by Lena Bourne
Then he stands up, takes a step back and looks at me. I’ve never felt as naked as I do under his gaze right now, but I’ve never wanted to be naked this much either. And I suppose it’s my turn now, I should return the favor, undress him, stroke his cock, take it into my mouth, and I do want to, but I’d prefer to be looked at by him for a while longer. There’s desire in his eyes, but a softer kind, not the kind that has me panting and holding on to anything I can reach as a guy’s cock invades my body. I like rough sex, but I like this look too. I like the promise it holds. The one that says he’ll be with me forever, that he’ll never stop looking at me this way.
I reach for his belt buckle, but he stops me by laying his hand over mine.
“Let’s do this slow tonight,” he says, and I suddenly understand what he’s doing. He’s showing me I’m worth more than just a quick fuck. And I appreciate it so much I want to cry. But this is no time to cry.
He keeps giving me that mesmerizing look as he takes off his own clothes, his smell filling the bathroom, and actually making my pussy wetter all on its own. Then, once he’s naked too, he takes my hand and helps me into the shower.
The water feels heavenly as it cascades down my back, like this is the first shower I’m taking after months spent in the middle of nowhere in the desert. He takes the sponge, adds the lemon scented body wash I bought this afternoon, and begins lathering up my body slowly, hardly breaking eye contact as he does. I feel wanted, but not the way I’m used to it. This feeling permeates me to the core, the desire I feel for him bubbling deep in my belly, sending slow waves of warmth all through my body. I’ve been with hundreds of men, but somehow this feels like my first time. Like the first time that should’ve been, not the one that was.
He’s done washing me, but I want it to go on. Yet I also want to touch him, feel those hard muscles gliding under my fingers, get to know every peak and valley formed by the folds of his chest, his abs, his arms, his neck, his chin, his nose, his cheekbones. I like beards on men, but in this moment, I want him to shave it off, so I could see the entirety of his beautiful face.
I didn’t even realize I’m just standing there, my eyes glued to his face, until he takes my hand, which is resting against his cheek, and kisses it.
The water’s not as warm as it was when this shower started, there’s icy cold jets coming amid the warm ones now. And it makes me incredibly sad for some reason. Because once the water turns cold this will all be over and I don’t want this tenderness, this connection I feel to him to ever end. I don’t want it to turn into just more banging until we’re both shaking and breathless and unable to move.
“The water’s almost cold.” He releases my hand and starts rinsing off.
“I know,” I mutter, watching the suds disappear down the drain.
When I look up again, his eyes are full of questions, but that soft desire is still there beneath them, so at least there’s that.
He turns off the water and grabs the towel, wraps it around my shoulders, as he begins drying me off. The cloth’s rough and hard in a way no amount of fabric softener will ever soften again. Kind of like me.
I step out of the shower, move away from him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and there’s a hardness beneath the soft desire in his eyes now, but it’s not sharp, and it’s not angry. It’s just concern.
I smile, am about to deliver some well practiced line that’ll propel him towards the bed with me and still make him think it was all his idea, but that’s not what I want to do. I want him to take charge, love me, make love to me, kiss me and make me feel good. I want to surrender to him. I don’t want to be the old Samantha. I want to be this new one that he’s dragged up from some unknown air pocket under the rubble of the life I’ve led. The one that maybe has some shred of the ability to love left.
“It feels so good when you kiss me,” I say shakily, afraid the tears burning my eyes will spill at any moment, and hoping they’ll just blend in with the water drops running down my face from the shower.
His eyes light up his whole face, the whole room even, as he smiles.
“Well then, let’s go do some more of that.”
I giggle, the tears forgotten, as he takes my hand, pulls me from the bathroom and to the bed.
Then I’m on my back, the sheet beneath me slowly warming as he kisses every part of my body, not neglecting my nipples this time, or my belly button, or my lips. And I think dawn’s breaking outside by the time his lips and tongue finally settle on the folds of my pussy, but that’s just my imagination, because it feels like the sun is rising, heralding a new day, a new life. I bite down hard on my bottom lip to keep from coming right away, because I want to savor this feeling of pure cloud-soft bliss forever. His hand glides over my taut stomach as I fight the rushing surges of heat his tongue and lips are causing, leaving nothing but sweet, soft breadcrumbs of pleasure in their path. Don’t fight it they seem to be saying, and I obey, stop resisting and let go, let the waves of burning bliss wash all over me.
When I open my eyes again, he’s laying by my side, looking down at my face, his hand still gliding over my belly and my pussy, but soft and slow, no urgency, no primal, animal desire anywhere in evidence. Yet I want his hard cock inside me, filling me, opening me, taking my surrender. I want him to be a part of me.
“You had enough?” he asks, our eyes locked together with the intensity of magnet and metal.
I shake my head and smile at him, glide my hand down his six pack to finally caress his cock. Not because I’m expected to, but because I want to. It’s rock hard and throbbing, his fast heartbeat tickling my palm.
“I need you inside me,” I say hoarsely, and I’ve never meant it more.
