Wargasm

by Sosie Frost

  “Didn’t need the leg to do the deed.” Brian gave his eyebrows a waggle. “Tell me they let you finish.”

  Gretchen salvaged enough of her pride to smile. “No. We didn’t want to bring the plane down.”

  The crowd laughed—a cluster of four men who would ultimately become my superiors, men I’d intended to impress. Apparently, they only needed an awkward story and finger of whiskey to forgive the missed interview.

  Or maybe it was Gretchen who’d worked her magic. It was a hell of a lot easier to forgive a man when the most beautiful woman in the world apologized on our behalf.

  I hated it.

  Hated how she needed to humble herself, embarrass herself, as she endured yet another retelling of the tale. How we were not only caught in the bathroom, but were hauled back to our seats, handcuffed, detained until the diverted plane landed at the wrong airport. We were interrogated, humiliated, and finally set free once the TSA and Marshals discovered the only weapon I carried was no longer a threat. Gretchen’s ovulation must have passed.

  Fred ordered me a second drink. I’d hardly finished my first, but at least the glass prevented me from clenching my fists.

  “You can’t get in that sort of trouble overseas,” he said.

  Brian agreed. “Well…you can…but it might not turn out as well. Good thing your record is impeccable, Marius. Saved you a night in a jail cell.”

  Fred snickered. “But those beds are a hell of a lot more comfortable than an airplane toilet.”

  It’d been the sink, but I wasn’t correcting him. I clenched my jaw, wondering how many more times he could tell the story before my molars cracked.

  “Yeah…” I said. “That’s the exact reason I joined the Navy.”

  Fred toasted his glass towards Gretchen. Nearly spilled half the liquid. “You won’t find a girl that pretty in the Navy…and you gotta travel a hell of a long distance to find them that dark.”

  Jesus fuck.

  Gretchen seethed, but she had more discipline than me anymore. “Marius has excellent taste.”

  Brian winked. “Could use a taste myself, just don’t tell my wife!”

  “Careful, this one’s taken…” Fred gave Gretchen an inappropriate glance. “Heard she’s expecting.”

  Brian finished his whiskey with a gulp. “Makes ‘em that much wilder.”

  Gretchen coiled her hand around my arm before I raised my fist. She patted her stomach and offered the lie.

  “Sorry, boys. Missed your chance.”

  Brian nodded. “Who can blame a man? But, I’ll tell you what, there’s a supply closet down the hall…bet you two can squeeze in there. Finish what you started.”

  It was the alcohol talking.

  Hopefully the whiskey would dull the pain when I ripped his dick off.

  Gretchen prevented me from making any mistakes, quickly laughing off the impropriety. “Again, we’re so sorry for causing such a disruption to everyone’s day. We never thought…things would get so out of control.”

  Fred cackled, his voice hoarse with the drink. “To be young again. Hell, if I were in your shoes, I’d have done the same thing.” He dared to slap my shoulder. “Oh. I guess your shoe.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Right.”

  Brian sweated, his head as shiny as an ice cube. “Marius, you celebrate that leg. Fuck on an airplane. Take some time off. Spend that disability money. You earned your dues, my boy. And now, you get the chance to score a nice, cushy job. Now you can be the one to send men into hell. Nice to let someone else be the cannon fodder.”

  I’d never once thought of myself as cannon fodder.

  And I’d never disrespected my job or the lives of the men and women who sacrificed so much, fighting day in and day out for what they thought was right.

  For their country. For their families.

  No one was cannon fodder.

  And I sure as hell wasn’t going to subject anyone to a dangerous mission for any reckless, profit-seeking assholes who drank themselves stupid and laughed about the casualties.

  What the hell was this company?

  Who were these people?

  And did I really want to be a part of it?

  Somehow, Fred and Brian had wives. Not like the busybodies from Butterpond, and no where near as respectable. The fiftysomething women still dressed like they were twenty, though they’d purchased body parts that were significantly younger.

  “You were recently overseas?” Brian’s wife, Tricia or Patricia or something like that, offered me a wink I did not reciprocate. “Were you in war?”

