by June Gray
I threw my head back and came with a force that took my breath away, waves of pleasure streaking through the very center of me.
A few strokes later, Henry gave a shout, his rear lifting up off the seat as he climaxed.
We sat there panting, his face still pressed against my chest. “I can’t believe I lived without that for so long,” he said against my pounding heart.
All I could do was nod in agreement. We’d survived.
* * *
Beth said that when Sam came home from his first deployment it was as if nothing had changed, but from the moment Henry walked into our apartment, he looked out of place. He dropped his bags by the front door and ventured into the living room with a bewildered look on his face.
“Something’s changed,” he said with a frown.
“What? I haven’t moved anything.” I’d purposefully kept things as they were, partly because I wanted to preserve his memory and partly because I didn’t want him to feel like a stranger in his own home.
He walked over to the mantel and picked up a new picture frame, the only thing that had changed in the entire place. “This is new,” he said, gazing at the picture of him, Jason, and me when we’d gone skiing in Colorado a few years ago.
“I’ve always loved that one,” I said, walking over and hugging him from behind. “I figured we needed some pictures around here.”
He put down the frame and held my hands closer to his chest as he took a deep breath. “It’s so weird to be back here.”
I pressed my cheek against his back, taking in his scent. “It feels good from this angle.”
He turned in my arms with a wicked smile. “Let’s see if my bed feels the same,” he said and lifted me up off my feet. I felt light-headed as he carried me into his room and laid me on his bed. His eyes roamed all over me, taking me in like a blind man who can see again. He began to unbutton his gray ABU coat, his eyes never leaving my face.
I found it hard to breathe as I watched him pull his tan shirt over his head and step out of his pants. He stood before me, completely at ease with his masculine nakedness.
My eyes flew all over his body, not knowing where to land. His chest and abdominals were more defined and his arms were definitely larger, among other things that also seemed to have increased in size.
I crawled over the bed and made my way to him, and with a saucy smile, I took hold of his penis and licked its tip.
He drew in a breath and tangled his fingers in my hair.
I took him into my mouth slowly, driving him crazy with anticipation. When his tip nudged my throat, I wound my fingers around the rest of him and began a gentle sucking and tugging motion.
He looked at me, his blue eyes blazing with fierce desire and something else, something that looked like possessiveness. His fingers pushed at the back of my head, urging me to go deeper, faster. I was only too happy to oblige, enjoying the salty taste of him, the feel of his velvety skin against my tongue. I had dreamed of doing this very thing to him for months, but the reality was so much better.
He tensed and pulled away abruptly, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me up and off the bed. He kissed me as he peeled the clothes away from my body with ferocity.
Then he spun me around and bent me over the bed, and I felt his member nudging at me a second before he slammed into me.
I gave a shout at the exquisite invasion, at his forceful gesture. This was not a man who wanted gentleness. Henry was a man deprived; he wanted everything all at once and he wasn’t going to be polite about it.
The thought sent a bolt of excitement through me, the implicit understanding of safety mixed with the promise of danger.
His fingers wound in my hair and pulled back, twisting my head around so he could kiss me. That simple gesture was so unlike him that it drove me wilder, made me buck against him in an effort to get more of this hungry male.
In all our years knowing each other, I never would have thought Henry had this in him, this aggressiveness, and, admittedly, it was really turning me on.
He curled over me and positioned one hand between my legs, his fingers massaging my clit rapidly as he pounded into me from behind. It didn’t take long before I was coming, screaming into the quilt as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me, his fingers still moving, wresting every ounce of pleasure out of me. Henry clutched me against his chest and hammered into me one last time before he went rigid, groaning his release against the back of my neck.
We collapsed on the bed, his mass a pleasant weight on me, like an anchor keeping me in place. But all too soon, he pushed up with his arms and planted kisses on my back as he slowly pulled out.
When I came back from the bathroom, he was lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head and a satisfied look on his face. He gathered me into his side and let out a long sigh as I wrapped an arm around his waist.
“It’s good to have you home,” I whispered, my breath ruffling the dark hairs on his chest.
“It’s good to be home,” he said, kissing my head. “You have no idea how many times I dreamed of doing that to you, pounding you on the bed like that.”
My face flushed at how uninhibited I had been and how much I had liked it. “What else did you dream about?”
“That was it,” he said evasively, then jumped out of bed. “Hey, I have gifts for you.” He came back with one duffel bag and started rummaging inside. He laid a few things on the bed and sat down beside it. “Here’s one,” he said, handing me a dark blue rock. “The stone is lapis lazuli and came from a mine in the Badakhshan province of Afghanistan.”
I flipped the smooth stone over in my palm. “Thank you.”
“It’s to replace that pebble you gave me before I went off to college,” he said.
“I remember that beach pebble,” I said. “Whatever happened to it?”
“I lost it,” he said, looking abashed. “Or rather, my roommate in college threw it out.”
