each ankle, more lingering, more suggestive, until a heavy sigh escaped him.
With the lightest of touches, she dragged her tongue over his shins and the insides of his calves, feeling the tension in his legs until he said, "God, that tickles!"
Another giggle escaped her, but she didn't stop. Knees—sturdy knees—and a quick dart of her tongue around the inside to that exquisitely sensitive place not quite behind. He jerked, and a little laugh escaped her as a sense of delicious power filled her.
She truly had him at her mercy, and she loved it.
When she started to kiss his thighs, he gripped the sheet with both hands and groaned. Not yet, she thought. Not yet.
She bypassed his sex in favor of the hollows of his hips on either side. His muscles quivered beneath her mouth, and another groan escaped him. This time he writhed, as if trying to bring his manhood closer. But she eased away, denying him. Her way, her time.
The heat was filling her, t
oo, but instead of weakening her, it seemed to be making her stronger. More wicked. A shower of kisses across his abdomen promised, but didn't deliver.
"Bethany..."
She almost laughed, but somehow she seemed to have lost the breath for that. Higher, teasing, approaching his small erect nipples, then backing away. He writhed and groaned her name again, and this time she did the most teasing thing of all.
She backed away, and started on his hand.
"You tease!" he groaned, but she could hear how he loved it.
The heavy musk of lovemaking filled the air around them as she sucked each of his fingers slowly, taking her time. His palm was sensitive to the touch of her tongue, and the inside of his wrist. As soon as she released his hand, he was gripping the sheet again, fingers digging into the mattress as if he desperately needed to hang on.
The inside of his elbow drew a low moan from him, and she dallied there awhile before moving up his biceps, then on to his neck.
The cords there proved sensitive, too, drawing shudders from him as she kissed, then nipped him gently. And finally, finally, she closed her mouth over one nipple.
He jerked as if electrified, mumbled something about "you witch," as she nipped him, then her world turned topsy-turvy as he rolled her onto her back.
"Your turn," he said, and his dark eyes promised no quarter.
He straddled her, pinning her arms at her sides, and began to tease and torment her with his lips and tongue, giving kiss for kiss. Heavenly kisses, starting behind her ears, causing wonderful shivers to pass through her. Then down to her neck, grazing along the curve of her collarbone, soft dabs with the tip of his tongue in the hollow of her throat, wispy touches of lips taking her pulse. She arched her head back, baring her neck to him, open to her very core.
Now his teeth followed where his lips and tongue had gone, hard little nips that made her wince and growl and moan. Down over her shoulders, breasts, nipples, belly, until his eager mouth found and then avoided her molten, pulsing sex in a way that drew a shuddering cry from the back of her throat. On down her thighs to the backs of her knees, her calves, ankles and feet, his teeth maddening as they dragged across her soles.