The sight of Amy naked and sliding her finger into her mouth gave Sam a little jolt, she saw. The front of his jeans instantly appeared fuller.
“What have you got, baby?” he asked, feigning nonchalance and failing. His eyes had taken on a predatory gleam.
“Chocolate sauce.”
He quirked his eyebrow.
“I stole it from Janie.”
Sam's mouth twisted. “That's Janie's homemade chocolate sauce?”
“Yup.”
“She's going to kill you,” he said as he crossed the threshold.
“At least I'll die happy,” she responded with a devilish grin.
Sam opened his mouth as though to ask why exactly Amy had brought chocolate sauce to bed with them, but her finger dipped back into the pitcher, covering it with the sweet concoction, and then, as Sam watched, she coated each of her nipples with it. His question disappeared.
“Want a taste?” she asked in a sultry voice, biting her bottom lip seductively.
“Now I know you love me,” he replied, his expression utterly amazed.
“Why's that?” she cocked her head to the side.
“Not everyone would be willing to share Janie's homemade chocolate sauce,” he said, causing her to giggle.
* * *
Sam crossed the room quickly then wrapping an arm around her waist, lowering his mouth to one chocolate-painted breast. He wasted no time in drawing the nipple into his mouth and licking every sticky sweet drop away. Janie's chocolate sauce was one of the most amazing things he had ever tasted, balanced, rich, and delicious, but somehow it had never been as appealing as it had in that moment, as he teased and worried it out of the puckered folds of Amy's erect nipple. She sighed as he probed the sensitive tissue. She tipped her head backwards, eyes closed, and thrust her chest out a little more, giving him better access.
“Shy girl?” he murmured against her breast.
“Not for you. Besides, shy doesn't mean uncreative or unintelligent.” Her voice sounded a bit thin, proof of the effect he was having on her.
“Right,” he grinned. “I'll have to remember that.”
He released her and moved to the other side, lapping the chocolate away. In the breeze from Amy's ceiling fan, her wet, stimulated nipples rose even higher. Sam grabbed one in each hand and rolled gently, drawing a gasp from her.
“All right, sexy, baby,” Sam said in a husky voice. “Get on that bed and let's see what else I can do with this stuff to make you squirm.”
Amy winked at Sam and stretched out on the mattress, setting the little pitcher on the bedside table. He took in the rest of what was there; strawberries, a little bowl of whipped cream, and shook his head. “Does someone want to become a sundae?”
“Maybe…”
“The whipped cream?”
“Has amaretto mixed in.”
“Wow. Are you a foodie Amy?” he asked.
Amy waggled her eyebrows. “I don't think so. I just… considered the possibilities.”
“I guess. Boy are you going to be well laid tonight.”
“Good. I like the sound of that.” Her belly pulsed and Sam grinned, knowing what the anticipation was doing to her. He massaged, feeling her internal fluttering, and she moaned. Then he grabbed the little pitcher and poured a puddle of the chocolate onto Amy's belly. Scooping up a strawberry, he trailed it through, coating the tip of the fruit, and then pressed it to her lips. She took a bite, retrieved the rest of the berry and dipped it herself, offering it to him. He nipped off the entire fruit, only leaving the stem.
* * *
He chewed, swallowed, and made Amy forget her plot to feed him by leaning over her mouth for a devastating chocolate and strawberry kiss. He ran his mouth down her chin, down the center of her body and lapped gently at her belly, running his tongue in sexy, ticklish swipes over her flesh until she was burning up. When every drop was gone, he returned to her mouth.
Chocolate smeared his lips and he offered it silently to her. She licked it away, and then touched the line of his lips, urging them to part for her. He complied and she penetrated him, boldly, eagerly. She wanted to move forward. Already she was aching to be filled and taken, her body drenched and clenching in anticipation.
“Sweet girl,” he murmured, scooping up a dollop of cream and dotting it on the end of her nose. He licked it away and then pressed his mouth back to hers, adding the cool burn of alcohol to their passion-drugged embrace.
