Wounded

by Jasinda Wilder

She twists in the bed, making a little noise in her throat as she does so. She’s facing me now, and her hands are clasped up between our chests, almost as if she’s praying in her sleep. I let my hand rest on her waist, and I just can’t help but let it slide down to her hip.

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  Then her eyes are fluttering open and she’s looking into me. Not at me, but into me.

  So beautiful, soft and lovely.

  One of her hands uncurls, flattens against my chest. I blink hard, desperately, pathetically hoping she’ll touch me. I feel like a teenager again, working so hard for a first kiss, awkwardly groping in the dark back seat of my car, hoping she’ll touch me anywhere, hoping she wants me like I want her.

  This is crazy. I’m married to her, but our relationship is so odd, so hesitant, so careful and exploratory.

  Minutes pass, my hand on her hip, hers on my chest, neither of us moving, barely breathing. I wonder if I should try to make a move, kiss her, or touch her, or let her set the pace.

  My gut tells me to stay still and see what she does, and I’ve learned to trust my gut.

  Her eyes widen slightly and waver as her gaze shifts on mine. She runs her hand over my shoulder and down my arm, just her fingertips along the bicep. And then she’s sliding her palm down my chest again, twisting her hand so her fingers face sideways, cupping my waist and my side. I stay frozen, letting her touch me. She scoots sideways along the edge of the bed, pulls me toward her, and then pushes me to lie on my back, adjusting her own position again so she’s lying half on me, my arm now cradling her head.

  “Okay?” she whispers. “Not hurting you, am I?”

  I shake my head. My fingers are twisting in her hair, smoothing it, toying with strands. I just watch her, examine her lovely features, memorizing, admiring.

  She places her hand on the center of my chest, staring at my body now rather than my eyes. Her fingers move down the fabric of my shirt, a proper regulation green BDU T-shirt now. She slips her fingers under the bottom edge of the shirt and explores upward, pushing the cotton as she goes. I lift my back slightly so the shirt is free to bunch under my shoulders. It’s a bit uncomfortable, so I tug the shirt off with one hand and toss it on the floor next to the bed.

  I don’t know what the doctors are monitoring, since I’m not hooked up to any machines; a random, aimless, displaced thought.

  Her hand rests on my right pectoral muscle, and she traces around my nipple, rubs her thumb across the tip of it, then traces the arc of my pectoral with one finger. Now the stomach, her palm sliding across my taut belly, tracing the grooves between my abs, like she did that one night in her house. I resist the urge to flex for her.

  She runs up the other side of my body, then back down. Farther, closer and closer to my waistband. She’s working up the courage to go farther. I won’t stop her this time. I think she’s just exploring, for herself. Exploring her own sense of desire.

  She takes a breath, slow and deep, lets it out as she snakes her palm down my torso to the fly of my pants. I unconsciously suck in my belly a little, then force myself to relax it. She glances up at me, unsure. I tuck a wayward hair behind her ear, run the side of my thumb over her cheekbone, then kiss her, as slow and soft and sweet as I can manage.

  This seems to give her courage.

  She twists the first button free, then the second. She stops, looks up at me. I quirk one side of my mouth up in a tiny smile and keep playing with her hair. She glances away, smiling shyly. So innocent, approaching this almost like a virgin.

  I lick my lips and focus on breathing evenly as she unbuttons my fly the rest of the way. She puts her fingers in the waistband of my underwear, then hesitates, shakes her head.

  “Hey,” I say. “It’s okay. This is whatever you want. No rush, okay? Just…just relax. ”

  “I am not so much afraid,” she says. “I am only nervous. Unsure of what I want, or what I am doing. ”

  “Just do whatever you want. If you’re not sure, just ask. ”

  She bites her lip and looks at me, long and hard. “I want…I want to see you,” she says.

  “See me?”

  She nods, not looking at me now, embarrassed. “Just see what you look like, first, as a man. ”

  “Oh. You mean you want me to take my pants off?”

  She nods her head against my chest again. “Is it okay?”

  I laugh into her hair. “Of course. Everything’s okay. Listen, only do what you want, okay? I told you, I don’t expect—”

  “I want to,” she interrupts. “I just am not so sure of what to want, or how to want it. You know? I have never wanted a man before. ”

  “And you want me?”

