Hometown Hero

by Anders, Robyn

  “Now these.”

  With one hand, she unbuttoned his fly, with the other, she stroked the hard ridge that pressed against his pants, pressed toward her grasp.

  Her eyes widened. “Is all this you, or did you stuff a sock down here?”

  She was yanking down his pants before he could reply and discovered the answer for herself.

  “Oh, my. I had no idea.”

  He decided her teenage crush on the earlier Russell was completely forgivable. After all, Russ hadn’t been around at the time. But he was definitely here now, and he was completely enjoying himself.

  She pulled off his underwear and licked her lips, her eyes fixed on his swollen erection.

  Oh, yeah. But in good time. Right now, he was ahead of her. And that definitely wasn’t right.

  He gave Cynthia’s bra a one-handed twist, unfastening the clasp that held it closed in front.

  Her breasts, pale against the soft gold of her skin, spilled out soft, inviting, topped with dusty-pink roses.

  He leaded forward, capturing one of those beautiful nipples between his teeth, biting down softly, gently, while his tongue caressed the tip.

  Cynthia moaned, then arched her back against him, pressing herself more tightly to him.

  She squeezed her hands more tightly against his arousal, pushing him almost to the point of no return.

  “Not yet,” he growled. He captured both of her hands in one of his, then pressed her into the bed, bringing her hands over her head.

  “Not fair. I want to touch too.”

  “Did I tell you I was fair? If I did, I lied.”

  He wanted, needed, to savor her without distraction.

  His eyes drank in her perfect body, the creamy gold of her skin where Missouri’s pale winter sun had kissed it and the softer pale where it had been protected by her clothing.

  Each deep inhalation pressed her breasts out, lifted them toward him.

  He turned his attention to the one he hadn’t kissed, using tongue and teeth to bring it to a peak of excitement.

  “Russ, you’re torturing me.”

  “Good.”

  * * *

  She felt helpless in his grip, yet she wasn’t frightened.

  The old Russell might have taken a woman without care, simply because she was there and willing. Cynthia didn’t believe the new Russ would do anything of the kind.

  He hadn’t promised her anything, couldn’t promise her anything since he didn’t even know who he would be tomorrow, next week, next year. But while he was here, while he was himself, she intended to savor every moment to the fullest.

  His eyes shown with desire as he trailed his gaze down her body.

  With a faint possessive growl, he arced a hand between her knees, then deliberately brushed it up, brushing it against the smooth, sensitive skin of her thighs until it rested against her lower lips.

  Moisture flooded there, lubricating her, preparing her for his entrance, but he seemed completely unhurried, prepared to take his time, to torture her at length before finally ensuring both of their satisfaction.

  She struggled in his grip. A part of her savored the drawn-out torture, but another part wanted him inside of her, needed to feel the velvet hardness of him moving inside of her.

  Russ only smiled.

  He was impossibly strong.

  He didn’t even strain as he held both of her arms immobilized in a gentle but unyielding grasp. His attention seemed completely dedicated to exploring her body, caressing her sensitized breasts, brushing the thin filament of fabric that was all that separated her womanhood from his questing hand.

  She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but she’d unbuttoned his shirt during their mad caresses. Helpless to touch him, she used her eyes to drink him in—and saw why he might need to keep her under control.

  Deep scars, still red and raw, marched across his chest.

  A purple ridge extended from his thigh to his lower ribs, ending just beneath his heart. Another, a slash of red, cut through the muscles of his pectorals, arrowing toward his throat.

  It was amazing that a man could have survived those injuries. No wonder the old Russell had fled, banished by pain more dreadful than any human should ever experience. No wonder the new Russ had a deeper understanding of human limitations, of human failure than Russell had ever contemplated.

  “Do they still hurt?”

  Russ paused, one hand frozen at the gates to her womanhood, the other loosening slightly on her wrists.

  “I can button my shirt up if the scars bother you.”

  “They don’t bother me, Russ. Or rather, it horrifies me that you had to go through the pain you must have suffered. But I’m worried. I don’t want to hurt you more.”

  “You won’t hurt me.”

  Insight and understanding flashed through her mind. “That’s why you’re afraid to let me touch you, isn’t it? You aren’t being kinky by holding me in bondage. You’re afraid.”

  “I hoped you might find what I did sexy.”

  And she did. It was deliciously painful pleasure having Russ caress her while being helpless to do anything but receive his ministrations.

  “You can tie me up if you’re afraid I’d hurt you. No reason not to have both of your hands free.” She flicked her gaze toward his belt, still draped over the heavy brass headboard.

  She had never trusted a man that much, never been willing to put herself in any man’s control. But Russ would never intentionally hurt her. The certainty that he would eventually destroy her, when the old Russell returned and reclaimed his body and his life, only made her trust more complete.

  Russ frowned, then shook his head. “I’m being a coward, aren’t I? I was protecting myself. But I don’t need to protect myself from you.”

