Soak (A Navy SEAL Mormon Taboo Romance)

by Loren, Celia

  “Sorry for what?” Chloe asked, when it occurred to her that she was the one being rude this time. It was so easy to get dizzy in a new place.

  “I have a hard time making conversation. I sort of hate small-talk, so I have a hard time reading social cues.” Wally ran a hand through his bushy dark hair. “A little like our friend Ignatius.” He thumped the cover of his copy of the book, indicating the main character. Chloe let her guard down a little.

  “It’s okay. To be honest? I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’m a little nervous.”

  “You’re not a member of the club, then?” Wally frowned. Chloe felt the urge to reassure him. Something in his aspect reminded her of her brother.

  “I guess I’m a new member,” she said, straining to read the addresses of buildings they passed. Finally, they stumbled past the dull exterior of a red-brick townhouse with big floral curtains in the windows. Something about the place was homey. Despite the strange invitation and the even stranger present company, Chloe felt certain that things wouldn’t go terribly wrong inside. She was glad to be taking a chance.

  Taking the stairs two at a time in giddiness, Chloe smoothed her denim skirt. Angela had been lending her clothes, and she felt freer and pretty in the red scoop-neck t-shirt that clung to her curves. She’d taken to wearing her hair in a high bun, like a lot of the most glamorous New York women walking the streets seemed to. Standing in front of Wally, who wore light jeans on the Mom-side and a ratty white polo shirt, she almost felt glamorous. Savvy.

  “Alright, Ignatius,” she called, raising a finger to ring the bell. “Here we go!”

  He went to the door, as she fidgeted with her hemline. She peered into the yellowy warmth of the living room, refracted through the glass window, and he twisted the knob. They stood there. Their eyes adjusted to the other. Their minds thought, no, it isn’t possible. Then, he said something:

  “Fuck.” Ryder smacked a hand against the door as soon as the words escaped his lips. Far from a perfect intro. But she surprised him.

  “Yeah, FUCK.” Then, her perfect face, the face lifted straight from his dreams, broke open. She was laughing. She was laughing and crying. There was nothing to do but reach out and gather her up, hold her close so she couldn’t possibly fly away.

  “It’s you,” he breathed, inhaling the perfume of her hair. She dug her sharp little fingers into his back. He was pleased that he was strong for her, in this moment. That he’d made himself get strong again.

  “It’s you!” She whispered these words, so they tickled his neck. He gripped her a little tighter.

  “Wow. So this is book-club,” murmured Wally, who Ryder had completely forgotten about. His vet friend shifted from foot to foot on the stoop, looking incredibly out of place. Not letting go of her (never letting go of her again), he moved aside so Wally could enter.

  All he wanted to do was run off into the darkness with her. Hole up in some silent cafe, alone, and hear everything she had to say. How had she made it out? It was like she’d been a POW, some lost cause. A lost cause in red. And was that a new skirt? She’d certainly never worn her skirts that short in Provo...

  But he had a party to host. His mentee was counting on him. “Come in, buddy,” he told Wally, trying not to giggle at the words. Chloe squeezed his hand.

  “Glad to see so much passion around the printed word,” his young charge said. Then, he made for the subs.

  Which left them alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  If you held a gun to her head, she wouldn’t be able to tell you the events of that fateful evening. She vaguely recalled Lexi and her girlfriend canoodling on the couch. At one point, Wally had surprised the room by delivering a lengthy monologue about post-war satire, which had really seemed to please Ryder. The six foot sandwich had been eaten or parceled into purses for later. Then finally, finally, FINALLY, they’d been alone.

  Ryder’s Aunt Tilde had been out for the evening, at some kind of church group. She couldn’t remember. What she could remember amounted to: the easy way their skin touched, the electric jolt the contact gave her, and the outrageous, goofy face he made whenever their eyes reached across space and found the other.