  She nods. “It is frightening, a little, how much I want to touch you. To be touched. ” I can feel her heart beating hard in her chest. “What you did, before, to me. To make me…” she makes an exploding gesture with her fingers, “…that was…I liked it. Very much. ”

  I chuckle. “Me, too. ”

  She tilts her head to look at me, nose wrinkled in confusion. “But you…I did nothing for you. ”

  “It’s not just about that. I enjoyed that as much as you did, but in a different way. Watching you…making you feel those things…I loved it. I’ll do it again, if you want me to. ”

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. First, this. I am afraid to touch you, but yet I want to. I cannot be only afraid. I must know in my heart that it is okay to want. To touch. ”

  I think I sense what she’s saying. “This is different for you. Different from…being with someone as Sabah. ”

  She flinches and goes tense. “That is not ‘being with. ’ It is… ‘doing to. ’ You see the difference? Sabah…she is one who allows men to feel what they want, do what they want. Sabah? She does not feel. She is cold. So cold that she cannot feel. ”

  “Numb. ”

  “Numb?”

  “That’s the word for when you’re so cold you can’t feel anything. ”

  “Oh. Then yes. Sabah is numb. She pretends. ” A long silence. “I am not Sabah. I am Rania. And I feel. ”

  “Good. No more Sabah. Only Rania. ”

  She nods. “But you are right. This is very different. Maybe you think because I was a whore for many years, I should know much about sex, about men. ” She shakes her head. “No. They do. I…do nothing. Only let them and make the noises they like. ”

  “Not anymore,” I say.

  She shrugs, a tiny movement. “Perhaps. If you say so. ” She’s drifting away.

  I’ve f**ked it up. She’s distant now, cooled off. Thinking about then. About Sabah.

  “I’m sorry I brought it up. ”

  She shrugs. “You need to know these things. I know nothing of sex. Of men. Of what to do, or how. What you might want. What I should want, or like to feel. It is all strange to me. I liked what you did. I did not know I could feel that way. ”

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  I roll slightly and kiss her. She freezes at first, as she always does when I kiss her, but she softens into it quickly, opens her mouth to mine, and nudges closer, gives in to the kiss. Her hand slips back onto my ribs, drifts around to my back, and explores it as we kiss, break for breath, and kiss again.

  When we stop, she touches my chest again, drifting back down to my open fly. She glances at me, and the look is the request. I lift my hips and wiggle out of my pants, taking the underwear with them, and then I’m naked beneath blanket. I feel oddly nervous, even though I’m usually comfortable with my nudity.

  She pushes the blanket past my hips slowly. Her breathing is shallow as she gazes at me. I’m hardening under her gaze. The scrutiny is almost embarrassing, nerve-wracking. I’m perfectly still, except for my chest rising and falling with my breath, and my slowly unfurling cock.

  Her hand rests on my stomach, over my belly button. Again, some bizarre instinct causes me to suck in my belly
when she begins to slowly, so slowly move her hand downward. I’m fully erect now, thickening, hardening. She glances up at me, then back down.

  She extends a single finger and traces my length from the tip to the base, just the pad of her finger sliding along the bumps and ridges of the skin. Now her palm, down the length and back up. It’s been a long time, and I’m full of raging desire, burning, aching with need, but I have to contain it. Keep it in, keep it back. Let her touch, and that’s it. Let her explore.

  I focus on her hair, toying with the cool strands between my fingers.

  I heave in a deep breath when she takes me in her hand, lifts me away from my body, from side to side. God, her hands on my c**k feel so good. So goddamned amazing. Her tiny little hands, long fingers, slim and strong and warm, grasping me, sliding along me. I’m clenched with all my muscles.

  She has no idea what she’s doing to me.

  I’m so close.

  What the f**k do I do?

  I wrestle with myself, trembling, trying so hard to hold back as she fondles me, examines me. She traces my length, grips me, lets go, cups my balls in one hand, touches them and explores them, then returns to my cock.

  I’m leaking. I’m about to come, and I have to hold it in. Have to. She’s just exploring. This isn’t sex.

  I can’t wait much longer.

  RANIA

  His whole body is shaking, as if he is flexing every muscle. His back is stiff, his eyes closed, his fingers tangled in my hair.