He requires no second request, shifts his body to cover mine. For all his girth and mass, he’s not heavy at all. Missionary has never been my favorite position, but that changes as I feel his cock start sliding into me slow and steady, yet with an unstoppable force nonetheless. He starts sliding his cock in and out of me with a steady, tantalizingly slow pace, but going deeper each time.
I run my fingers through his curls like I’ve already done a thousand times tonight, but will never tire of doing for as long as I live, and pull his face down to me. I kiss him deeply and he thrusts his cock into me all the way, resting there as he savors the kiss, until I begin to feel his heartbeat inside me too, and it matches my own perfectly, seamlessly, because right now our hearts are beating as one.
I moan into his mouth as he pulls out and thrusts back, pinpricks of light exploding over the darkness of my closed eyelids. He picks up the tempo, pumping his cock into me faster and faster, but it isn’t hard and it isn’t rough, and my pussy molds to the onslaught, welcoming the intrusion, opening and unfolding in a way it never has before. I’m writhing beneath him, whimpering and shrieking into his lips now, but I’m still holding onto his hair, still kissing him, because these sensations, these new and wonderful ways in which my body is responding are scary, and I need his kisses to keep me grounded. I’m a slut, a dirty bad girl, a freak in bed, a whore, yet right now, I feel like I’m giving him my virginity, and it’s as frightening as it is right. So my heart’s racing with more than just the heights of pleasure his cock is waking inside me. But those can’t be denied, and they soon overpower all else, as I relax, slide my hands across his broad back, hold on, but loosely as I surrender to him, to this pleasure, this perfect, seamless way in which we are connected. My orgasm explodes suddenly, unexpectedly, yet it’s welcome, more welcome than anything I’ve ever wanted. It washes over me, consumes my entire body, from the tips of my toes, to the ends of my hair. And I know there are no nerve endings in hair, but this pleasure doesn’t. It is all there is.
I wake wrapped in his arms, covered by a wonderfully cool sheet, a cold dawn breeze billowing the curtains in and out, making the room smell like a garden of roses, with just a hint of honeysuckle and lavender. Some of that’s the detergent I used to wash them, the rest might be my i
magination. My fantasy, which just came true. The last vestiges of the pleasure that took me under are still suffusing my body like a thin, soft blanket.
He’s awake, slides a lock of my hair back behind my ear as I raise my head off his chest and look at him. Our eyes are locked again, magnet to metal, and I don’t think we need to speak, but I want him to know something. Questions are already forming over the fireside calmness in his eyes, so I better hurry.
“No man has ever made me feel the way you do,” I mutter. And maybe I’ll even regret saying it in the morning, but I don’t think so. And I won’t worry about it until it happens. “Thank you.”
He laughs softly, the soft flames in his eyes growing warmer, more inviting. “You’re welcome.”
I want to say more, make him promises that we’ll do it all again soon, any way he wants to, just as soon as I get a little more rest. But I think he already knows. So I just lay my head back down on his chest, which is actually the best and most comfortable pillow I’ve ever known.
BRETT
Samantha’s sleeping, her head resting on my chest, her hot, even breaths tickling my nipple. But I’m wide awake. She woke me. For the first time in months, years even, I feel alive, as alive as I was back before all the shit started weighing me down. From the carnage that was desert warfare, to the silent, stealthy killings laying on my conscience.
But now all that’s wrapped in a thick, opaque fog in my mind that she caused by just being. Even the fact that I can’t give her a future is a moot point now. Because I see that future clearly now. It’s not impossible. In fact, I see it very clearly, feel it, and her warm pliant body wrapped around my own has everything to do with it.
I’m not letting her go. Not for all the reasons in the world. I was supposed to protect her, but she’s the one that saved me. And I will spend forever repaying her for that.
Roosters are crowing a wake up call outside. But it’s not just the morning they’re signaling. They’re announcing a new life. Mine. Samantha’s. Ours.
Chapter Twelve
SAMANTHA
It’s been three days since Brett kissed me on the couch. I don’t know where the time went. I’ve never gotten this lost in a man before. We haven’t even had a drink of alcohol, yet I feel drunk, stoned, drugged. But in a good way. Like the world is all soft fuzzy clouds, and I’m floating among them like a soft summer breeze.
And I miss him when he’s gone. Like right now. He just went inside to get us drinks while I lie here on the beach, catching the last of the setting sun’s rays. I’ve never missed a guy before. I never felt anything much for anyone before. At least not that I remember. And feeling all this now would be scary, if it weren’t laced with this all-encompassing feeling of rightness, of belonging, of refreshing hope.
“Here,” he says, handing me an ice cold soda can then sitting down on the towel next to me and opening his own.
I lean against his side. He’s so broad, and wide, like a rock that can be my shelter from any storm, even an apocalyptic kind.
“I checked the fridge while I was inside,” he says, after taking a long gulp of his drink, quite possibly finishing the whole can without stopping to breathe. “Our food situation is dire. There’s almost nothing left.”
How could there be? We haven’t left his apartment in three days except to go swimming. And it’s been pretty physical. So much so we both need a rest. Though I want more, more of his kisses, his touches, more of everything he does that makes me feel alive, and wanted, and loved. More alive than I remember being for a very long time. Since I was a little girl. As alive as I was before my father and his friends extinguished my light.
