by M. C. Cerny
“Honeybee.” He flips me over and I feel him slowly unbutton the back of my dress. Leave it to my mother and aunts to find the most difficult dress to alter so removing it becomes a tedious chore, stealing more time away from us.
I groan, rubbing myself against the comforter. “Rip it, Tank.” Those little buttons will be the death of me.
“Not a chance in hell.” With each button he slips through the silk fastenings, he kisses my spine with aching precision—a row of neat little nips over each vertebra designed to drive me insane. His hands cup inside the dress, easing it off my heated skin that’s chilled by the automatic AC in the room. My nipples hurt and I crave physical contact to soothe me.
Turning, I glance at him over my shoulder. Hungry eyes meet my own. I struggle to get up. “I can manage the rest.”
His face is a study in determination. I can only imagine the things he’s done in training to prepare him to be a Marine. He’s gone without sleep for days, marched many miles, and hit a target hundreds of yards away with competence. Neither of us have trained to be partners, let alone be husband and wife. I don’t know how we’ll make this work, but the want in his eyes freezes me to my place on the bed. Like most things, I’m coming to learn with this man, I’m sure Tank will show me with action.
“Why should you have to, Bea?” He lays another tender, unhurried kiss along my neck. “We’ll only do this once.” He crawls back up the bed and I flop onto my back, welcoming his hover on top of me.
“Is that all?” I tease him, earning me a much-needed laugh to the brevity that tonight is really all we’ll have. It’ll be weeks before I see him again. What is it with time robbing me of my first newlywed days with my husband? Except this time, I know what thirteen long, dreaded weeks will feel like. We’ll have spent more time apart than together, and even now, with his possessive desire, I don’t know if I’m strong enough for him.
“We have one wedding night. I want to do this right.” Tank leans in, letting me feel the heat of his body and the thick ridges of muscles that tease and seduce. I’m lost in lust for this man.
I reach for his shirt and pull the starchy fabric from his dress blues, muttering, “Too much chatter.” We’ll christen a few things tonight, and I cross my fingers the dry cleaner he uses is discreet. I sure as hell won’t be worried about his uniform tonight as I stake a claim on my Marine.
“I’m all yours.” Tank arches back and unbuttons his pants and shucks them off as easily.
I pull his boxer briefs down and cup his hard erection, hot and pulsing in my hand. He presses against me and groans with a smile that stretches near to a thousand miles under my stare. His heat is like an inferno—one move and we’ll burn out of control.
“I need you,” I moan, tugging him closer.
“You have me.” Tank jerks himself a few times, squeezing the head of his cock as if to stem the feeling.
I reach again and twine my fingers with his until I’m thumbing the slit of his cock, spreading precum juices over the flared top and down the rigid sides.
“You make me feel like a king in your grasp.”
I squeeze a guttural sound from him, pleased I have power. Somehow it balances the equilibrium, the way we can make the other lose control. We’re connected.
“Then make me your queen.”
Tank kisses me with a bite. “Only if you promise to sting, Honeybee.” He shifts his knees, pushing my legs wide open until they’re straddled over his thighs. Cool air caresses my damp lips and my core tightens in anticipation. It’s so good between us it should be criminal to feel pleasure like this. I never had a chance to rebound from him, and I doubt I would have ever been fully whole in heart and mind. His hard cock is ready to flay me open and I’m shaking, empty without him. Tank doesn’t waste time probing or rubbing himself over my nether lips. No, he pushes forward in a steady thrust, filling me to the hilt without pause.
The stretch is tight. It’s always been tight, and full, and tingly between us. It reminds me of missing him, missing this fullness, resurrecting the anger, hurt, and insecurity. We’re husband and wife now, pledged to each other, but how long will he stay, despite the promises?
“Henry.” I cry his name and he thrusts again, harder this time. I moan and writhe on the bed, fisting sheets, feeling him deeper than ever before. It’s like he can’t get far enough inside to claim me. I love the burning stretch of those initial strokes. I’m stuck under his ministrations like a bee pinned to the wall. For a second I worry that being on the pill isn’t enough to keep him from getting me pregnant, the way he rolls his hips, digging me into the mattress. It’d be my luck his super sperm impregnated me when I was least prepared.