  His manhood is a thing of contradictions, so soft yet so hard. It is long and straight and thick, lying flat against his belly. It seems so big, and I am a little frightened of when we will have sex, even though I know it will be okay. I push those thoughts away. That is not for now.

  I let myself touch him. It is okay to touch him. I like touching him. I like the way it feels in my hand, filling my fist. He is making little noises in his throat, although I do not think he is aware of it. His other hand is clenching into a fist in the sheet of the bed. I glance down at his feet, peeking out from beneath the blanket, and his toes are curled. His arms are flexed, his stomach muscles are flexed.

  He is tensed, and every time I touch his manhood, he flinches, moves his hips slightly into the touch.

  “Why are you making muscles?” I ask. I have been trying to use only English with him, and he tries to answer in only Arabic.

  This time, he answers in English. I do not think he is capable of Arabic right now. “I’m…holding back. ”

  I do not understand at first, but then awareness dawns on me. He is about to release, but is holding back.

  “Why hold back?” I ask, gripping him more firmly now and sliding my hand on him.

  He laughs once. “Because this isn’t…about…me. ” He is moving his hips to the rhythm of my hand on his manhood. “It’s about you. Doing what you want. Learning to want. Also, because it’ll be messy. ”

  I know what I should do. I am not quite ready, but it is the best way. I start unbuttoning my pants. Hunter stops me.

  “No, not like this. I want it to be special. Just…stop touching me for a minute and I’ll…I’ll be okay. ”

  “You do not want to have sex with me?”

  “No,” he says, and my heart shrivels, hurt. But he continues, “I want to make love to you. It’s different. ”

  My hand is still on him, but not moving.

  “Oh,” I say. “But not now?”

  He shakes his head and takes my wrist in his hand, tries to pull me away. “No, not now. When we have all the time in the world. When we have a big bed and privacy. ”

  I do not want to stop touching him. I want to see him release. I do not care about a mess, or privacy. I like touching him. I understand a little now what he said about enjoying making me feel good.

  “Do you like how I am touching you? Does it feel good?” I ask.

  He gasps and releases my hand. I move my fist around his manhood, and I feel more confident in it now. His face gives me my answer, but he nods anyway.

  “Yes,” he says. “God, yes. It feels so good. I love it. I don’t want you to stop. But…I can’t hold back much longer. ”

  I continue to move my hand on him, and now his hips are starting to jerk. Leaning close to his ear, I whisper to him, “I want you to feel good. I am enjoying this. I do not want to stop. I do not want you to hold back. You can release. ”

  I know something I could do. Before I have a chance to think about it, I move my head down toward his manhood. He stops me.

  “No, Rania. Not that. ” Something in his voice tells me he is serious, so I return to leaning on his arm.

  I can hear beneath his voice what he may be thinking of, and I think of it, too, but push it away. I am glad he did not let me. It would have given me memories of other things, bad things.

  I kiss his jaw and taste his sweat, his stubble, his skin. I had slowed my hand on him when I began to move down, so now I speed up. My fist is loose around him, skin barely brushing skin. Now I hold him more tightly, move slowly, from the top of him to the bottom. He is jerking, shifting up and falling down. He gasps, tilts his head back.

  “Oh…oh, god…I’m about to…” He grates the words past his teeth, and then falls silent and arches his back.

  Now.

  He goes still at the apex of his arch, and his manhood jerks in my hand. A thick stream of viscous white seed spurts from him, shooting hard across his torso, in his belly button. I keep moving my hand on him, and his hips swivel his manhood into my fist. Another stream overlays the first, not as much now, nor does it shoot quite as far, and then a third jet, even less, and his body flops down against the bed. He is gasping, writhing his hips.

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  “God…goddamn. ” He is breathless, amazed, flushed.

  I feel a thrill of something powerful inside me, hot and swelling through every inch of me. It is a pleasantness, happiness. He liked it, and so did I. I made him feel good, and I felt a joy in return for having given it to him. I feel content.

  He laughs, a low rumble in his chest. “Shit, now I’m a mess. ”

  I look at him, at the thick river of white seed on his belly. “I will clean it. ”

  I go to the bathroom not far away, wet some paper towels, and return to the bed.

  “I can do it,” Hunter says, reaching for the towels.

  “No,” I say. “Let me. Please. ”

  He drops his hand and watches me as I scrub the seed from his flesh, folding the towels and wiping until he is clean, the fine curly hairs low on his belly damp and sticking to his skin. I throw the paper towels away and lie down next to him again. He drapes the blanket over us and pulls me across him.

