Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “For what?” I ask as I stare at her perky tits, watching as her nipples turn to rigid peaks.

  “To stay in bed all day, fucking and watching football?”

  My eyes leave her chest and meet hers. She’s got a sexy grin working her lips as she rocks her body against my dick.

  “Are you real?”

  She throws her head back and her laughter fills the room. Fuck, it fills me, occupies all the hollow pieces of me.

  “Of course I’m real,” she says with a big smile as she leans down and smacks her lips against mine. “Do you feel that?” she whispers against my mouth as she slides her pussy over my cock. “Yeah, you do,” she answers. “How can you not?”

  I don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about; if she’s talking about the way she’s teasing my cock or if she’s referring to that fucking lightning between us.

  I feel them both.

  And they’re both fucking real.

  Reaching up I take her face in my hands and pull her mouth back to mine, kissing her, robbing her air and giving her mine. Her lips part for my tongue and I take her. I fuck her mouth nice and slow, lazily stroking her tongue savoring every taste. Her moan excites me but it’s not what I want. I want her to say my name. I want her to scream it, to cry it; then I want her to curse it when she can’t walk, when she can’t talk because I’ve fucked her silent.

  Then I’ll tell her she’s my old lady.

  Good plan.

  Works well with her plan too.

  We’re already compromising like a couple.

  We’ve got this shit.

  Pulling away from my mouth, she lifts her hips as her hair falls over both of us, cocooning us. My hands move to her hips and I arch off the bed as she sits on my cock. My eyes fall to where we’re joined and I’m put in a trance as I watch her pussy swallow my cock, taking every fucking inch of me deep and bare.

  “Is it real for you yet?” she rasps, sucking my lower lip into her mouth.

  It was real the moment I fucking laid eyes on her.

  It was real when she took that first ride on my bike.

  And it's fucking real now that’s she riding me.

  Breaking the kiss, she sits upright on top of me and rotates her hips as she gives me her eyes. I don’t blink, not sure I even breathe as I watch her reach up and play with her tits. Pinching her nipples, twisting them until she cries out and quickens her pace. She’s in her own world, or maybe it’s just the world where only she and I exist—the same world I’ve been stuck in since the day I met her.

  I reach between us, find her clit and start to play with it. Her eyes go wide and her movements jerk as she tries to steady herself.

  “I’ve got you,” I ground out as I hold her in place with one hand and continue to work the sensitive bundle of nerves.

  “Let go, pretty girl.”

  She listens and I feel her tighten around me.

  “That’s it,” I rasp, as she braces her hands on my chest and cries out her orgasm. She drops her head against my chest and I wrap my arms around her, rolling her onto her back as I keep myself buried inside of her. I take her hands, place them above her head and watch as her fingers tighten around the wrought iron of her headboard.

  “Hang on,” I tell her as I bend my head and suck her nipple into my mouth.

  “Stryker,” she cries out.

  Sliding out of her, my mouth releases her turgid nipple and travels down her stomach. I slide my hands to the insides of her thighs and push her legs as far apart as they go before I slide further down the bed and my face hovers over her sweet cunt.

  “So fucking wet,” I say, sliding my fingers over her. “You want to come again, pretty girl?”

  “Mmm,” she moans.

  “Don’t worry you’re going to,” I promise, taking my wet fingers and wrapping them around my cock. I close my eyes, pushing the need for release out of my head because I’m not ready for it to be over, not when there’s so much more I still want to give her.

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. We’re going to fuck all day, right? Your words.”

  “Yeah, we are,” she breathes.

  “Then there’s plenty of time for me to get there,” I tell her, releasing my grip on my cock as I bow my head. “Right now it’s all about you, pretty girl. Lose your mind, let go and let me take care of you.”

  “You already do,” she whispers.

  “It’s not enough,” I tell her.

  It’s not and I’m not sure anything I give her will be, but I’ll keep trying until I can’t anymore, until it’s physically out of my means to try to give her anymore.

  I spread her apart with my fingers and let my tongue take a lap at a heaven a man like me has no business having, but a heaven this soldier won’t surrender. Her taste hits me, her scent engulfs me, churns all my senses to shit and I lose myself in the high of getting her off again.

  My fingers dig into her ass cheeks and I bring her closer, burying my face in-between her legs as I suck and nip at her clit. She writhes beneath me like a snake in the grass and her hands grip my head, pressing my face where she needs me. I break for air, bringing my hand around and slide three fingers inside her. She’s so fucking wet I bet I could get my entire fist inside her, and for a moment I wonder if she’d mind.

  The thought flees me as she grabs my ears and tugs.

  “Fuck,” I grunt.

  “I’m going to come again,” she hisses.

  “Yeah, you are,” I say, curling my fingers inside of her.

  “Not without you,” she says, clenching her teeth. “And not without your name,” she adds, reaching in-between us and wraps her hand around my wrist.

  “Give me your name.” Her pretty eyes plead with mine.

  I momentarily stare at her, not moving, just picturing her writhing beneath me crying out my name. It’s a fucking pretty picture. Withdrawing my fingers, I move back up her body, position my aching cock with her pussy and bend my head to kiss her lips. Kissing is almost as good as fucking her.

