Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

  His arms go around my back, holding me close. “I meant it, Reagan. I swear I did.” He swallows hard. “That’s not something I’d say without really meaning it.”

  I lift my face, touch my nose to his, stare deep into his green eyes. “And so did I. That was…what I just felt with you—there’s never, never been anything like it. So I’m not at all sorry it happened.” I feel everything inside me swell, feel impassioned blazing love. “It’s going to be fine. You and me together, right? Just—just stay with me. Don’t run.”

  “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  I kiss his cheek, just below his eye. “Then it’ll be fine.” I roll over, slip off the bed. I feel him watching me, and I add some slinky sashay to my walk. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

  I make it into the bathroom, get the shower running, and sit on the toilet and pee. And that’s when the worry hits me. The one time Tom and I had sex without using a condom, I ended up with Tommy nine months later. I’ve never been on birth control because it makes my hormones go wacky. I’m regular as clockwork without them, and my periods are usually not too bad. And Tom was gone so much, there was just no point. I wasn’t having sex, and I didn’t need the birth control to regulate anything, so there was just no need. Of course when Tom and I conceived Tommy, I was at my most fertile time of the month. He was at the tail end of his leave, and we were drunk, and then…oops.

  But just now, with Derek? God. So…fucking…intense. I never thought about it, never even considered it. I just needed him. Had to have him. Nothing else mattered, or even existed. And yeah, I’m a little worried I might have another little oops on the way come…June or July, if I’m counting right. It’s late September, so—yeah. June or July.

  But no. No. That’s not happening. It’ll be fine. Something tells me that would be more than Derek can handle. Right now, at least.

  I do my best to push those thoughts away, to stay positive. It’ll be fine. We’ll be more careful in the future. Turns out, though, that “the future” might be a little sooner than I anticipated. I shampoo my hair, rinse, lather conditioner in. Scrub myself, head to toe. Oh. Oh, god. Yeah, that’s a lot of come sluicing out of me, even after peeing. Keep washing, don’t think about it. I don’t even register the door opening, or the rings of the shower curtain scraping. All I’m aware of is the nearly scalding water on my back, and then hands on my waist. Lips on my clavicle. I smile and sigh, lick shower water off my lips and slide my arms around him, smooth my hands from his shoulders down to his ass and back up, tilt my head back and lean out of the stream, letting it hit him.

  Mmmmm. He’s hard again. Already. Jesus, the man has, like, zero refractory period. Lucky, lucky me.

  He groans low in his throat as I clasp my hands around him. Get him harder, get him ready. Then grab the shower gel and my purple scrubby-poof, get him soapy. Neck, shoulders, chest. His eyes close, and he lets me wash him. Back, thighs, ass. Pay special attention there, get him really clean. Smile up at him, love the way his wet hair is slicked back against his skull, the way water beads and drips down his chest.

  Ooops, how did I get down here, on my knees in front of him? Wash him here, too. All over. Nudge his thighs apart and make sure his balls are extra clean. Scrub the poof up and down his cock, over the tip, all around. He’s staring down at me, eyes hooded, and I can see he’s half-hoping I’m about to do what I absolutely am about to do. Half-hoping, yet also clearly worried it’s just too good to be true. Scrub his length again, then cup my hands under the stream of water hitting his chest, splash him to rinse the soap off. Take his tightened sac in my palm and his cock in my other hand.

  “Reagan?”

  I tilt my head and look up at him. “Derek?”

  “What—um, ahem—what are you doing?”

  I plunge my fist down around him, then back up. Slide my palm over the thick, broad head, caress the opening with my thumb. He likes that a lot. He squirms, squeezes his eyes shut, and opens them again.

  I shrug. “This.”

  Stroke with a feather-light touch downward, and at the same time I part my lips and take him into my mouth. He tastes clean, like nothing but skin. As I lean forward to take him deeper into my mouth, my sopping-wet hair flops down around my face. His hands slide past my cheeks and gather my hair up. Piles it onto my head, tangling his fingers into the thick mass. Tugs, just a little, as I draw my mouth up around him. When I twist my fist around his girth and slide my touch up and down, up and down, faster and faster, bobbing on him, he lets out a sighing groan, and his grip in my hair tightens.