I made an indignant noise as he handed me a piece of pink fabric, folded up into a small square. I unfolded what turned out to be a scarf, admiring the intricate gold thread designs, and was surprised to find a small pouch nestled inside. I pulled out a pair of violet-blue earrings and a matching necklace. “Out of the same kind of stone?” I asked, slipping on the teardrop-shaped earrings.
“Yes. The vendor told me that Cleopatra’s eye shadow was made out of ground lapis lazuli.” He slipped the necklace around my neck, which was a thick chain with a three-teardrop design. His eyes took me in for a long while before he finally said, “Blue is your color.”
I smiled. “Like the color of your eyes.” I held his gaze, wishing I knew what the hell was going through his mind.
He swallowed, then said, “You’re different.”
Out of everything, I was definitely not expecting that. “I am? How?”
“I don’t know. You always just seemed so restless before, and now . . .” He ran a finger along my jaw. “It’s like a stillness has descended over you.”
I must have looked heartbroken because he quickly added, “I mean that in a good way.”
I lay back into the pillows and chewed on his words. The past six months had forced me to become independent. I had always had Jason or Henry to depend on, but without either of them, I’d been forced to rely on me. It had been a sobering, empowering, lonely experience. “I guess I’ve changed,” I finally said.
I looked up at him and studied the dark circles under his eyes. I wanted to point out that he was different as well, as if a shadow was blanketing him, but didn’t think it would be received well. So I just put away the gifts and pulled him back onto the bed, hoping that the morning light would bring us back to ourselves.
* * *
I woke up shivering some time later. I burrowed under the blanket, trying to locate Henry’s warmth but he was nowhere to be found. When I opened my
eyes, I found myself alone in a dark room and for one terrifying moment, I thought I was in a new nightmare. Then I heard the front door slam shut and the jingle of keys as they landed on the countertop. The bedroom door squeaked open and Henry peered in.
I sat up, pushing unruly hair out of my face, and turned on a lamp. “Hey, where did you go?”
He came inside and sat on the bed. He was wearing a black moisture-wicking sweatshirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. “I couldn’t sleep so I went running.”
“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Nearly midnight.”
“And you’re not sleepy?”
He shrugged as he pulled off his clothes and walked to the bathroom. “I’m just jet-lagged.”
“Henry?”
He looked over his shoulder, the bathroom light illuminating the lines on his face. “Yeah?”
“Everything okay?” I asked. He still hadn’t told me about the attack on the base; I was beginning to wonder if he would talk about it at all. I’d read about PTSD and its symptoms, hoping to be ready should Henry be affected by the attack, but so far, I still wasn’t sure. I wished there was some sort of litmus test I could give him, to get a definitive answer so I could formulate a plan of attack, but all I had was the man himself and he wasn’t in the mood to disclose that information.
“I’m good,” he said and closed the bathroom door.
3
PROBLEMS IN LOGISTICS
The next day, after getting ready for work, I went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Henry came out of his bedroom a few minutes later already in his ABU pants and a tan undershirt. He placed his jacket on the back of the chair and headed to the coffeepot.
“I’ve already poured some out,” I said, cracking eggs into the pan. I turned to grab the salt and pepper and ran into his back. He dodged out of the way, but accidentally hit me with the drawer as he pulled out some forks.
“Sorry,” he said, massaging my hip.
I doubled over as his fingers brushed against a ticklish spot and the spatula in my hand smacked him in the chest. “Sorry,” I said, reaching for some paper towels to dab at the mess.
He looked down at his shirt, at the oil stain that was already blooming on the cotton fabric, with an unreadable expression. He stepped out of the kitchen and pulled the shirt off, shaking his head. “Damn, that was my last clean undershirt,” he said and strode off to his bathroom.
I looked around the kitchen, unable to figure out why I suddenly felt relieved to be alone. Taking advantage of Henry’s absence, I quickly cooked the omelets, made toast, and set everything out on the table. By the time Henry emerged from the bathroom, everything was ready. After putting his shirt in the dryer, he stood at the table with his hands on his hips.
“You all right?” I asked, sipping my coffee.
He frowned. “You did it all without me.”
A pang of regret shot through me. Henry and I had always made this breakfast together before he left for Afghanistan but today it seemed easier to just do it all myself. “I guess I got used to doing everything alone.”
“Next time, I can help.” He sat down and took a sip of coffee. “But this looks good,” he added and we ate.
* * *
By the next morning, I’d figured out that I needed to relinquish some control in the kitchen. I left the coffee untouched, hoping that he would figure it out, but he stood at the other side of the counter and watched me with wary eyes.
I guess he needed an embossed invitation or something. “Can you do the coffee, please?”
He grinned and entered the fray, grabbing the can of coffee beans and preparing the coffeemaker. It took some time and a few bumps, but we finally learned how to move around each other again, as if retracing the steps to our little daily dance routine. When we sat down to eat, we raised our steaming mugs of coffee, celebrating our little victory with knowing smiles.