  Almost.

  Fucking her as she screams my name—yeah, nothing will probably ever compare to that. Certainly not kissing her.

  “Chase,” I mutter against her lips.

  Her mouth goes still, and she leans back to search my eyes.

  “Chase,” she whispers, testing my name on her tongue.

  “Sounds good,” I say, because it does. It sounds all sorts of good, good enough to want to be Chase Kincaid again and not just a drifter named Stryker.

  “Chase,” she repeats, this time with a smile on her pretty face.

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “Fuck me, Chase,” she demands.

  Gladly.

  Four hours later my dick is dead. After breakfast, said dick makes a comeback and I fuck her in the shower. Staying naked all day, we watch football and order a pizza. I spend the day teaching her the game and by the time the Giants take the field she knows what a touchdown and a field goal are and who the quarterback is.

  Progress.

  Her brother never calls me and I honestly forget about him. I forget every goddamn thing, where I’ve been, the things I’ve seen and the shit I’ve done. I laugh with her, smile at her—I live, I simply fucking live.

  When night falls, she’s lying in my arms, tracing the tattoos on my arm with her index finger and that’s when I give it to her.

  The truth of who she is.

  “I’m keeping you,” I say against her hair.

  “Oh, you think so, huh?” she teases.

  “Look at me,” I order, watching as her head rises from my chest and she looks up at me. “I told you we didn’t need a label, that we should just be who we are and fuck everything else,” I say, running my finger down the bridge of her nose. “I lied. I want you to be my old lady.”

  She remains quiet for a moment.

  “Aww you want to grow old with me. That’s cute.�
��

  “Gina.”

  She bursts out laughing as she sits up, taking the sheet with her and tucks it under her arms.

  “Relax, Stryker, I’m a Netflix junkie and I binged on Sons of Anarchy. I know what you’re saying,” she grins. “You want me to be your girlfriend.”

  Such a ridiculous word.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I stare at her and reach out to pull the sheet from her body.

  “You’re already my girlfriend,” I tell her. “Just thought you and everyone else should know.”

  “Just take it,” she says, shaking her head with a smile. “Just take my heart.”

  With pleasure, pretty girl. With pleasure.

  “You sure about that? I won’t give it back.” I run the back of my hand down her face and lift my gaze to hers. A man can both lose himself and be found in those eyes of hers, but the only man that will is the one she’s staring at now.

  “Promise?”

  “Swear it.”

  She throws her arms around my neck and I smile as I wrap my arms around her.

  My girl.

  My pretty girl.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I handed Stryker my heart, the piece of me I’ve kept guarded for so long. I think that’s what makes it so sweet. After giving up on finding someone to entrust the only fragile piece of me, the most unexpected person came along and asked to claim it.

  To claim me.

  My heart.

  Now his.

  I didn’t believe today could get any better; that he could give me anymore of himself, then he did when gave me his name. He fell asleep in my bed, in my arms and before I did, allowing me the opportunity to watch him unguardedly.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here on my side, my head propped on my hand as I stare at him, but I could remain this way until the sun rises. Knowing few, if any at all, have had the privilege of a stolen moment like this—I ingrain every piece of him to my memory and fill all the voids inside my heart with his features. The same as he has done night after night since the first time he stayed with me.

  Suddenly the features I’ve memorized begin to change as his eyebrows draw together and his lips pucker. I study his expression, watch as his entire face contorts with pain as he groans, all the while still sleeping.

  “Stryker?” I say softly, unsure if I should wake him or not.

  His head jerks from side to side but his eyes remain closed. My eyes travel the length of him as his body goes as stiff as a board and his hands ball into fists at his sides.

  “Motherfucker!” he shouts, before releasing an anguished scream.

  “Stryker,” I yell as I close my hand around his bicep and try to wake him. “Baby, wake up.”

  His eyes are squeezed tightly shut as his body shakes and his jaw locks. I glance down at his body, searching for a way to sooth him when I see the blood staining the white sheets by his leg. I scramble to my knees and peel back the sheet with trembling hands. Instantly, I spot the open wound that wasn’t there before and I lift my hand to his face.

  “Stryker!”

  His eyes snap open as his hand wraps around my wrist and those soulful, brown eyes of his flicker with vengeance. Before I can tell him he’s okay, before I can tell him about his leg, he throws me off of him. My reflexes defy me and I fall backward onto the floor.

  “Ouch,” I cry as the back of my head collides with the night stand. Shocked, I try to regain my composure, remembering he’s not in his right mind; that he’s been tortured defending our country and hasn’t healed.

  This isn’t him.

  He was having a nightmare.

  He’s still working through it.

  He’s bleeding.

  I need to help him.

  Ignoring the pain in the back of my head I scramble to my knees.

  “Stryker, it’s me…it's Gina…your pretty girl, remember?” I plead with him, crawling to the side of the bed as he swings his legs over the edge and glares at me. I turn my head, unable to witness the torment in his eyes and turn my attention to his leg, wondering if he even realizes that he’s bleeding; that he has a hole in leg.

