by Sandra Hill
While he was gone, she shuffled around the room in her wool socks, examining everything with her handcuffed hands. The cabin would have been really comfortable in the lodge’s heyday . . . the late 1890’s. And it must have been renovated at some point . . . perhaps the 1950’s . . . because there was a kitchen with appliances and running water, although the electricity had been cut off for some time. She tried to avoid peering into the bedroom with its high, country style bed and soft quilt; so, she sauntered into the kitchenette. Nibbling on a cracker, she managed to open a gift box, even handcuffed, then exclaimed, “Samuel Merrick! You are the biggest dope in the world!”
“Were you talking to me?” he said, coming out of the bathroom and neatly laying his wet clothing over a chair near the fire. As Reba recalled, Sam had been a neat-freak, even before he went into the military.
“Yes, I’m talking to you, Dope-of-the-Month.” She held up a black negligee, as if that said it all.
Sam’s face turned red. And, criminey, how could a man look so handsome in faded sweats and a white tee shirt that proclaimed, I’m Blue. Are You? Affronted, he put one fist on a hip and asked, “What? You don’t like it?”
“Sam! Maudeen’s been trying to pawn this outfit off on every woman at Winter Haven for the past two years. I hope you didn’t give her money for it.”
His face turned even redder. Then, with a grunt of disgust, probably at himself, he dropped down on his knees to a bear rug before the fire, threw on another log from the big pile stacked against the wall, and motioned for her to join him.
She did, but almost immediately held out her hands. “Game’s over, Rambo. How about unlocking me now?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I have plans.”
She knew what plans he had. And so did her suddenly achy breasts and that place between her legs. Both were hard to ignore. Even when she was mad at Sam, he could still turn her on. Some things never changed.
Because she didn’t immediately protest his “plans,” Sam must have taken her silence for acquiescence. “The question is, honey, do we make love first, and talk later? Or do we talk now, and make love later?”
“Or do we do neither?” She’d just tossed that in to be obstinate . . . so she wouldn’t appear easy.
Sam seemed surprised. “Is that what you really want?”
She thought for all of a nanosecond. “No.”
He let out a whoosh of relief. It was hard to believe that Sam, a world-famous Blue Angels pilot, could be so unsure of himself . . . when around her, anyhow.
“Come here, you.” He put a hand on her nape and tugged her closer. Then he settled her between his bent knees so that they both faced the fire. Her back was to him, her legs outstretched. When he had her situated the way he wanted, Sam crossed his arms over her chest and rested his chin on her shoulder.
For long moments, they both just stared at the fire, letting its warmth seep into their bones. A relaxed tranquility lay between them in a room bright with light from the fire, the many burning candles and the pristine snow which showed through the two living room windows. When Sam finally began to speak against her ear, she realized there was another reason why he’d wanted them in the position they were in . . . so she couldn’t see his face when he spoke of things that only he, in his misplaced masculine pride, considered embarrassing.
“I have never been good enough for you, Reba. Shhh. Let me speak, or I’ll never get the words out. ‘Bad boy!’ ‘Troublemaker!’ ‘Rotten seed!’ ‘Blood of an addict running in his veins!’ ‘He’ll never amount to anything!’ ‘Jail’s the best place for his kind!’ ‘Inner city trash!’ ‘Worthless!’ I heard those descriptions of myself, nonstop, from the time I was a little kid. And make no mistake about it, adults can be just as cruel as kids. Their words bite just as hard. Police, teachers, social workers, grocery store clerks, whatever. It wasn’t ’til I left Snowdon that I realized I could start over with a clean slate. I didn’t become different. I was still bad inside, but no one knew my past. I worked hard to keep it hidden.”
Reba’s heart broke for Sam, for the little boy who never thought he was good enough, for the young man who’d apparently felt the same way, even for the adult who must, unbelievably, still carry some of those insecurities. She raised her cuffed hands and squeezed the forearms crossed over her. “Sam, I never judged you that way. George never did, either. And I have to believe that lots of people in Snowdon were nonjudgmental.”