“Tell me, Amy,” he urged. “I need to hear it again.”
She didn't have to ask what he meant. “I love you, Sam.”
“Again.”
“I love you.”
Guilt clouded his features. “You deserve better.”
“If I deserve anything good, then this is what I want,” she insisted, kissing his lips.
“Okay, fair enough. You know, the food thing is fun, but I need you right now.” He arched his hips, letting her feel the jut of his heavy erection.
“I know. I feel the same way. I'm ready for you, Sam.” She lifted her hips.
He cupped her and found her wet.
“I guess there's one more thing I need to lick before we get down to business.”
“Oh God,” she whimpered.
She parted for him and he lowered his mouth to her sex, savoring the taste of her honey as he traced every fold, wetting her more. His sensual touch made her pant and squirm.
“Purr for me, baby,” Sam begged. “Let me know I'm doing it right.”
It only took a few tender laps of his tongue to have her making soft, squeaking moans. She gripped the bed sheets tightly, rocking her pelvis to add to the intensity about to consume her. As soon as she started clenching, he reared up, parting her, and rammed his penis home in a single thrust.
It was too much, too fast, too hard. He was too big. Overwhelmed, Amy squealed, as much in protest as pleasure. He reared back and slammed into her again, this time causing a burning, tingling sensation, and abruptly the pain of his rough entry turned to wild pleasure. Amy was catapulted into a screaming climax the likes of which she had never imagined before.
* * *
Hearing her gasping cries of ecstasy only encouraged Sam. He closed his eyes as he kept pounding hard, driving his pleasure higher inside the shuddering sweetness of her innocent vagina. As Amy grew quiet, he became more ferocious, thrusting eagerly, greedily taking what he craved.
Sam knew it was too much for a girl who was having sex for exactly the fourth time in her life, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't, and he didn't. He took her until all thought was gone, the man was gone, and only the rutting animal remained, only the drive for orgasm. And he gave it to himself inside her, roaring in pleasure as he came hard.
Later, when the last shuddering, gasping moments passed, he began to worry about his girlfriend. Breathing hard, he looked at the fragile young woman. She lay still underneath him, stunned, tears streaking down her face.
“Amy?”
She sniffled, but didn't speak.
“Are you all right?” he asked, alarmed, chastising himself for his carelessness.
“What happened?” she whimpered.
“I… I lost control. I'm sorry.”
She swallowed.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded though he already knew the answer.
“A little.”
Given that this was Amy, a little probably meant a lot. He slipped out of her and she winced. Hating her discomfort, he pulled her close, cradling her. She cuddled against him, trembling. He kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes, whether to hide her tight expression of pain from him, or to avoid showing him her judgment over his cruelty, he wasn't sure.
“Amy?”
“It's okay, Sam. This was probably too much for someone who's been away in the military for so long. It's no surprise you lost control a little.”
How can she be making excuses? Sam felt strange and disconnected. His ears were ringing as though too many mortar shells had fallen around him. But
he knew what she was saying wasn't right. “A little?”
She was defending him to himself. There was no defense, not really. He had been too rough with her. He had given into his own selfish desires and forgotten to consider her needs. He had known while he was doing it that it was too much, and he hadn't stopped. He hadn't wanted to stop; he'd only wanted to find that release, that moment where he was lost in his pleasure, unaware of the world around him.
That's not how a man treats a woman he cares about, he thought with a self-hatred that only seemed to be growing. His conscience produced a sour litany of all the wrongs he'd perpetrated in his selfishness.
Amy's assumption that he was pent-up, as she was, due to years of abstinence was inaccurate. A soldier could usually find a girl to sleep with if he wanted one, and Sam had not exactly deprived himself. Amy was special to him, and sleeping with her was amazing, but she was far from his only partner. Even her memory had not kept him chaste in her absence, after he took her virginity on that long ago Christmas. Now that she was his, he intended to be faithful; he'd try to make up for all of his indiscretions.