Tank reaches for my hands, pulling them up and over my head and directing them to hold onto the headboard. His free hand reaches in the space between us, thumbing my clit in hard circles designed to make me crazy for him. He’s ruined me for other men. Happily. Passionately. Irrevocably.
“Beatrice, don’t give up on us, on this.” He shudders, releasing a steady jet of cum inside me. Claiming me.
Sweat cools to our skin as he cradles me in his arms where I nuzzle against him, biting back tears.
“We’re married now. Isn’t that forever?” Even as I say it I question it, suddenly worried that anything could happen to him in this life.
“It’s always.”
He places a lingering kiss on my forehead. I don’t care that his body feels like a furnace. I don’t want to let go, ever. I think about our impulsive vows and question my sanity. Did I make the right choice? Are we doing the right thing? We’re so young and unsettled. I don’t have any way to support myself or a degree to fall back on. Tank will pursue his career and I might get left behind.
While he’s been rocking inside of me in gentle waves, I’ve been musing how to get an annulment—which is about as unlikely as a snowstorm in summer, with the way he’s had sex with me like it’s his air to breathe. I’ve won the husband lottery, but I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t really want an annulment; what I want is more time with him.
Caressing the back of my head, he says, “Bea, don’t get lost in there.”
He means my head, and he’s right. A few minutes pass and his body relaxes in sleep, holding onto me. I rub my chin against his shoulder and whisper, “Please don’t leave me again.”
6
Tank
“I don’t want to go.” I reach under the covers to peel off my wife’s silky panties. She must have slipped them on sometime during the night. I pause for a moment to savor that idea: my wife.
Mrs. Beatrice Brennan Andrews.
I have a reason to come home more compelling than a home-cooked meal. Heck, I don’t even know if Bea can cook—don’t care one way or the other. She will be all the substance I need.
My fingers find the hollow divots of her hip bones and slip under the lace, giving it a firm tug. It rips in my grip with a satisfying tear that echoes in the hotel bedroom. This is my favorite new sound, next to Bea’s gasp as she attempts to scoot away from me.
“Tank,” she whines, but doesn’t sound at all serious. I’ve woken her up in the middle of the night no less than half a dozen times, because another thirteen weeks is obscenely too long to go without my Honeybee. Life feels too precious in this moment, and I’m stealing every single one I can because it might just be my last.
“Morning, baby.” My voice is gruff against her as I maneuver myself into a better position.
She rolls around in the bed like she can’t quite wake up. “What time is it?”
A glance to the nightstand clock registers the morning hour of four thirty. I chuckle because I gave her an extra half hour of sleep before digging in again.
“I’ll be quick as a buzz, Honeybee, promise.” I crawl up her body, laying my weight over hers to settle in the warmth. There’s nothing like feeling my wife flush against me, skin to skin. Her chest expands as she puffs a breath of sweet-smelling air.
B
ea grouses and I snicker in the dark, continuing to feel my way over her. I shift her legs open with my knee, dropping my hard length against her belly before moving downward to press up inside her slick heat. Her hands grasp my shoulders, slowing me down. I want her badly, but I want her to remember this and miss it when I’m gone.
“Since you’re here, don’t be hasty,” she pants with a sassy retort.
“My girl likes it slow?” I ask, kissing her lips while resting my head in the crook of her neck. My hips undulate and I fill her with my length.
“Your girl is a little sore.” She’s pouting, but she’s meeting me with each cant of our bodies, eager and willing.
“I miss you too much when I’m gone.” I admit this on a broken whisper, feeling the confession in the root of my soul. Marines are tough. I’m tough, but the emotional toll wrecks me when we’re separated by my loyalty and duty to country.
“Then don’t go, Tank. Don’t leave me here alone.”
She’s trying to be strong, but we’re both at odds in this new territory. Was it wrong of me to marry her? I’ll fucking lose it if she starts bawling, because I’ll be right there with her.