  He looked better. That was something else she knew for sure. His biceps strained the corners of his cozy-looking Henley, and his already narrow waist seemed narrower. He laughed a little more often; she could see that Lexi and the lady-friend brought out something calm in him. But what she loved best was watching him interact with Wally. He was patient and kind with the slightly trying guest, and there was one point in their conversation when she could have sworn they were brothers—they both yelled and gesticulated the exact same way when they had points to make. She liked his shaggy hair, too, which had grown several inches in their few months of absence. Jughead, indeed.

  When the door clicked shut behind Lexi—who had winked—there had been a moment of strangeness. There were lots of questions to ask, and she didn’t want to negotiate any one of them.

  “How’s your family?” he managed, turning slowly. And his big grey eyes had danced with concern, and she’d known she wouldn’t be able to hide the truth.

  “Terrible,” she’d said, sinking into his aunt’s nubby couch. She’d told him about her lockdown, her terrible date with Elder Eyring, her family’s icy unwillingness to take her seriously. When she got to their final show-down, tears had welled up behind her eyes. She realized she hadn’t cried yet about her leaving. It felt overdue.

  Ryder offered her his sleeve, and listened patiently—if furiously—as she told him everything. She could feel his muscles tensing when she described Freddy’s lunge in the car, and each time she mentioned Johnny he bristled in a similar way. Still, he was silent.

  “So you’re in New York to stay?” Now it was her turn to soothe. She smiled wryly, in lieu of a proper answer. “As long as I can,” she said. He didn’t seem satisfied with this, but he didn’t ask anything else.

  It was getting late. Unspoken between them lay a long subway ride back into the city. But Chloe couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him for one more second, even though their union felt strange. They were in a different house entirely. She wouldn’t be running back to her bedroom after whatever came next. If she stayed, she’d be waking up next to Ryder. His was the face she would see in the morning.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he said, sincerely. She rested her fingertips on his stubbly cheeks. Words didn’t seem sufficient. So, she kissed him.

  Their mouths, to her surprise and pleasure, seemed to recognize one another perfectly. It didn’t feel as if any time had passed. He was pressing and she was pressing, so their lips became fervent, mutual attackers, and in moments she was on her back on the couch. When he mounted her, Chloe marveled at his heavy, muscular body. He was being a little less careful with her—unlike in Provo, when there were moments when she’d felt like a baby bird in his palm. But she found she preferred it this way. She preferred to feel every inch of his strength.

  He kissed her harder. He kissed her neck. And soon, thrillingly, his familiar palm had found the roundness of her breasts. He squeezed and kneaded at her tit over her shirt. That was the first time Chloe cried out, when there was still so much fabric between them. His touch felt that good.

  “Oh my God,” she cried again, flailing against the pillows. She drove a palm into the fabric and widened her legs, as far apart as her denim skirt would allow. Ryder nudged his thick thighs into the space they made.

  “I want you so bad,” he groaned. God, she was wet. She was already wet. When was the last time she’d been wet? Certainly, Ryder had been there.

  Breathing rapidly, Chloe pulled herself into sitting. Ryder’s hands shook as he tore at her borrowed t-shirt, scooting it over her chest like it was on fire. They hovered for a moment once her skin was exposed to him. His eyes feasted on her paleness, her tender curves, the taut flesh of her belly. She felt powerful, under his gaze.

  Chloe started to t
ug at Ryder’s shirt. She was giddy and hungry, and the sight of his tanned, muscular chest only exacerbated both wants. She pressed greedy fingers into his skin, delighting when she was met with resistance. He was so fucking strong, her Mr. Strong.

  She kissed his chest. He tasted salty and sweet. She drew him closer to her, so a small world of heat and moisture began to emerge between their bodies. No one will walk in, she told herself. They were safe. They were together.

  Ryder, apparently, had other ideas. Her lips were still roving his torso when he rose to standing, and beckoned her to follow. When Chloe seemed confused, Ryder grinned and picked her up off the couch, bride-style—so her feet dangled. He began to climb the little staircase leading, she figured, to his bedroom. She giggled like a school-girl.

  “We get a bed this time!” Chloe grinned up at her lover. He paused, leaning against the wall to kiss her. She loved that he kissed her like he was afraid she could disappear.