  This is new. I’m not sure what to think, honestly.

  Obviously, I’ve gone down more than a few times before now, but it was only with—I can’t think his name, won’t, not now, not in this situation—and he would hold as still as possible, hands on my shoulders, squeezing to let me know when he was close. He would let go quietly, a slight groan, a gentle nudge of his hips. He was…careful with me. Polite. Considerate.

  Derek is different. He’s gripping my hair tightly enough that the roots at my scalp twinge, but it doesn’t quite hurt. He applies gentle pressure as he moves into my mouth. His hips flex, just a little. Not quite an actual thrust, but almost. And…I don’t mind it. It’s the same brand of I think it might be hot but I’m scared to give into it as my hesitant exploration of letting him touch my asshole.

  Everything with Derek is different, a little scary, yet it always ends up being amazing.

  I lift my head, turn my face to look up into his eyes. Keep stroking him, slow and soft. “Let go, Derek. Don’t hold back.”

  My heart is hammering, nerves welling up within me. I’m not sure I know what I’m telling him to do to me, or if I’ll like it. I’m putting a lot of trust in Derek to not do anything that will hurt me or make me uncomfortable.

  He just looks down at me, eyes heavy-lidded, jaw flexing and shifting. He’s breathing heavily, and his stomach muscles are tensed. I massage his balls, let my middle finger extend down the length of his taint. Press. Extend a little farther. Dare. His eyes narrow, and the grinding of his jaw quickens. Stroke him, fingers barely brushing his taut flesh. Keep my eyes on him as I slide my palm up over the head of his dick, cup and squeeze, twist, squeeze, keep the tightened grip as I stroke down. He exhales heavily, an almost-groan. As the tip of his cock peeks up over the edge of my hand, I take more and more of him into my mouth, pulling his length away so I can retain eye contact.

  “Oh—oh, fuck.”

  “Mmmmmm.” I hum around his cock, slide my tongue over him, taste the leak of pre-come.

  His eyelids flutter, his head falls back on his neck. He claws his fingers deeper into the wet, tangled mess of my hair and pulls my head down. Gently, slowly, but insistently. Giving me room to demur, but making it clear what he wants: Deeper. So I take him deeper, letting him push me down, open my throat. Taste his skin on my tongue, feel him at the back of my throat. Pump at the base of him, massage his taint. Back off, suction my lips around his head, my fist clenched beneath my mouth.

  And then Derek starts to thrust. Gently fluttering his hips, sliding his cock between my lips, through my fist. Fucking my mouth. He pushes at me, ever so gently, as he thrusts.

  “Mmmmm,” I hum, encouraging him. He likes this, and I love his pleasure, love feeling him lose control. “Mmmmhmmmm….”

  “Ohgodohfuck, Ree…so close.”

  “Mmmhmmm.”

  He fucks faster now, through my fist, and I taste pre-come strongly now. He’s groaning with each flex of his hips.

  A thought floats through my head. Earlier, in the forest, when I swallowed his come, I loved making him lose it, making him come. Feeling how crazy I had him. But I could do it without actually swallowing, which I don’t mind but isn’t my favorite. I much preferred watching it happen, watching the little hole at his tip spasm, watching the thick stream jet out, hit his skin. I liked watching him come onto my
hand, behind the barn. And now, having him right there on the edge, I have to figure out where to have him come. Not in my mouth, I decide. I don’t really like that. I never really have, I’m realizing. I’ve always swallowed—not out of obligation, because I did enjoy giving pleasure, just as I am now—but because that was just the way you did it. Less mess, for one thing. But…I’m in the shower with Derek. What better place to let him make a mess, to try something new?

  Derek is thrusting hard now and groaning, and I’m bobbing up and down on him, taking him as far in as I can, tasting him, feeling him. He’s close. So close. He tugs my hair twice.

  I spit him out of my mouth, look up at him, stroking him hard and fast, pumping him greedily. “Derek…watch.”

  His flexing hips falter, and his eyes flick open and fix on me, on my fists sliding hand-over-hand down his length. I feel his testicles tighten, spasm. Tilt his cock toward my body, arch my back, tits out. Grip him up near the head and pump. He groans, and his hips push, grind him into my hand.