“We could go out to eat,” I suggest, reaching under his arm and interlacing my fingers with his. Another ride on the back of his motorcycle sounds just about perfect right now.
He squeezes my hand and kisses the top of my head. “I was thinking…there are so many things to see around here. Maybe we could take a trip, see some of the Mayan ruins or whatever.”
I snap my head back and grin at him. “You want to do geeky stuff like that? Count me in.”
His kiss catches me by surprise, but in the most welcome way possible. I feel like all those other girls do, the ones that fret and pawn over a guy, complete with butterflies in the stomach and a racing heartbeat, sweaty palms and awkward conversations, and writing his name over and over again in notebooks. I never understood what all the fuss was about before, but I do now. I understand perfectly.
“And later we could finish the Lord of the Rings,” I add. We didn’t get very far with our marathon, haven’t even finished the first movie yet. There were so many better things to do.
He nods, smiling so wide his whole face lights up. “You really do like your fantasy movies, don’t you?”
“And series. And historical ones too. And sci-fi,” I rattle off, so glad I don’t have to hide all this from him. I feel like I don’t have to hide anything from him, don’t have to wear my mask, don’t have to be the Happy-Happy Sam all the time, the carefree, worry-less Sam, don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not. “I’ve been trying to get my dad to produce something like that for years, but he’s convinced it’s on the way out, and that it would be a waste of money. But I’d love to spend some time on the filming set of one of those movies. I’d even fork over some of my own money to see it done. But it’s not a good idea to go against my dad…once he decides something, that’s how it’s gonna happen…” I let my voice trail off, since I don’t know why I’m bringing this up.
His smile is fading fast now that I’ve stopped talking.
“Who’s your dad?”
Is he messing with me right now? How can he not already know?
“Didn’t Tommy tell you by now?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Tell me what?”
“About my dad and all that?” I don’t know if I believe him. But his eyes are so honest, so open, so innocent even that I want to. I don’t want that honesty to be a lie.
“No, he told me you were trafficked by Shade, and that’s about it,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the sharp anger in his eyes. The image of Tommy choking my father a year ago flashes across my eyes and the wish for Brett to finish the job, for me this time, is a very real desire in my chest. And very surprising.
I’ve always adopted the, “If you can’t beat them join them” attitude with my father, maintained a cordial, if rather distant relationship with him over the years. He’s a famous Hollywood producer, and I even helped with his movies in an effort to learn the business and take over from him eventually, because that’s what he wants. But with my reputation as the resident slut, it’d be a tough uphill battle to ever be taken seriously in the business. So I mostly just hung out on the sets.
But the things I went through in captivity brought the old hurts, the old injustices back up, and I could hardly be in the same room with my father for awhile, but it’s gotten better again lately. I even spent part of the summer on a movie set in France with him.
“Is this what you meant when you told me your father hurt you even before Shade did?” he asks, his eyes no longer innocent and soft, but sharp like razors. I can’t believe he remembers me saying that. The way I acted that night still fills me with shame.
“Yeah,” I admit, my voice dry and low, which to him must sound like I’m very upset over it all. Which I’m not. It happened. Past tense. It’s all behind me now. “He molested me and Tara for years when we were children. Him and his buddies. So by the time Shade got me, I was well used and broken in.” And broken in general. But I don’t really remember a time when I wasn’t.
The look in his eyes is hard to read now. But there’s anger, rage even, and disgust too, and regret, and it’s all contorting his face, his lips rising in what wants to be an animal snarl.
“Tommy knows all this and he let him live?” he asks.
I nod, my throat closed up in shock.
“I wouldn’t have,” he adds.
> The way he’s talking about it makes my blood run cold. He’d kill my dad. He’s genuinely surprised Tommy hasn’t already. They’re both killers. And I’ve never felt this safe in my entire life.
“It’s OK, Brett, I’m over it,” I say, since I want that happiness to come back to his eyes, and the innocence, which is completely absent now. “That’s Hollywood. If it isn’t daughters, it’s the child stars, girls and boys. It happens all the time. I just had the misfortune of being born to my father. But I won’t let him ruin the rest of my life too.” And making Brett a murderer would ruin it. He wraps his arm around me suddenly, holding me so tight and with such protective care I feel it everywhere. And I know—irrational though it may be—that I never have to worry about anything ever again.
“You don’t have to turn into a killer on account of me,” I blurt out to make that quite clear.
His whole body tenses, the hardness no longer sheltering and protective, but rough and jagged and uninviting. The change is so sudden, so surprising I move away from him, look up into his face. My fear mounts to dizzying heights as I try to read the expressions washing over his face. They’re moving and blending like the play of water as sunlight hits it, but none of them are light, they’re all dark.
“What?” I mumble.
“That ship has already sailed,” he says, sounding like it’s a struggle getting the words out. “Many times over.”
The shock I feel is more over the way he says it, not so much what he’s saying. “You mean like when you were in the Army?” I ask. I know about the PTSD experienced by soldiers, I dated a few who had it bad.