* * *
While our breakfast routine was back on track, Henry’s sleep schedule was still off-kilter. He continued to toss and turn at night, and soon my own sleep also began to suffer. The only time I fell into a deep sleep was when he’d climb out of bed at four a.m. to go running, when the bed would finally be still and I could relax.
One night, I decided to try something different to see if it would help. I kissed him good night in the living room then headed to my room.
Henry was right at my heels.
“Why the hell are you in here?” he asked, watching from the door as I crawled under my duvet.
“If I remember correctly, this is my bed.”
He rolled his eyes. “I mean, why aren’t you sleeping in my room?”
“To let you get some sleep,” I stated simply. I fluffed my pillow and lay down.
“It’s just jet lag,” he said, walking across the room and standing over me with arms crossed over his chest.
I gave him a skeptical look. “Jet lag doesn’t last this long.” I sighed. “Look, I just want to see if my presence, or lack thereof, will help you sleep better.”
He raised one eyebrow. “If you think that sleeping by myself will do me good,” he said, throwing aside my covers, “then you don’t know me very well at all.” And with one swift movement, he lifted me up in his arms and stole me out of my room.
In his room, he deposited me on his bed and fell in beside me. “You’re not the reason why I can’t sleep, okay?” he said.
“Then what’s bothering you?” I asked. When he said nothing, I whispered, “Hey, let’s talk.”
“About what?”
“Whatever. Anything you want.”
He shifted so that he was looking at the ceiling and no longer at me. He said nothing, only turned off the bedside lamp.
“Maybe about what happened over there,” I said, hoping the cloak of darkness would give him the courage to speak.
The pillow rustled when he shook his head. “Just give me some time, Els. I just need to process.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what processing entailed, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt, as I always did, and hoped that it wouldn’t be long before he was back to normal.
Sometime in the early hours, the buzzing of his phone pulled me from sleep. “Your phone,” I croaked, touching Henry’s arm.
All of a sudden, Henry wrenched his arm away, forming a fist as it flew up to protect his face. He sat up with a start, breathing heavily, his muscles coiled for attack.
I lay beside him, frozen in place, my brain still trying to process what the hell had just taken place.
His head jerked to the buzzing on the nightstand. He finally relaxed when he reached over to turn the phone off.
“Are you okay?” I whispered, wanting to touch him yet too afraid to move.
He turned to me as his hands searched in the dark for my face. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I shook my head, my heart still thudding wildly.
“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said gently. He pressed a kiss to my cheek, then climbed out of bed, pulling on his clothes for another long morning run, not bothering to explain what had him on edge.
* * *
Thus began our new normal. Henry was always up early, if he slept at all, and ran laps at the park. He was always back by the time I climbed out of bed to get ready for work. We’d eat breakfast together and kiss good-bye at the parking lot.
In the afternoons, after coming home from work, he’d give me a kiss before heading off to the gym for a few hours, making me feel like I was living alone again. Some nights he didn’t return until I was climbing into bed—my own—and he would pull the caveman stunt by throwing me over his shoulder and taking me to his room. The fun of it wore off after a while.
Even though we had plenty of sex, I felt detached from him in a way I’ve never felt before. I’d always taken pride in being able to read his moods,
but now I was mystified by the sudden veil that would lay across his features, often at the most random times. I felt like I was standing on a dock, reaching out as far as I could, and Henry was in a boat that was drifting away with the morning tide.
So I did the only thing I could to still feel connected to him—I would wrap my arms around him, press my cheek to his back, and just thank God that Henry was alive, that he was safe, and that Afghanistan didn’t take him from me too.
* * *
One day, I received an envelope with Henry’s handwriting on it mixed in with the junk mail. It was addressed to me and postmarked in March, at the beginning of the deployment. I couldn’t decide which was more surprising: the fact that it was delivered so late or that it arrived here at all.
I didn’t know why my fingers were shaking as I gently tore open the envelope, but I felt jittery, unsure of what I was in for.
Dear Elsie,
So here it is, your very first romantic war letter! I still can’t believe I’m writing you like this, in such an intimate way. I’ve always wanted to write you a love letter but now it’s legit, now I can actually send it off with due reason.
We arrived a week ago after a hellacious series of plane rides. It sucked. We got halfway here but somewhere over the Atlantic, there was a problem with the plane and we had to go back to Baltimore. So we had the distinct pleasure of sitting in a People Mover on a runway for six hours, not able to go into the terminal because we hadn’t gone through security. Then we stopped in Ireland at four a.m., where they opened the bar for us for twenty minutes while we refueled (yay Guinness!). Then we flew to Cyprus where we stayed in the plane for six hours, and from there we flew to Kuwait City, then finally, we caught a convoy to Bagram Air Base. All in all, the trip took forty-six horrendous hours.