“Maybe, in hindsight, I put more weight on the negative remarks. And, in their defense, I have to admit I played the bad boy role to the hilt at times. The old, ‘If I’ve got the name, I might as well play the game’ scenario. A vicious circle.”
“I do remember, now that you mention it, how you and JD and Stan often said you were falsely accused of stuff . . . just because you were from the home . . . or just because your reputations preceded you.”
“Yep! Why do you think we stuck together all the time?”
“Do JD and Stan have these same feelings?” She frowned, finding it hard to believe there was so much she hadn’t seen.
Sam shrugged. “We never talked about it, but, yeah, I guess we all carried some baggage when we left Snowdon, to one extent or another.”
“I had no idea that it was that bad.”
“I didn’t tell you this to get your sympathy. I’m trying to explain why I acted the way I did after I left Snowdon. If I’m bungling the job, it’s because I don’t understand it entirely myself. It’s not a problem anymore, though. Really. So, don’t go putting your psychologist hat on and trying to analyze me. I put this all behind me a long time ago. The only reason I’m bringing it up now is that you deserve an explanation.”
She nodded. Then something occurred to her that never would have entered her mind before. “Did my parents ever say anything to you? My mother died a year or two after you came to Snowdon, I think, and she was sick most of the time by then. But my Dad? Oh, Sam! Please don’t tell me that he hurt you, too.”
“No, he never said anything . . . not outright. But he thought it, Reba. And it was in his eyes every time he looked at me. He never considered me good enough for you.”
Reba swatted his forearm with one palm. “You fool! My father never thought anyone, boy or man, was good enough for me. You know zippo about fathers and daughters if you took that attitude personally.”
“Okay, I’ll concede that one,” he said. “But we’re getting off the subject. I didn’t really care about the opinion of the Snowdon residents. It was you, Reba. I had to do something to make myself worthy of you. I needed to earn you. First, at the Academy. Then, in the Navy when I was flying Jets. Even in the Blues. Oh, by then, you were already married . . . or I thought you still were . . . but, always, when I would reach some new level, I would think, ‘Reba would be proud of me now.’”
She was angry now and tried to turn around and face him. He wouldn’t allow her to. So, she spoke her furious words to the fire. “You make me so mad I could spit, Samuel Merrick. I was always proud of you . . . the you I knew and loved. I never needed football touchdowns in high school, or show-off skiing exhibitions, or academic honors in college, or military medals, or high-in-the-sky daredevil flying tactics. You were always perfect to me.”
“Me? Perfect? Now you’re going too far.” Sam’s words were doubtful, but she sensed that he liked what she’d said.
The male ego never ceased to amaze her, always needing to be boosted and soothed . . . especially Sam’s. Well, it was a small thing to do, she supposed. “Not perfect as in never making a mistake, but perfect as in a good human being, with a heart of gold. You’re loyal, and fair, and kind, not to mention too gorgeous to live.” She chuckled on adding that last characteristic.
Instead of laughing, as he usually would, Sam was quiet. “Lots of people, especially females, like me because of how I look, Reba.”
That was the last straw. She squirmed out of his arms a
nd turned so that she was kneeling between his legs, facing him. Wagging a forefinger in his face, she said, “Don’t you dare imply that I ever, ever, cared about you because of your appearance.”
“I’m not . . . I didn’t . . . I was trying to say that you’re the only one who cared about me. Sometimes I think you would have loved me even if I were homely as a hog.”
“Well, maybe not hog-homely,” she teased. “And I’m no different than everyone else. I do like looking at you, Sam.”
He smiled . . . that wonderful, beautiful smile that was pure Sam . . . the one that melted her bones and tipped her world on its axis. But there was one more hurdle that had to be crossed.
“Bottom line, Sam, you never came back. You broke my heart. Not all at once. No, in a more painful way. Little by little . . . day by day, month by month, year by year. I kept hoping, at least in the beginning that you would come back. Even when the letters grew farther apart, and the phone calls stopped.”
