“I'm sorry you're having to leave home because of me.” She sighed. “I don't think any of us will ever be able to go back.”
Sarai shrugged from her perch on the room's only bunk. “Considering the alternative, it seemed a small price to pay.”
“We could hardly leave you there to die, Sergeant,” Astaria spoke up. “Even though I know you would've preferred it.” She leaned one shoulder against the wall. With her shorn hair and lanky body, only the softness of her face hinted at her femininity.
Lelia frowned. Her second knew her almost too well. Given that they'd been together since they were children, that wasn't particularly surprising. Still, it was odd that someone was so familiar with her most intimate thoughts. It was almost like seeing her image reflected in a mirror. Restless from finding herself confined once again, she began to pace the room. “I'm only wondering what we'll do now. We're literally women without a country.”
* * *
Lelia brought that question up the very next time she and Patrick were alone again. Returning to America with three additional women of Arab extraction was proving to be a bit problematic. Given the changed circumstances, Patrick hadn't tried to make his connection with a covert operative at sea. Instead, he took advantage of Laritrea's standing as a former French colony; all three women were admitted to France, and Patrick arranged for them to remain in Paris while he worked out the logistics of getting them into the States.
He'd been on a cell phone virtually full-time since their arrival. Lelia watched him as he gritted his teeth in frustration, then closed the device with a sharp click and tossed it onto the bedside table. He stood staring down at his hand for a brief moment. Finally, he picked up the phone again and punched in a number one-handed.
“Colonel Brown, there's been a slight change in plans.”
As she listened to Patrick's end of the conversation, it quickly became clear that Colonel Brown wasn't exactly pleased with his actions. Lelia wandered around the room, oblivious to the amenities she should have appreciated after days of incarceration. The thick carpet under her feet muffled her footsteps, and she idly picked up a crystal decanter before replacing it on the antique sideboard. She stood at the window, looking at but not seeing the beautiful postcard view of a small park riotously in bloom. Patrick's conversation continued for a long time, and Lelia struggled to tune it out. She didn't need anything to increase her anxiety. When he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, she leaned back against his chest with a heavy sigh.
“What did she say?” Lelia had met Colonel Brown briefly during her stay in America. She recalled being both shocked and awed by the diminutive woman, knowing instinctively that she was a force to be reckoned with.
“The parts of the conversation that are fit for mixed company are pretty straightforward,” Patrick mused. “As native Arabic speakers, the US military would love to have you. The problem is getting all of you into the country. Homeland Security is much less enthusiastic. They wouldn't mind having you, but they're so paranoid they see terrorists everywhere. Besides, they can't resist jerking the Marines around a little bit, either. ”
Lelia frowned. She didn't want to hurt Patrick's feelings, and she wasn't nearly as disdainful of his country as she had been prior to her visit. Still… “I'm not sure I want to work for—”
“The US government.” Patrick finished her sentence. “Of course you don't. And I don't want you to. How do you feel about bringing the Pussycat Death Squad stateside?”
Lelia turned around to look at him. “Have you lost your mind?” she snapped at him. “You know how I hate that name.”
Patrick nodded. “I know. I know, but you've gotten some great publicity lately. It would be a shame to waste it.”
“Publicity for what? A burlesque group?” she derided.
“Do you have any idea how many wealthy people need discreet security?”
“What?”
“According to Colonel Brown, there are lots of ridiculously wealthy people who need security but don't want the type of attention they get when they're surrounded by typical bodyguards. I can't imagine anyone who fits the bill better than you guys. Attackers will be so busy trying to hit on you, they won't even notice you ripping their throats out.”
Lelia pondered that for a moment. “That's interesting, but what about the rest of my soldiers? If I leave them in Laritrea, al-Fariq will have them arrested.”
Patrick nodded. “That's something else Colonel Brown mentioned. Do you know a reporter by the name of Cam Watson?”
“Of course I do. His article set this whole thing in motion.” She hesitated, recalling al-Fariq's duplicity. “Or at least I thought it did,” she amended, shaking her head. She really didn't want to think about political intrigue right now. “Anyway, what about him?”
He turned her around and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, as though understanding how troubled she was. “According to Colonel Brown, he's been looking for you. Apparently, he's back in Laritrea covering the coup. I think this might be a situation where a little strategic publicity might well be beneficial. What do you think?”