  When they reached his childhood bedroom, Ryder suddenly turned shy. He carried her quickly over to the bed, as if a speedy transition would prevent her from seeing the posters on his wall. The figures on his desks. There were some beloved 90s pop-rock bands ornamenting his room, and just about everything was a deep, forest-green color. Apparently, he’d always been hardcore.

  “God,” Ryder said, climbing onto the bed with her. Chloe felt dizzy, suddenly intoxicated by his heat and proximity. “You know, you’re the first girl I’ve ever got up here.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  Thankfully, instead of responding, he lunged toward her and kissed her. She giggled again, thrilled at how different his urgent kiss was from Freddy’s. That fucking creep.

  Their movements became tender. His fingers moved toward her bra’s clasp, but they were slow. Nearly worshipful. When she felt that her back was exposed to the free air, Chloe shimmied out of the cups, affording Ryder a full look at her chest. He marveled at her form again, before the animal gaze entered his eyes. He sank into her chest and immediately began to suck on one of her nipples, as he cupped and squeezed the soft flesh surrounding.

  “Yes,” Chloe murmured, shoving his shaggy head further into her chest. His mouth pressed and pressed. She could feel his teeth. Without quite thinking about it, her hips had begun to buck below her, attempting to escape the denim skirt. Ryder didn’t skip a beat, and wedged one hand firmly between her legs. When the tip of his index finger landed on the crest of her clit, she nearly came.

  “Not yet,” Ryder grinned, pressing harder. His finger entered her, then began pressing up, locating some hidden and new source of pleasure. Chloe thrust against his hand. She could feel how damp the space between her thighs had grown. Every cell ached from wanting him, as close as possible.

  When the fingers became too much to bear, Ryder moved to flip Chloe over, slapping her lightly on the pale skin of her ass. But she wanted something different this time.

  “Do you have a condom?”

  “Yeah, sure. But...are you sure?” His eyes betrayed him; they became lusty and alive at the prospect of entering her most sacred of spaces. Chloe nodded. Yes, she wanted this. It felt like she’d wanted it forever.

  They took off their remaining clothes. He dragged her skirt to the ground, then her panties. She watched him unbuckle his jeans, then ease the denim over his engorged cock, which seemed even thicker than she remembered. She took him in her hand, and Ryder’s base shook.

  “Oh my God,” he gasped, into her hair. She pressed her other hand against his flexing chest. Slowly, but—she hoped—confidently, Chloe eased his manhood towards her open thighs.

  The pain surprised her. It was that of a new stretch, or a Charlie horse. Even though they’d soaked before, as soon as Ryder moved inside of her, she felt a strain. But slowly, her body shifted to accommodate his size. He pressed into her tentatively, though she could sense in his taut muscles just how badly he wanted to fuck her. Then, Chloe looked into her lover’s bright eyes. She forced herself to stay in that hidden, small place with him, where they didn’t need to apologize or explain or even say the words. She simply knew they were true.

  He clutched at the back of her neck and said them anyway. “I love you, Chloe Christiansen.”

  She drew her thighs up to surround his ribcage, wanting to feel as much of him as possible. He panted above her, and off her nod, began to rock back and forth. She thought she could sense what would feel good later, once they had more practice. For now, she was content to settle for the love, the closeness, the warm touch.

  After a few moments, his face screwed up. Chloe dug her nails into his biceps. Ryder’s eyes rolled back into his head. She felt a warm, not-unpleasant seeping in their private unity, and then—a great relief. When he began to pull away, she found that she wanted him to stay inside her. Hovering. Being, as one.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was the last thing he wanted to think, let alone say. There she was, a blonde angel in a swamp of Hampden House sheets, her intent gaze fixed on a magazine. (Vanity Fair.) A small mess of take-out containers and a three dollar bottle of wine (drained) lay on the night-stand. She’d set up the iPod dock, so small, sweet, indie-girl music played. He felt like he was in a French movie.