“It was hard work at the Academy . . . harder than I’d ever imagined it would be. And it required focus almost twenty-four hours a day. A seventeen-hour-a-day, endless treadmill of physical exercise, classroom lectures, marching drills and late night studying. Later, there was summer duty aboard carriers. And then flight training. I kept asking you to come visit, and when you didn’t, I probably dug in my heels. I guess I thought there was all the time in the world for us to get things right. I never expected you to get married, Reba. Stupid of me, I suppose, to presume that you would wait ’til I got my act together. You talk about me breaking your heart, little by little. Well, honey, you broke my heart in one fell swoop. I went off the deep end for awhile. I even . . . ” He waved a hand as if it didn’t matter anymore and the memory was too painful to recount.
“Oh, Sam.”
“You should have told me yourself, Reba.”
“You should have told me why you stopped writing, Sam.”
“I thought you stopped loving me, babe.”
“I thought the same.”
“I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”
Tears welled in her eyes. All she could do was nod.
His back was propped against the side of the chair, and she still knelt between his outstretched legs. He reached a hand up to caress her hair, trailing his fingertips along her jawline and over her lips.
She would have liked to do the same to him, but her hands were still cuffed together.
“So, what do we do next, Sam?”
Sam grinned then. “Oh, sweetheart! I thought you’d never ask.”
In the back of Reba’s mind, a little niggling thought intruded, reminding her that nothing had really been decided between her and Sam. The past had been explained, but what about the future?
Not now, she decided. Whatever would be would be. For now, she was going to grasp the gold ring and hold on tight for as long as she could. If the ring slipped out of her fingers, eventually, well, at least she could say that she’d held it for awhile.
Sam was kneeling now, too. He took both of her hands in his, then asked an unexpected, loaded question. “Which do you like best? The nightgown or the handcuffs?”
Reba had to think for a minute before she understood his meaning. “Oh, definitely the handcuffs.”
“Oh, I like your answer.” With that, Sam reached into a side pocket of his sweat pants, pulled out a pocket knife—this boy scout was always prepared—and proceeded to cut a seam down one outside arm of her nightgown from neckline to wrist, then the other. The flannel fabric fell off her shoulders, down her back, over the front, baring her breasts, caught by her handcuffed arms. Within seconds Sam had the rest of the gown pulled down and tossed aside so that she knelt before him, naked except for her wool socks, which he also removed.
Reba did feel like a love prisoner then, just as Sam had said she would be. And she liked it. A lot.
Then Sam quickly removed his own clothing, and in the process, Reba had to blink several times at the sheer beauty of the man. Perfect proportions. Tan skin. Muscles. Sculpted features.
That was her last coherent thought for awhile.
“I want to do everything the first time. You just lie still. Please. I’m been dreaming about this for so long . . . fantasizing. Okay?”
What could she say except a barely audible, “yes”? Who wouldn’t want to be the fulfillment of a man’s fantasy . . . of this man’s fantasy? Truth to tell, she had a few fantasies of her own; maybe she would tell him about those . . . later.
Sam, sitting on his haunches to her side, arranged her on the bearskin rug to his satisfaction . . . her cuffed hands raised overhead, the metal links caught in the bear’s open jaw.
“Raise your one knee a tiny bit, honey.”
She did.
“Spread the other leg . . . just a little . . . oh, yes. Just like that.”
When he leaned forward to release her hair from its rubber band, his hardened penis brushed against her hip. She wanted very much to touch him.
Sam chuckled. “Keep on looking at me like that, babe, and this game will be over before it begins.”
Reba felt her face heat with embarrassment.
“Gee, Reba, I didn’t know you could do that. Blush all over.” While he spoke, teasingly, he was spreading the long tresses released from her pony tail out to the side and over her shoulders.
She blushed some more.