  A stupid question for a lady married into a defense contracting company. How did she think her husband paid for that fancy dress, the diamonds around her neck, and the fake platinum in her hair?

  I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What are you doing?” Her voice lowered to a hush. “Don’t worry. You can tell us. We can all keep a secret.”

  So could I. That’s why I’d been awarded my security clearances. “I did what was asked of me, ma’am.”

  “On the front lines? Or covert ops?”

  “Whatever was asked of me, ma’am.”

  Gretchen gently squeezed my arm. Fuck. It didn’t help. My muscles tensed until they ached.

  “Is that how you lost a leg?” she asked. “Was it dreadful? A firefight?”

  Fred answered for her. “A man like Marius? Probably took down an entire squad with him. Right, my boy? Gave them hell, huh?”

  Was this part of the interview?

  How far could I fit the prosthetic up his colon?

  Gretchen maintained her composure. Somehow. “The injury was severe. We’re lucky he’s alive.”

  Brian nodded. “Real lucky, son. At least you’re home in…well, two pieces, I guess.” He snorted. “Hell, if only you had known.”

  The words scraped from my throat. “Known what?”

  “Known how easy it was.”

  “How easy what was?”

  “Getting out of the SEALs. Finding a better job.” He winked. “You should have lost your leg years ago!”

  The party laughed.

  I did not.

  A raging, coiling darkness seethed inside me.

  It burned. Ached. Exploded.

  The dangerous hatred scratched its way from the deepest, darkest pits of everything I’d tried to hide, forget, deny. The part of me doused in blood—and not my own.

  That monster didn’t deserve a fancy party, champagne, canopies.

  It didn’t deserve Gretchen.

  The animal in me raged, screaming for pain and vengeance. It belonged on a battlefield, a place of sinister regret and mutual destruction.

  I’d fought to suppress it. To forget it. To live beyond it.

  No more.

  The accident was more than an injury. It’d ruined a future, a life, any way I had to cope with the darkness and violence of a world I’d vowed to protect.

  Nothing about losing the leg was easy. Or fair. Or painless.

  It wasn’t funny.

  Or lucky.

  I’d almost been killed.

  I had killed.

  And assholes like these men expected me to survive with the guilt that remained. That emptiness. The absolute misery of living when I should have died, escaping a fate that should have left me in a puddle of blood-soaked sand.

  And they laughed?

  They laughed.

  Gretchen took my arm. She pulled me away, whispering gentle words and soft promises that a demon like me didn’t deserve.

  “Come on.” Her whisper was so soft it seared like a slap against my pathetic cheek. “Come on. Follow me.”

  She led me from the party, guiding me away from the fundraiser and its lights, drinking, and laughter. We stopped before an elevator. Fuck. The room was only one floor above us. Was I that weak, that worthless that I couldn’t hobble a flight of stairs?

  The elevators opened, and with a loving hand, she guided me to our hotel room. The lock twisted, prote
cting us from the noise, the nonsense, the stupidity.

  I swore. My fist pounded through the wall.

  The drywall scraped my knuckles bloody. Couldn’t even feel the pain. The crash echoed though. Rattling the television, the desk, the air conditioner.

  Did more damage to the wall than myself.

  “Marius!” Gretchen’s voice wavered. “Are you okay?”

  What the hell did she think?

  Fuck talking. Fuck listening. Nothing she said would change the goddamned past. Last thing I needed were platitudes or disparaging whispers. I’d had enough. Enough condescending hope. Enough patronizing encouragements. Enough bullshit.

  I’d lost my leg, but I’d lost so much more.

  I had no idea what I was doing now, no idea how this body was supposed to feel knowing I’d left my soul so many thousands of miles away.

  I stared at Gretchen. Christ, she was beautiful—even exhausted, even travel-worn and frustrated, she’d forced a smile, tossed her pigtails into a classy bun, and fulfilled her half of our deal. She’d acted like the perfect girlfriend. Pretended to be the wholesome, quiet, dedicated girl, promising herself to a man too damaged to realize his own sins.