  “Fuck you, you terrorist cunt,” he sneers.

  His hands wrap around my neck and with a strength I’ve never seen before, he lifts me by my neck and slams me against the wall.

  “Stryker,” I choke.

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” he hollers. “You made me do it. You! You’re the reason I fucking killed that boy.”

  “Please,” I rasp, reaching for his hands.

  He stares at me blankly, blinking slowly as I struggle to breathe. Then as quickly as his hands latched onto my neck, they fall and I fall to the floor gasping for breath.

  “Oh my God,” he whispers, backing away.

  Bringing my hands to my bruised neck I lift my head and watch as he retreats. Staring at me in shock, he swipes his hands over his face.

  “No, no, no…what did I do?”

  “I’m okay,” I croak, forcing myself to my knees as his hit the edge of my bed and he drops back onto the mattress.

  “Stryker,” I rasp, taking a deep breath before I continue. “Look at me, I’m fine…”

  I’m not fine.

  I’m scared shitless.

  My throat is on fire and my lungs feel like they’re as bruised as my neck.

  But he’s worse. His mind is a million miles away in a dessert surrounded by terrorists and war. He’s still bleeding and I have no idea why.

  He peels his hands away from his face and looks back at me, staring at my face for a moment before his gaze drops to my neck.

  “Stop,” I order. “I’m okay…please believe me when I say I’m okay.”

  “What have I done?”

  Dread churns inside me and I realize I’ve lost him. He’s not my Stryker, he’s a prisoner of war and I don’t know how to rescue him.

  “You’re bleeding,” I tell him as I hesitantly reach for his leg, unsure how receptive he will be to my touch. His eyes remain fixated on my neck and he doesn’t answer. A moment later he glances down at his leg and winces.

  “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me what to do,” I whisper. He didn’t push my hand away from his knee so I bring my hand to his face and slowly turn his eyes to me.

  “Show me how to help you,” I plead with him.

  His lips part but no words escape them and instead he shakes his head, gently removing my hand from his face. He glances down at my other hand and turns back to me.

  “Please don’t touch me,” he all but whispers.

  Obeying his wishes, I drop my hand from his knee and continue to stare at him expectantly, waiting for the next words he speaks.

  “I can’t do this,” he says, looking away from me.

  “Stryker, please look at me,” I whisper.

  “I can’t look at you.”

  “Fine, don’t look at me yet, but you’re bleeding…”

  He doesn’t look at his leg but places his hand over his knee where mine was just moments ago.

  “Shrapnel,” he mutters, before he forces himself to stand.

  “Stryker, sit down,” I order. “We need to clean you up and see how bad the wound is.”

  Finally, his eyes turn back to me and he shakes his head.

  “We aren’t doing anything. I’ll handle it.”

  “No,” I defy. “Let me help you.”

  “Don’t you understand? I don’t want your fucking help. I don’t deserve your fucking help.”

  “Stop it!” I reach for him but he flinches and limps a few steps out of my reach.

  “I told you not to touch me,” he growls.

  “Fine, I won’t touch you.” I tell him, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry.”

  He continues to look at me and I begin to think he’s coming back to me but then he turns around and grabs his clothes from the ch
air.

  “What are you doing?” I ask nervously.

  Of course he doesn’t answer me as he slides his arms through his sleeves and tugs his shirt over his head. He sucks in a breath and leans against the wall, taking the pressure off his leg momentarily.

  “Sit down before you hurt yourself,” I command, crossing the distance between us. He pushes himself off the wall and pins me with a glare.

  “Would you stop?” he growls. “Look at you, look at what you’re turning into.”

  “What I’m turning into?”

  “What you’re turning into,” he repeats, shoving his good leg into his cargos, before screaming out in pain as he lifts his injured leg and forces it into the pants.

  “You’re going to make it worse. It has to be cleaned out and what if there is still more inside trying to work its way out of your body?”

  “For the love of God, shut up. I can’t listen to you anymore. Do yourself a favor, a real big favor and go into the bathroom, go on and go…GO!”

  “Stop yelling at me,” I snap.

  “Well it’s about fucking time you showed up,” he sneers. “Thought the next words out of your mouth were going to be it’s my fault. Then you’d nail the whole battered woman thing.”

  “I’m not a battered woman,” I shriek. “I’m not a victim! You weren’t yourself.”

  He laughs as he bends down to put his boots on.

  “My mother used to say that line too, pretty girl. Right after my father downed a bottle of whiskey and beat the fuck out of her.”

  “Was your father a drunk or was he a veteran who was scarred from the horror he lived fighting for our freedom?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he growls, turning his back to me.

  “Sure it does. Your father chose to be abusive. What just happened was not by choice.”

  Abruptly he turns around and stalks toward me to the best of his ability. I narrow my eyes as I stand my ground and wait for the ignorance to pour from his mouth, but instead he catches me off guard by rearing back his hand. I flinch and step out of the way before his hand can collide with my cheek, but the blow never comes and when I turn to him he nods in satisfaction.

  “Point proven,” he whispers.