Sam knew he wasn't worthy of her love, and to prove it, he had already hurt her again and again. That conversation about his history would be painful… and pointless to pursue. She didn't need to know about it, so he wouldn't tell her. He would spare her feelings and try to protect her from another of his many sins and failures.
“Aw, shit,” Sam growled. I'm still not thinking straight.
“What?”
He indicated the bedside table where the sealed box of condoms sat forgotten. He'd done it again. Aggravated with himself, Sam rose to his feet and headed to the bathroom to shower, unintentionally slamming the door behind him.
* * *
Amy lay on her bed, aching and still a little stunned, wondering what had just happened. They'd been having such fun, sweet sex. The chocolate and strawberries and the kissing had been intoxicating. The touching had been gratifying and decadent, but then her precious Sam had suddenly disappeared, replaced by a rough, almost cruel stranger who had used her painfully.
Though she'd found pleasure in the pain initially, it had been short-lived. What had been intense and wild love-making had transformed into something more akin to abuse. She touched herself gently, wincing at the ache, and her fingers came away covered in pink-streaked semen. She swallowed hard.
She was bleeding. She wasn't a virgin, so there was no reason for there to be blood. It was concrete proof of the aggressive violence their coupling had become. At the sight of it, she choked suddenly and began to cry.
* * *
With the door shut and the water running, Sam couldn't hear Amy's horrified sobs. It was probably a good thing he couldn't hear her because he was already angry at himself, tense and antsy. You would think I'd be relaxed after coming the way I did, he thought to himself. Was it worth it?
Sam swung at the water, really wanting to hit himself. He wanted to scream, but only managed to purse his lips as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut; his hands clutching the nothingness in front of him, looking like claws. He inhaled deeply and slowly, loudly exhaled as he opened his eye. He glanced at the ceiling for a moment and then back towards the streaming water.
“Have I ever showered so much?” Sam demanded of the showerhead as it poured water over his shaking muscles. “I don't know and I guess it doesn't matter. I can't seem to get clean enough. If only hot water could wash away memories.”
He scrubbed his body with more vigor than necessary, but he still felt dirty. He couldn't seem to wash away the filth or the guilt. You can't rid yourself of the scum because it's what you are, he thought.
When he finished washing and rinsing off thoroughly, Sam exited the shower stall as he wiped the water from his body with a big, fluffy towel, which he wrapped his towel around his waist. Leaning forward, he shifted his weight to his arms as they supported him over the sink vanity. His head hung low as he contemplated the rough, greedy way in which he had taken Amy. Looking in the mirror, seeing a man he despised, Sam's rage flared again.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sam demanded from his reflection. He closed his eyes momentarily, feeling like the ass he knew he had been. He didn't deserve Amy; she was far too good for the likes of him. He couldn't understand what she saw in him; what made her love him? After all, God knows, you're not worth loving.
“You're a selfish prick!” Sam chided himself bitterly. Looking into the mirror again, he thought to himself, why can't I do anything right?
Turning away from the sink, his hand struck his electric razor, knocking it from the vanity. The razor struck the side of the porcelain toilet bowl and then clanked to the ground. Sam winced. The clatter catapulted him right out of his bathroom and into a mass of twisted rebar and crumbled stone.
The scream of mortar shells rang in his ears and the warmth from his shower transformed to the sweltering atmosphere of Afghanistan. Everywhere he looked he could see the wreckage of what had once been a charming middle-eastern town. The kind with laundry strung in courtyards and goats wandering the streets while women with hijab scarves over their hair regarded the soldiers out of the corners of their dark, sultry eyes.
It had changed in a heartbeat, the bucolic town rendered into crumbled bits, studded with shrapnel, among which the injured whimpered and women screamed. Somewhere a dog was howling. Somewhere, a child wept. In a blink of an eye, the mundane room had become a living nightmare.
Sam's combat helmet was too hot, and felt too tight, as though his forehead was swelling with the pounding of his blood. Sweat trickled down one cheek and between his eyes. Tears – drawn by stinging dust and smoke – streamed down his face. His vision clouded, he scanned the area desperately for his fellow soldiers.