  He preferred to dwell on the warm valley of her cleavage, or her perky pink nipples. The concave basin of her stomach, or those smooth muscular thighs. Her pink lips. What words they might form next. And yet.

  It had been five beautiful days of living in sin. Some of the best days of his life, hands-down. Every morning, he’d gotten to wake up to Chloe’s pearly white grin. Every night, he’d fallen asleep holding her, playing big spoon to her little. The days passed in flashes: they’d make love, they’d talk, they’d read. In the afternoons he would stand to leave for yoga or a meeting with Wally or a therapy session, and she’d always say the same thing: Don’t go. Looking so plaintive. Afraid that if he could leave her once, he could do it again.

  But he always came back, and it was bliss. Though “gentlemen callers” were strictly against the rules at Hampden House, Lexi thankfully turned a blind eye to his frequent visits, and neither of Chloe’s neighbors seemed to mind the midnight sounds. He always snuck out before breakfast, and then they’d meet up at some prearranged place: a West side diner, a museum. Once, they went ice skating in Central Park. They could last a few hours in New York City’s culture before the urge would overtake them again, and he’d need to drag her clothes off with his teeth. They would run for the nearest bed, his place or hers. She’d trip, laughing, up the stairs. He would watch her ass swish back and forth and temporarily forget how to breathe.

  Still, there was something missing. It first occurred the morning after their first reunion, when he came down to breakfast to find Aunt Tilde calmly reading a newspaper. “Company?” she’d asked, with a mischievous grin. He’d been so thankful that she hadn’t up and kicked him out on his ass that morning, for yet another trifling misstep. Chloe had been pretty embarrassed, sneaking past the living room with barely a hello, but he’d remained suspended somewhere between gratitude and cloud nine for much of the day. Love had surrounded him, that was why. He was with the person he loved best, and his only living family member didn’t mind.

  Chloe, he knew, didn’t have this luxury. Not anymore. Sometimes during their long hours together, he thought he could see a patch of sadness cross her face. Some song on the radio, some stranger’s mannerism, would remind her of her brothers or sisters. Once they took the subway downtown and rode in a car with two Mormons, bearing little nametags: Elder Ralph something and Elder Kimball Grey. He’d been shocked to glance over and spy tears, welling up in the corners of her eyes. She’d wiped them away and refused to discuss it, but he’d become aware that their paradise had a cost for her. Family.

  She turned a page, and impatiently brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. Neither of them had real jobs. Mirabel had offered him a slot in the new yoga teacher training sessions, but he still wasn’t fu
lly sold on the whole hippie Brooklyn lifestyle. He thought he’d like to do something a little closer to service. Teaching might be nice. The most spiritually rewarding parts of his days remained his bi-weekly visits with Wally, who had finally started opening up in sessions. They weren’t talking about the war yet, but there were no more awkward silences. That was something.

  “You’re staring at me,” Chloe drawled, biting her lip a little coyly. Ry instinctively flexed. He always wanted her to see him at his most manly.

  “So what if I am,” he ribbed, rolling toward her on the bed. Downstairs, he could already hear the sounds of dinner being prepared. Lexi was directing the kitchen staff, in her low, brassy voice. The hours, they sure flew by.

  “You’ve got your thinking face on.” Chloe shut her magazine, but kept a thumb pressed on the page she’d been reading. God, he loved her. What a little dork.

  “Maybe I do.” He rolled toward her on the bed, closing the gap between them. Their bodies still felt sticky and humid from a recent coitus. The sheets were warm and bunched. He was going to have to say it.

  “Do you ever think,” he started, looked at her wide, imploring blue eyes, then soldiered on. “Do you ever think—that maybe we should go back?”

  “To Provo?” The thumb slid out of the magazine. She sat up, and the world suddenly seemed harsher.

  “Just to make things right with your family. I dunno.”

  “What do you care, about my family? After what they did to you?”

  “I’m not asking for me!” Nevertheless, visions of Elder Johannes and Johnny Christiansen started to dance in his head. Though they both seemed a million miles away, it was true that Ryder also had some unfinished business. He’d left a best friend behind in Utah.