Sam spent a long time then, examining her body, remarking on every little change, comparing the “Old Reba” to the “New Reba.” Everything was worthy of comment, from her fresh-scrubbed face, which he seemed to like, to her flame-painted toenails, which he did not. The things that pleased him most were parts of her anatomy which had not changed.
“Your nipples are pointy. Did you know that, Reba? God, I love pointy nipples.
“You still have dimples behind your knees,” he announced with such glee you would have thought he’d discovered a new planet.
“Your lips part when you’re aroused, did you know that? And you make these little breathy sounds that turn me so hot I can’t stand it. You’re aroused now, baby. And I’m hotter than a firecracker.”
Sam especially admired the hair between her legs, which he petted . . . and petted . . . and petted. And referred to in a wonderfully rough voice as “silk,” and “spun gold.”
When he encouraged her to spread wider, she moaned, but acquiesced. “Sam, I’m ready now. Don’t make me wait.”
“Oh, baby, it’s much too soon. You have to wait. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” He arranged himself between her legs and lay atop her so that his erection nestled along her woman channel, perfectly. She had the coarse hair of the bearskin rug abrading against her back, and Sam’s furred chest and legs abrading her front. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her, first soft, with reverence, then hard, with hunger. He showed her with his mouth and teeth and tongue how very much he wanted her, even if his mind was holding back.
Before he ever pulled away from his assault on her mouth, and moved lower, Reba was whimpering with desire. She tugged her hands, trying to get free, but the loops of the chain were indeed caught in the bear’s teeth by now. She rolled from side to side and tried to buck Sam off.
Sam laughed his triumph at her hopeless struggles. “You are my love prisoner,” he murmured against her ear, “to do with as I want.”
The words thrilled, and annoyed her. She tried to turn her face away.
“Tell me that you like being my love prisoner. Tell me, Reba. Tell me.” The whole time he entreated her, he was doing incredible things to her breasts with his talented fingers. Very talented fingers.
“I like being your love prisoner,” she finally admitted half-coherently.
Reba discovered a talent of her own then. By undulating her hips, she was able to rub that engorged part of herself against that long column of his own engorgement. The slickness . . . the friction . . . the rhythm were delicious agony . . . tortured excitement. To both of them, appar
ently, because Sam moaned and gritted his teeth.
“I can’t wait, baby. I wanted to wait . . . to make it so good for you . . . but I caaaannnn’t wait.” With that, Sam plunged himself into her wetness with a masculine howl of primitive pleasure. He was embedded in her, unmoving. And yet a part of him did move . . . a subtle throb . . . throb . . . throb.
Or, criminey, could it be that she was the one throbbing around him?
Even as Reba was momentarily dazed by what was happening inside her, Sam began to move, and she couldn’t help but notice that he made love with the same concentration he gave everything he did in life. As if he had something important to prove . . . all the time. He got back as much satisfaction as he gave in lovemaking, she was sure, but his primary focus was her pleasure.
Accompanying his long strokes were softly whispered endearments and murmurs of encouragement.
“Aaah, Reba, it feels so good to be with you . . . inside you.”
“Like that, honey. Yeeeesss, like that.”
“Touch me.”
“Open.”
“I love you, baby. I do . . . I do . . . I do . . . ”
She, on the other hand, was beyond speech.
It seemed like an hour, but was probably only minutes before Sam came with a guttural cry of release. At the same time, her orgasm accompanied his with strong convulsions of pleasure. He collapsed atop her, his heavy weight a caress in itself, to Reba’s mind.
Reba had no idea what the future would hold for them, but for now, all she could say was, Welcome home, Sam. She hoped one day she would be able to say the words aloud.
It was the middle of the night, and still they had not slept. Sam was insatiable.
She was insatiable.
Isn’t insatiability grand? she thought with a giggle.
“What are you giggling about?” Sam said, nipping her ear. “I thought I cured you of giggling the last time.”
“The last time?” she sputtered. “That was three times ago, buddy.”
“Are you complaining?”