I force the pain away with pleasure, kissing my way up her body and leaving little bites as I go. I hope it leaves marks, like a tattoo telling a narrative of how much I love her, miss her, don’t want to be parted from her because the truth is, I’m a selfish asshole for wanting both my girl and my career.
“You know that’s not how the military works.” I lick her barely rounded soft belly where her hip meets in a sloping indentation of skin and bone. I use my hands to memorize every curve of her so that when I’m asleep at night I might imagine her next to me, under me, being inside her sweet heat.
I continue to tease and snack away on her delectable body until she’s squirming, panting, on the cusp of an orgasm so strong I’ll place bets that she’ll see stars. She turns quiet, fingers gripping my head, nails scraping the military-grade fuzz. It’s the press of her fingertips that advises me how close she is to losing it. I love when my Honeybee goes postal, bucking, whimpering, all out clutching me close to her body like she’ll never get enough of me the way I’ll never get my fill of her. It’s reaffirming in a way that saying I love you can’t quite measure.
I still my body and let her ride me from below. Her legs wrap around my waist as she grinds upward, establishing a deeper connection on my cock.
“Henry.” My name melts off her shuddering lips and I know if I look at her she’ll have this overwhelmed expression bordering on those bawling tears that undo me. I’ve fucked my girl into a state of an emotional hurricane and I’m not a damn bit sorry.
“Was it good, baby?” I kiss her slack mouth, letting her slide off my dick in a puddle of our combined juices. I know it was good. We’re messy, love-drunk, and her hitched breath tells me all I need to know. “Will you miss me while I’m gone?”
“I’ll miss you like Hans misses a stormtrooper.”
Ah, there’s my girl. It’s hard to suppress my chuckle when I want to rage and cry at the time slipping through our fingers. I’ll be back soon, but I doesn’t change the time I pissed away now that I got her back. I do my best to reassure her.
“I’ll be able to call you this time. You know, that right?”
A huff in the dark followed by her sigh lets me know where she stands. “It’s going to be hard.”
“Hard like before?”
“Harder, because I know you’re out there. Harder because now I’ll be waiting with the expectation of you coming home.”
What she doesn’t say is her fear of me not coming home. I swallow back the knot in my throat. Yeah, definitely harder. I agree with her and plan to call her as much as I can.
“We can get through the next thirteen weeks. I bet you’ll be tougher than I will.”
“You realize that we’ll have spent more time apart than together.” Her fingers trace over my face slowly. She follows the cords in my neck before wrapping her arms around me, not letting go.
Grabbing her hand, I nip at her fingertips playfully and attempt to joke. “Some of the best relationships operate that way. You’ll miss me so much you’ll never get mad at me.”
“Tank, that’s not even funny.” Her face looks about as serious as a heart attack, and really, who could blame her. It’s a piss-poor joke and I know it.
I hope she likes the stuffed bears I got her, custom dressed to look like us. I wanted to get her something big, but I saw the bears in the flower shop and thought she might like them. They’re wrapped up for later; right now, I want to ravish my wife so she doesn’t forget me while I’m gone.
“You’re coming to graduation.” It’s not a question. I pepper her face with kisses. My parents and younger brother will be there, but I want my wife to be there. I want her to run into my open arms like a Hallmark fucking movie moment.
Her voice is soft and sweet. “Of course I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
7
Bea
I pedal my new-to-me bike on the cement path toward the PDX. Tank was so proud of himself, finding the ten-speed with a basket on the front so I had some way to get around. He promises it’s temporary while he pulls out of our driveway in the Mustang to go to work. I appreciate the thoughtfulness. He needs his car and I need to not be trapped at home.
The PDX is only a mile away, and I need to pick up something sweet. I dash inside and grab some cupcakes that won’t jostle too much in the basket. I see a lip gloss in a pretty peach color and grab a box of tampons. Next week is period week and I don’t want to have to pedal down here with cramps.