“I can't tell him everything. There will be a war for sure.”
“I'm thinking we should tell him what happened and let him decide what should go in his story. Colonel Brown seemed to think he might be sympathetic.”
“But—”
Patrick interrupted, placing a finger across her lips. “Shhhh. We got you out safe, and for the moment everything else can wait.” He lowered his mouth to hers, and time stopped as his tongue caressed her lips, seeking entry. Lelia couldn't hold back a gasp as her lips parted and she returned the kiss with everything she had.
He groaned like a man in pain. “God, baby, it's been forever. I can't wait. This is going to be crazy, but I'll make it up to you.”
“I don't think you'll have to. I missed you so much.”
Patrick slipped his hands under her jacket, stroking her breasts and the nipples that just ached for his touch. She ground her clit against his thick erection, mewling impatiently against his mouth. She unfastened her pants, frustrated as she remembered that she was wearing her lace-up combat boots. Lelia dropped down to the side of the bed, beating all known records unlacing her boots and removing her pants in almost the same motion. She paused for a moment as Patrick shed his casual attire far more quickly.
His cock stood out erect from his body, awakening in her a desperate need to taste him. She wrapped one hand around his erection, loving its thickness and throbbing hardness. Lelia slowly slipped her lips over the prominent mushroom head. His masculine aroma enveloped her, pushing her to even greater arousal. She slipped her other hand between her legs, stroking her clit as it swelled against her hand. She groaned against his cockhead; she'd had no idea that loving him this way would be so arousing. She couldn't get enough and slid her mouth down as far as she could reach. She was delighted when he gripped her hair and cried out in response, almost as if she were hurting him. But she knew from the way he rose on his tiptoes, thrusting his hips forward, that pain was far from what he was feeling.
“Jesus, baby, you're going to make me come,” he gritted out as she greedily sucked all of him into the depths of her mouth.
Aroused almost beyond bearing, Lelia looked up, her gaze traveling over his tightly clenched torso to meet his eyes. Apparently, that look was all it took, because suddenly he closed his eyes and began trying to pull away from her grasp. Unwilling to lose him at such a moment, she held on tightly as his semen began pulsing into her mouth. She swallowed again and again, loving the salty, musky taste and still stroking her clit as her own orgasm shuddered through her.
Before she could say a word, Patrick grabbed her, pulling her over on top of him on the bed and thrusting his still-erect cock into the depths of her throbbing cunt in one motion. The feel of him, stretching her almost to the point of pain, leaving her clit totally exposed to his seeking fingers, pitched her into an orgasm so quickly, she bar
ely had time to catch her breath. He grabbed her hips in an almost punishing grip, lifting her up and down on his pulsing cock. Their movements became increasingly frantic. Lelia ground her clit against him with each downward stroke as Patrick's hips rose from the bed, slamming into her, over and over again. Their bodies strained together and sweat dripped from their flesh as each sought the ecstasy they could only find together.
Just when she thought she couldn't bear another moment, Patrick pulled her down for a deeply carnal kiss, their tongues entwining in gasping desperation. He slid a hand between their questing bodies and began strumming her clit. He pressed his face into the V between her neck and shoulder, his teeth sinking in as though compelled by some bestial instinct, punctuated by the growls that rumbled up from his chest. Driven by the intensity of his response to her, Lelia felt her orgasm tightening her clit almost to the point of pain, before releasing so suddenly she could do nothing but collapse on top of him.
Patrick's head arched back, the cords in his neck and shoulders standing out as though carved by Michelangelo as his hips rose up to slam into hers, again and again before his body exploded into hers. They lay there in an exhausted heap, their sweaty forms having totally wrecked the pristine white linen. Patrick looked around the room. The impossibly soft pillows with their crisp white cases that had been stacked so precisely at the head of bed now littered the floor like marshmallows after a cookout. He doubted the duvet cover could ever be returned to its former state. Worse, they were both still more than half-dressed, and he even had his boots on. He stroked his hands over the full globes of Lelia's ass before he whispered against the top of her head.
“Someday we'll have a nice civilized fuck,” he said in a regretful tone.
Lelia could barely muster the energy to raise her head. “I should certainly hope not.”