Ray, off to the left, gave him a hand signal indicating he was okay. Mike… Sam glanced over his shoulder. Mike was behind him, radioing in their coordinates. Good. Jorge… where was Jorge? Not to the right, where he'd been helping a couple of kids get their wagon out of a deep rut in the road. Not in the courtyard beyond. Could he be inside the house? Why hadn't he seen him pass? Sam had to account for his friend. He stepped over the threshold and a small, unfamiliar hand closed down on his elbow.
His pounding heart shot adrenaline straight through him. Insurgent. Where's my weapon? Fumbling for a sidearm he couldn't find, Sam whirled, hand balled into a fist, arm pulled back; ready to make mincemeat of this enemy…
“Sam?”
He knows my name. Is he a traitor? Sam's eyes focused on the figure before him and he couldn't help thinking, Tiniest rebel ever… and so pale. His voice sounds like…
All this passed in a split second as Sam's fist flew forward, toward the trembling creature, frozen before him. Oh God, Amy. Sam jerked himself away at the last moment, all but falling from the momentum of the interrupted swing.
“Sam?” she said, looking uncertain and afraid.
Sam stood in shock, his brain refusing to connect the facts together. He blinked and shook his head, but he couldn't snap himself fully back into the present. It was like two worlds were intertwining, meshing together in an incomprehensible reality.
Through wavering vision, he saw a tiny hand reach for him. He pulled back violently. “Don't touch me!”
“Sam, I'm okay, I…”
He stumbled backwards. Is there sand under my feet or tile? Where am I? What the hell is happening?
Without another word, he turned and fled, his feet slapping heavily against the floor as he rushed through the house. A closed door provided no obstacle as he crashed through it, shoulder first, splintering the wood of the frame and freeing his towel. He had a brief thought about the noise he was making, but then another figure appeared in the suddenly-blinding light. This one, for whatever reason, brought him up short.
“Sam?” Red hair swirled against an oversized white bathrobe.
Janie. His mind acknowledged her name, but his lips refused to form the words. He slipped a bit
as his wet feet lost traction, and he grabbed the edge of the counter with one hand.
“Sam Wallace, why the hell are you running naked through the house in the middle of the night?”
“Uh…” He grunted, but no coherent words emerged.
Sam shut his eyes tightly for a moment. Bad! This is very bad! New memories swirled. Not of combat, but of Amy, standing before him, terrified as he swung…
“Oh my God, Amy!” he managed to whisper, nausea clenching his gut.
“What?” Janie's eyes widened. “What did you do to Amy?”
He shook his head. “Not sure. The desert. The town. Why… why was she there? I didn't… but almost. Oh God, Janie. Make sure she's all right!”
He crumpled to the floor, shaking violently. His mind whirled and he panted, the adrenaline that had powered him quickening his heart rate. Scenes flashed in and out of his mind, but he wasn't able to hold onto any particular thought or vision for long. The confusion he felt added to his anxiety-induced quivering.
Something soft hit him in the chest. The bathrobe. He glanced up, but Janie was gone. The door of her bedroom, which was attached to the kitchen, stood open. A moment later she emerged in a pair of sweat shorts and a tank top. His father followed close at her heels.
“Stay with him,” the chef barked as she skirted wide around Sam. He could hear her footsteps retreating down the hallway, leading to where he'd left Amy behind.
Dusty said nothing, but his posture was tense and he seemed poised for action. Sam was baffled by his father's behavior. Could his dad really be worried that he'd become unexpectedly violent, or was he just disappointed in his son? Though he wanted Dusty to say something, anything, Sam decided he was better off with his father's silence. He was certain his mind had become too fragile to hear Dusty's harsh, uncensored comments.
Amy's terrified face swam in front of Sam's eyes again, distracting him from his father. As if I could do anything now anyway, useless lump that I am.
Saving Sam (The Wounded Warriors Book 1) Page 7