I’m at the checkout and swipe my debit card. The card reader beeps and rejects my card. I look back and see a mom with two kids under five. She’s bouncing the baby and looking at me with a harried smile. The cashier seems impatient and I dig inside my purse for my emergency cash.
“Sorry,” I mutter to the people around me, and grab my bag, scurrying to the ATM outside. I check my account balance and see it’s hovering in the twelve-dollar range. With a slap to my forehead, I pick up my phone and call Tank.
“Hey, Honeybee.” I didn’t expect him to pick up, so it’s a real treat to hear his voice.
“Hiya Tank.” I don’t know how to word this. I’m broke. I don’t have a job yet.
“I’ve gotta get back to work. What’s up?” he asks. He’s never impatient with me, but I know he can’t stay on the phone either.
“I’m at the PDX and my debit card isn’t working. I had some cash on me but I think I need you to take me to the bank this week.” I mash my lip between my teeth, feeling awful.
“Shoot. I forgot about that. Listen, just use the credit card in my desk with both our names on it. It came the other day, but I forgot to tell you.”
“What about cash and stuff?” It feels weird using the card, but I guess that’s what married people do. I don’t know. I’ve been married all of six months and still don’t have a clue.
“Use the card, and when we have time, I'll take you. I have to go. Love you.” Tank hangs up before I can say I love you. I say it out loud anyway to the silent phone, because I do love him, but I love him more when he’s here.
It’s a slow pedal back to the house, where I park my bike next to the front porch and chain it to the post. My neighbor pulls up and honks her horn. I plan to check out the credit card later, and bring my bag from the PDX with me, getting into her car. She’s taking me to another WAGS meet-and-greet, and fingers crossed I’ll find some more ladies my age to bond with. She catches me up on the latest base gossip. Who knew these places were as bad as small towns, except with a defined pecking order I haven’t learned yet?
“You’ll want to get in good with the officers’ wives. They have all the connections.” Rhonda is the first person I met here, living on base, six months ago. Her house is across the street and her husband trains new recruits while she works as a nurse. She saw me bringing in boxes one morning while
Tank was out, and offered me coffee and doughnuts. It was the perfect icebreaker, considering Tank had been so busy that he’d brought me home to an empty fridge and a mattress on the floor until we figured out shipping furniture. There’d been so many phone calls to make I didn’t know where to start, and Rhonda was a blessing.
Today she’s pulling me through the throng of smiling women, introducing me.
“Don’t be shy. You said you wanted to find a job or something to keep you busy. These ladies practically run the base behind the scenes.” Rhonda makes a good point: I do need something to occupy my time besides scrubbing counters and laundry. Tank goes through a lot on his work rotations and it’s hard to keep up.
I scan the park area where we are meeting. Picnic baskets are filled with homemade salads and sandwiches. I went to the PDX and picked up cupcakes. I haven’t mastered cooking, besides the basics of macaroni and cheese, which is a little embarrassing. Tank’s mom sent us off with a cookbook and an Instapot, which kind of terrifies me. What if I blow something up accidentally?
“Everyone has a baby?”
Some women are older, a few are my age, and more with children than not tugging at their knees or settled on their hips. I don’t have baby fever in the least, and watching children back home was something of a last resort and only because I got paid to do it. I’m not prepared to start popping my own out. I’m lonely, sure, but not enough to make a kid. I’m better off with a fish tank. My insecurities are surfacing, reminding myself that I made this choice.
Some of these women have careers they can take anywhere their husbands get deployed. Rhonda could be a nurse anywhere. I didn’t even finish college because I didn’t know what I wanted to study. Four years seemed like a long time to study a subject I wasn’t sure I’d love twenty years from now. My resume isn’t anything special and my options are limited on and off base. I don’t like other people’s children well enough to try the daycare center. My mother would expire if she knew I considered the titty bar off base. Tank would lose his mind, and truth be told I only feel bold enough to go topless with my husband after a drink or two—definitely two drinks, and I couldn’t get past the embarrassment of his fellow soldiers seeing me like that. Tassels like that aren’t exactly stars and stripes.