  Who was I kidding?

  We didn’t fake a goddamned thing.

  She balanced me. She rewarded me. With her, I felt alive. I needed that relationship, our baby, a life together.

  So why did I lie?

  Why couldn’t I just admit everything to her?

  Why did I torture her, force her to participate in this ridiculous plan? Gretchen always worried she’d end up alone. I feared I’d give her that life. A gift of isolation. A forever of solitude.

  Too bad I such a fucking coward. Couldn’t do what I needed to do or say what I needed to say.

  For the past four months, I’d lied to her. I’d convinced her we’d make a baby, be together, and that we could fool everyone—even ourselves—and fake our way into happiness.

  But I never told her what the doctors said—that the blast did more damage than we realized.

  It wasn’t timing or intruding US Marshals that had ruined our chances of conceiving.

  It was me.

  Why was I doing this to her?

  “Marius…” Gretchen spoke softly. Afraid to break me? “Please. Talk to me.”

  Why? I had nothing to say, and I didn’t trust the words that might have escaped.

  Last thing I wanted to do was hurt her.

  Or myself.

  I pulled her close, savoring the silence. Those big, beautiful eyes stared up at me.

  “Marius, don’t do this. Don’t shut down on me.”

  Shut down?

  No. The animal in me was coming to life.

  I hardened—the only part of me good for anything. I stole her kiss and quieted her protests with a slice of my tongue. She struggled. Silly girl. She couldn’t get away from me.

  “You’re upset…” Gretchen tried to reach me again. Didn’t she realize there was nothing to hold? Nothing inside of me. Nothing left. But she still touched my cheek and begged for me to give her something. Anything. “You can trust me, sailor.”

  But I couldn’t trust myself. She was strong, but even she couldn’t control the animal in her arms.

  Blood boiled in my veins. Her soft curves pressed hard against me, her breasts tight against my chest. Did she realize she did it? Christ, she offered that innocence, that gentle femininity, tempting my every dark instinct.

  Ruin her.

  Take her.

  Punish her for loving me.

  Gretchen whimpered as I pushed her onto the bed. Her hands tangled in my shirt. I batted them away. Pinned her wrists to the mattress. Held her still.

  And she tried to soothe me.

  “I know you’re hurting…”

  “Don’t talk.” I couldn’t stand the sound of that kindness. “Don’t you say a fucking thing.”

  “One of us needs to talk. I’m worried about you.”

  “Worry about what I’m going to do to you.”

  She frowned. “You aren’t like those men down there. You don’t belong in DC.”

  I didn’t undress her. My cock had hardened beyond civility.

  The job didn’t matter anymore. My only responsibility—my only desire—was to myself. I’d take her. Ravage her. And I’d bury myself so deep inside her until I proved…

  What?

  Who I was? The man I’d never become?

  She wanted romance, and she got fucked. She deserved roses, but I gave her thorns.

  I wasn’t the right man for her, but I wasn’t strong enough to let her go.

  It was a weakness, but it was my weakness.

  I held her against the bed, slid her panties to the side, and slammed into her slickness.

  I hadn’t earned this comfort, but I thrust into her again and again—until my back ached, my leg screamed, and disgust roiled in my gut.

  Gretchen stared at me with heavy-lidded eyes, a gaze shadowed with forgiveness.

  What the hell was she doing? Why did she even try to understand me? I was a wretched, monster of a man, and I fucked her.

  I fucked her.

  Fucked her with lies. Fucked her with promises.

  We could pretend that I rutted against her like a rabid animal to make a baby, but this wasn’t a miracle. It wasn’t that magical bullshit of her fantasies.

  I never made love. I fucked her. I fucked her to get her pregnant. I fucked her to earn that sweet music of my name on her lips. I fucked her to feel that closeness, that connection, while her legs tensed, eyes closed, and back arched to take more of the cock punishing her pussy stroke-by-stroke.

  I fucked her.

  This beautiful, wonderful, perfect woman.