  Now.

  He comes, a white flood of thick seed splashing onto my chest, hitting my tits and sliding down, washed away. I keep pumping him, milking him, and he comes again, another jet spurting onto my skin. He grunts and fucks into my hands, and I speed up the tempo of my hands on his cock. This time, I cover his tip with my fingers and we both watch the come seep out between my fingers, and I stroke him, smearing it on him, and then another short burst drips out of him, onto the tub. He doesn’t come anymore, but I keep stroking him until he pulls out of my hand and grabs me by the shoulders, lifts me up. Plasters me against the wall of the shower and kisses me, the water going lukewarm on our bodies.

  I pull away, smile at him, find the poof on the floor of the tub and squeeze the suds out. I wash his softening cock again, and then he takes it from me and lathers up my front, gently scrubbing each of my boobs and in between, underneath, lifting each one. We each rinse off, and then he takes a moment to shampoo his hair.

  We get out, and he dries me off, and I do the same for him. He runs his fingers through his hair instead of combing it, leaving it messy, while I brush my teeth and my hair. We do all of this in a companionable silence, although I can feel him questioning why I did it that way. I’ll wait for him to ask. We get dressed, him in the same clothes as yesterday.

  Which raises the question….

  “Derek?”

  He tugs his shirt down, glances at me. “Yeah?”

  “I think you should go get your stuff.”

  He frowns, misunderstanding. “Oh. Um. Okay.”

  I laugh. “No, Derek. Not go get your things and leave, go get your things and bring them in here.”

  “You’re…sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.” I wrap my arms around his middle in a hug. “I just made you promise me to not run, didn’t I? I want you here. With me.”

  He hesitates a few moments, thinking. “Okay. If you’re sure you want that.” He frowns down at me. “I still have nightmares, sometimes. Bad ones. Not as many, recently, but…they still happen.”

  “Did you have one last night?”

  “No,” he says. “But last night was special. I slept with you last night. Like, sleep-slept. That’s a first for me. I never—before, with anyone else, I’d just leave when I—when we…when—”

  I make a face. “Really? You’d just leave?”

  He seems upset by my reaction. “Yeah. I guess I wasn’t a nice guy then. I’m not that guy anymore, though.”

  God, I hope not. “Did you like it? Sleeping in my bed with me?”

  He grins. “It was…magical. Hope that doesn’t make me sound like a pussy, but it was really amazing. I loved it. Just holding you. Waking up with you.” His grin widens. “Especially the way you woke me up.”

  I cling to him, scratch the beard on his jaw. “I liked that, too. Loved it. Having you wake up beside me.” Kiss his chin, nip at his jaw. “Making love to you first thing in the morning.”

  I run my hand on his jaw again. I like the beard. Tom was always clean-shaven, being in the Corps. “Say it again. I want to hear you say—”

  I don’t have to finish. He’s cupping my cheeks in his big strong rough hands. “I love you, Reagan.”

  CHAPTER 17

  DEREK

  Two weeks. That’s how long heaven lasted.

  I’ve never in my life slept so well, so deeply, so dreamlessly. I would wake up each morning with a warm contented bliss washing through me, and the desire to never ever move, to burrow more deeply into bed, into the warmth, into Reagan. Sometimes I’d have a moment of panic, thinking it was all a dream, a new kind of nightmare. I’d jerk awake, seeking her. And I’d find her. Naked. Silk-smooth and beautiful and wrapped around me.

  She clings to me in her sleep. It took some getting used to, as I’ve never shared a bed before, but it was something I absolutely cherished getting used to. I would wake up in the middle of the night, drowsy and bleary and confused, and Reagan would be curled up on the other side of the bed, at the very edge. And just as I was about to reach for her, she would murmur and mumble, roll toward me, grab my thigh and pull me closer, tucking her head against my chest, and nuzzle against me. She’d fling her arm across my waist, run her hands sleepily over my hip and stomach again and again until she was satisfied I was there. I’m guessing that was it—confirming that I’m real, and there with her. I know that feeling. It’s how I wake up every morning.