  “Rania, that was—”

  I kiss him, and he goes quiet as we kiss. “It is a beginning,” I say.

  FIFTEEN

  HUNTER

  All the paperwork has been signed. She’s officially Rania Lee now. Goddamn. I’m a married man. Crazy.

  I’m officially honorably discharged and we’re on the way home. Well, back to the States. I haven’t mentioned to her that I don’t have an actual home yet. If it was just me, I’d probably bunk out on Derek’s parents’ couch, but that’s not an option. Too many questions.

  Derek. Fucking Derek re-upped. Says he wants to make sergeant. I could kick his ass for splitting us up like this, but it’s his choice, I guess. It just sucks. This will be the first time since goddamned second grade that Derek and I won’t be doing the same thing together. I’m going home to make a life with my wife, and he’s staying behind to do another tour in the clusterfuck that is OIF 2—maybe Afghanistan next, if the scuttlebutt is true.

  We’re on a plane headed west. Rania is in the seat next to me, clutching my hand so hard I think she might actually be bruising bones. I don’t blame her. We’re in the middle of an awful goddamn thunderstorm and the plane is bucking lik
e a roped steer. Poor girl’s first plane ride, and it’s the roughest one I’ve ever been on.

  I need to distract her.

  “Hey, Rania. ” She turns to look at me, teeth clenched, eyes wide. “So when we get to Des Moines, we’re gonna look at houses. That’ll be fun, right?”

  She just looks confused. “Look at houses? What does this mean?”

  “It means we’re going to pick out a home. ”

  “I thought you said we were going home. ”

  I shrug. “I just meant the city, Des Moines, where I grew up. I don’t have a place of my own. I joined the Marines out of high school, so I never had a place. ”

  “So we are alone together with no home?”

  “Yeah, baby. It’s just you and me. We’ll find a nice place together. ”

  “Baby? I am not a baby. ” She wrinkles her nose.

  I laugh. “No, I know. It’s…a term of endearment. ” She gives me a blank look. “It’s like ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie. ’”

  She still doesn’t seem to know what I mean.

  I laugh and shake my head. “It just means I love you. ”

  “If you say so,” she says. “But it is strange, to call the woman you love as a baby. But then, Americans are strange. ”

  “It is kind of weird,” I agree. “I never thought about it before. I guess it’s a cultural thing. We call each other pet names. It’s a way of…showing affection, I guess. ”

  She nods. “Ah, now this I understand. Like to call a son or a little brother ‘habibi,’ even if he is no longer a little boy. ”

  I nod. “Yeah, basically. ”

  She changes the subject. “So we will choose a home together? Do they not cost much money in your country?”

  “Yeah, but we’re not going to buy it outright. I have a good bit of money saved up, and I know the loan officer at a bank in town, so we’ll get a good deal. We’ll have a nice place. ”

  “If you say so. ” The plane hits a rough patch of turbulence, and she shuts down, clenching my hand again.

  I let her crush my fingers and try to imagine having a home of my own, with Rania. It’s a nice image.

  * * *

  I lease a furnished condo in the downtown area on a month-by-month basis until we find somewhere permanent. Rania has no clothes, nothing of her own, so the first thing I do is take her shopping. At first she just wanders between the racks at Macy’s, looking puzzled.

  Eventually she stops and turns to me. “What am I supposed to do? There are too many things here. ”

  I laugh. “Pick what you like. Pick a bunch of stuff that you like and try it on. Keep the stuff that fits you good and looks good, and leave the rest. ”

  She takes a skirt off the rack, then puts it back. She does this a dozen times. “I do not know what I like. ”

  In the end, I ask one of the Macy’s associates to help her, and she ends up with a bunch of nice outfits. She’s wearing one of them now, a skirt fitting tight around her hips and thighs and loose at the ankles. The top is a button-down blouse that accentuates her frame without being too revealing. I was careful to make sure none of the clothes even remotely resembled her old outfits, all miniskirts and low-cut tank tops. Everything is tasteful and modest, skirts down to her knees, at least, tops that don’t show too much cle**age. I get her bras and panties, makeup, pajamas, shoes, sandals, shampoo, conditioner, all the stuff I know girls like.