  Every thrust should have desecrated her. I stole my pleasure from her trembling slit. I ravaged her with my own unrepentant lust.

  And she still came for me.

  As honest, as beautiful as ever.

  I had no idea if she was fertile or not. The monster in me roared with satisfaction. I pummeled her, slamming into her slickness.

  And I came.

  I came and came, jet after jet of thick, hot, disgusting cum, coating her from the inside.

  My only thought, only instinct, demanded that I make her pregnant. How else would I bind her to me? How else would I keep her at my side?

  And yet…

  I pulled from her, my obscene cock still glistening with her desire. I stared at the mess I’d left, at her beautiful petals swollen from my lust.

  And I prayed that I hadn’t left a baby inside of her.

  I begged God to break my own heart.

  If she conceived, she’d never be able to free herself from me.

  Gretchen whispered into the darkness. “Please, don’t close yourself off, Marius. I just want to help. I…I just want to be with you.”

  I’d do nothing but destroy her.

  Maybe I already had.

  I stayed silent, surrendering only to the only emotion that made me feel alive. I jerked my cock, still hard, demanding more, and I spread her legs.

  I fucked her until the only word she dared to moan was my name.

  And I was a demon for loving that sound on her lips.

  18

  Gretchen

  It was a beautiful wedding…until the alcohol was served.

  Then the bloodshed flowed like champagne.

  A gentle, golden orange sunset had framed the ceremony with a solemn reverence, and even the hideously orange bridesmaid dresses blended into the fiery horizon. The Payne’s farmland provided a perfect backdrop to the quiet wedding where Dad and Chloe exchanged their vows under an ivory tent, surrounded by the silent ire of two hundred Murphys and Waltzs.

  And while we made it through the ceremony without a disapproving family member objecting when the minister volunteered the opportunity, the quiet mutterings began soon after the kiss.

  While most of the family preferred to wait for the music to begin bef
ore voicing their concerns, questions, and abject horror to the match, those who’d pre-gamed before the wedding with hidden flasks—Uncle Jerod and Aunt Silvia specifically—decided to voice their opinions loudly, proudly, and from the wrong side of the unintentionally segregated reception tables.

  According to Aunt Silvia, the whore had picked the hors d’oeuvres. Uncle Jerod correctly identified the marriage as the result of a mid-life crisis gone wrong. And though I might have agreed, I’d hoped the food would be served before the insults.

  I was wrong.

  The problems began with the toast.

  No one ever should have handed Uncle Isaac—Dad’s best friend and brother—a microphone. Especially when he was already holding a beer. He raised his glass, looked over the two hundred guests who’d taken their seats under beautiful tents in a field awash with wildflowers, and chose that time to tell a joke.

  “I wish my brother, Elijah, all the luck in the world.” He held his beer up. “He’s gonna need it. Not every marriage starts with a bride younger than the wine.”

  The wedding hushed. Uncle Isaac always seemed to miss his social cues.

  He continued, chuckling to himself. “Elijah, don’t you mind what anyone says. 1996 was an excellent vintage. I hear the fruit is finally ripe.”

  The Waltzs tutted and whispered. Aunt Silvia raised her hand.

  “Preach it!”

  Uncle Isaac finished his toast with a beaming smile. “Now, it’s past your bride’s bedtime. Send her off to sleep so we can get this party started!”

  I had to admit—the toast was a pretty ballsy way to ruin a wedding.

  Then again, the rest of the guests had their own methods to destroy what should have been one of the happiest moments of my father’s life.

  The evening dissolved into chaos, but, with a fourth negative pregnancy test under my belt—technically, in the garter that Chloe insisted all her bridesmaids wear—I’d decided I’d skip the protests and instead drink until I couldn’t feel how my shoes pinched the blood out of my toes.

  It didn’t help.

  Chloe leaned over to kiss Dad, her baby bump just barely showing in her satin dress.

  How great for her.

  How abso-fucking-lutely great for her. Life couldn’t get any better for Chloe unless it decided to kick me in the crotch, slam a brick upside my head, and poison my wine.