  Is she real? Am I here, in her bed? In…our…bed? I get to touch her? Hold her, kiss her? Yes, I do. Thanks to god or whatever powers may or may not exist. Whatever concatenation of events led me to this place, this time, wherein I get to bask in the bliss of waking up next to Reagan every morning….

  Thank you.

  Because it’s the best my life has ever been.

  And it’s all because of what happened to Tom.

  I’m not sure I can be thankful for that. I can’t go there, mentally. I can only be thankful for now.

  Usually I’m the first to wake up. This morning I’ve been awake for a few minutes, watching her sleep, memorizing her features. Inscribing in my heart and mind the feel of her in my arms. And then she’ll make this little noise in the back of her throat, a stretching kind of moan—mmmmmmmmm—and her lovely pale blue eyes will be slits through her eyelids, and she’ll arch her back, sheet falling away to bare her lush, round tits. She’ll stretch her arms over her head, fists clenched and shaking as she tenses every muscle. I’m powerless to do anything but watch, and drink in her endless beauty. When the stretch ends, she somehow winds up molded to me, hair tousled and tickling my skin, her lips grazing my chest.

  Of course, by then my hands are exploring her, and her lips find mine, and our bodies meet and merge. I slide into her, and she moans. Then she’ll straddle me, but she doesn’t sit up, doesn’t ride me. This, in the mornings, is about closeness. She presses every last millimeter of her body against mine, lips to lips, until we can’t keep the kiss going and she has to seek purchase on my body, toes scrabbling against my calves, mouth on my collarbone to muffle her moans, hands in my hair and fisting in the pillow.

  It’s not until we’ve found mutual release in each other—always protected—that we exchange “good morning” and “I love you,” and get up for coffee and breakfast and the day’s work.

  Fifteen days.

  On the sixteenth day, nearing three months from the day I walked out of the hospital in San Antonio, things change. I walk into the farmhouse, sweaty from building a deck on the back of the house. It’s late afternoon. I hear a phone ring, once, twice, three times.

  I hear Reagan’s voice: “Hello?” I hear the shift in her tone as she responds to whatever was said on the other end of the line. “I—Yes. Yes, he is. Okay. Okay, thanks. ’Bye.”

  I lean against the kitchen counter, watching Tommy stacking Duplos as high as he can, then knocking over the tower. I feel heaviness in my chest. That wasn’t a good phone call.

  She comes into t
he kitchen, and she’s pale. Her hands are clasped in front of her stomach. Her eyes on mine are fearful, worried. “That was an officer from Camp Lejeune.”

  “Shit.”

  “They’re looking for you. They asked if you—if you were here. I told them you were. I’m sorry, I just I couldn’t—”

  I cross the space between us in two strides, grab her, and pull her against me. “Of course you couldn’t lie. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Reagan.”

  “They’re coming here. What do they want, Derek?”

  “Me. Guess they want me back.” I try to sound casual.

  “Will they—” She stifles a sob. “Will they send you…back?”

  I can only shake my head and shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll do my damnedest to get out of it, but…if they say ‘go,’ there ain’t much I can do except go.”

  “You can’t. You can’t.” Her fingers claw into my back. “I can’t—I can’t send you off, too. Not you. Not again. I did it for eight years with Tom. And I lost him. I can’t lose you, too. I just got you, Derek. You can’t go.”

  I have no words of comfort. “I don’t want to go.”

  “How can they make you? After what you went through, how can they make you?”

  “I’m a United States Marine. They own me.” Truth is a bitter fucking pill sometimes.

  Heaven is a delicate, fragile thing. A brittle cocoon spun of ghost-thin dreams and ethereally faint hope.

  So easily shattered.

  * * *

  They didn’t waste any time. They arrive the next morning at nine, in a Humvee. I see the dust of their arrival and wait for them on the front porch. I’m wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else, no shirt, barefoot. Drinking a beer. Stubborn.

  I’m not a Marine anymore is the message.

  Reagan is inside, sitting on the couch. Curled up, a yellow legal pad on her thighs, a black ballpoint pen scribbling frantically. She won’t look at me. Tommy is watching Jake and the Neverland Pirates. I know the names of his favorite shows now.