Epilogue
The still of the misty dawn was broken only by the cries of sea birds dive-bombing for their morning meal. She'd spent most of her life getting up with the sun, but she'd never taken the time to appreciate the beauty nature offered. Lelia leaned back into the cocoon provided by Patrick's embrace, inhaling the tangy salt air of the barrier island. After weeks of hard work, they'd finally been able to escape to the island as he'd promised her months ago. Though she had doubted its viability, they already had dozens of inquiries about their security service—no doubt spurred by the newspaper article about them. Cam Watson had made them sound more romantic than Doctor Zhivago. His story about lovers separated by political intrigue had no real basis in reality, but that hadn't mattered. Colonel al-Fariq was placed in a position of having to deny keeping them apart, and he quickly released the Amazonian Guard from their chastity vow. Then to save face, he disbanded the unit altogether when it was clear that they were all leaving his service. Most had joined Lelia in the States, with a few remaining in Laritrea, where they were able to openly marry the sweethearts they'd kept secret before out of fear.
Colonel Brown had a positive attitude about Patrick's pending resignation from the corps. She's even said that she preferred to have him work for her outside official channels. Somehow that comment was more than a little bit scary.
“So, when are we going to do this?” Patrick's voice rumbled across the top of her head, where his chin rested. They'd arrived at the beach after midnight the previous evening, exhausted by the logistics of caring for a couple of dozen women in a strange country and starting a new business. Despite their tiredness, they'd automatically gotten out of bed at dawn to come out to the beach. After Lelia completed her morning prayers, they'd slipped outside to one of the small sand dunes, where the sight of hundreds of birds greeting the day awaited them.
“I'm sorry, love,” she said on a jaw-cracking yawn. “You're going to have to be a bit more specific.”
“All your people are here now. Looks like your business is taking off. I'm thinking we might want to get married.”
Lelia shifted on the sand, turning around to look at him. “What?” she asked, totally suspicious of his casual demeanor. He had to be making some kind of joke.
“Interesting reaction,” Patrick mused under his breath. “Look, do you want to get married or what?”
“Patrick, we can't get married. You'd have to convert,” Lelia burst out.
“So, you're planning to live in sin with me? Who's the despoiler of virgins now? You know I'm a good old Southern boy. We don't roll that way.”
Lelia collapsed in helpless giggles, which was a good thing, because his next words literally took her breath away.”
“La 'ilaha 'illallah muhammadur-rasulullah,” Patrick said, looking down at her with a gaze so intent it was almost scary.
The breath hissed through her teeth. She stared back at him through eyes burning with tears that wouldn't be held back.
When she didn't respond, he continued. “My Arabic isn't so great yet; did I mess it up? You know I said, 'There is no God but God. Muhammad is God's messenger.'”
The tears wouldn't be stopped now and flowed quietly down Lelia's cheeks, making silver streams against her richly toned skin. “Your Arabic is fine, but you don't mean that. This is not something you do casually, Patrick. It's not a joke. You may not take religion seriously, but you know I do.”
His expression didn't change. “Do you think I would make a joke about something so important to you?”
Lelia couldn't respond, because she knew he wouldn't, but this: to take shahadah and convert. She'd never even dreamed such a thing was possible. “What about your family?”
He laughed ruefully. “Come on, sugar. My old man is a bigger heathen than I am. My mom will probably be delighted that I have a religion of any kind that doesn't involve human sacrifice.”
“You know it's not going to be that easy,” she murmured, seeking sanctuary against his chest.
“We're warriors, sugar,” he said with a cheeky grin. “We don't do easy. Oorah.”
THE END
Roslyn Hardy Holcomb
Roslyn Hardy Holcomb was born in North Alabama and has had a disparate career and varied interests. Her lifelong devotion to needle arts led to a stint on the editorial staff of Oxmoor House, the publishing division of Southern Progress, Inc. Regular volunteer work and a passion for child welfare inspired her to leave that field to pursue an advanced degree and a career in social service. Shortly after her preschool age son was born, she decided to become a stay-at-home mother and pursue a writing career fulltime. Her works include Rock Star, her first novel, and Try a Little Tenderness, available in e-book format and print. She has also published some non-fiction articles for n2na, a local magazine.
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