  He loosened his grip on her wrists. “Do you want to stop? I know my wounds are ugly.”

  They were ugly: horrible reminders of warfare, of man’s hatred for man. Yet they were a part of the man Cynthia felt closer to than she ever had before.

  “Russ, if you don’t make love to me tonight, I’m going to kill you instead. I’m at the point of exploding.” She let her newly freed hands reinforce her message, tracing one down the gash across his chest, and the other along his thigh, until she again grasped his swollen erection.

  He shuddered at her touch, then gently pulled himself away.

  For an instant, she panicked, felt a wave of dejection wash over her, pushing her back into the abandoned and ugly child she had once been.

  But Russ wasn’t rejecting her. He shifted his body, then brushed aside the bit of fabric between her legs and pressed his mouth to her sex.

  She shuddered when his tongue parted her lower lips, entered her most intimate folds, discovered the hard knot of her desire.

  He caught the sensitized nub with his teeth and pressed down harder with his tongue, flicking it quickly, lapping at it.

  Her body responded, rerouting her blood to her womb so quickly she felt dizzy. Pressure mounted—she felt on the edge of a cliff, holding back as his tongue pushed her closer—until Russ slid a finger into her and pitched her over the edge--into completion.

  Her body spasmed against him, pressing her mound to his mouth.

  Before, with either of the two men she’d seriously dated, her orgasm would be the signal for them to stop and take their own pleasure. But Russ didn’t seem in a hurry at all.

  He continued his efforts, his tongue working his magic on that knob of nerve endings that seemed directly connected to every pleasure center in her brain while his finger penetrated more deeply into the tight muscles of her womanhood. His thumb brushed against her bottom, sending new signals of pleasure and delightful wickedness through her brain.

  It was almost more stimulation than she could stand. Almost, but not quite. A part of her wanted him to stop, to demand that he make love to her. But her recent completion had left her so drained that she couldn’t even speak. She could only wait, as Russ explored her body ever mo
re deeply.

  The intense pleasure of orgasm had relieved the pressure that had been building inside of her for the week since she’d met the new Russ, but that relief was only temporary. In minutes, she was twisting against the soft cotton sheets of Russ’s bed, building ever-closer to an impossible second climax until suddenly it was there, unstoppable and powerful.

  “Oh my, oh yes, oh now!” She shouted out the words, embarrassed by her body’s uninhibited response to Russ’s caresses but unable to do anything but lay back and savor every moment, every sensation.

  He grinned at her, a soldier returning in victory. “Much better than dinner.”

  “On that note, I think it’s my turn.”

  She yanked off her thong, thankful Millicent had instructed her to put it on over her garter belt—directions she simply hadn’t understood at the time but that made perfect sense now.

  He shook his head. “I’m not done with you, Cynthia.”

  She reached for his belt. “Apparently you won’t go peacefully. Is it my turn to tie you up?”

  His eyes darkened and his scars flushed a dull red. “That isn’t going to happen.”

  “What—“

  But he didn’t give her time to ask, or time to take his sex into her mouth the way she craved.

  He hardly seemed to move, but he pulled a condom from his nightstand, slid it over himself, and then rolled her onto her back.

  “Last chance to stop.” His hoarse whisper sent shivers through her body.

  “If you stop, I will kill you. I promise.”

  “Can’t have that.”

  He straddled her, but waited.

  “Now, Russ. Please.”

  She knew she shouldn’t beg, that desperation would send men running. But she was desperate. She needed the sensation of Russ’s weight on her, his kiss, the gentle caress of his hands against her body. Most of all, she needed his penetration, to surround him with her sex, that mystic union of man and woman. If she had to beg, well, Cynthia wasn’t proud.

  He grasped her legs, placing each on one of his broad shoulders, then, so slowly she had to keep from screaming out her need and urgency, he positioned himself and entered her.

  She was tight, firm muscles squeezing down on him.

  Long months without sex, a lifetime without memory of sex, and then the stimulation of being with her, of touching her, of bringing Cynthia to climax left Russ shaking with need and desire. But he didn’t want to rush this like a teenager in heat. He didn’t know how long he had before his earlier self evicted him from the body, sent the personality he had developed packing into the gray abyss he’d come from, but he wanted each moment of his new life to be a polished gem. Acting on his desires, taking Cynthia fast and furious as a part of him demanded he do, was not part of the plan.

  Cynthia didn’t seem to feel the same way, though.

  As soon as he was embedded within her body, she bucked like a wild pony, thrusting her hips against him to push him ever deeper into him.

  “I need it,” she demanded. “I want it all.”

  He gritted his teeth, fighting back the need to complete, to spend himself inside of her.

  He pressed slowly forward, until his chest pressed her thighs and breasts and her feet, still in their stockings and blue high-heels, nestled on his sheets near her head.

  She took every inch of him into her, then pushed against him to further increase their contact.

  Urgency washed over him again, this time not to be denied.

  He kissed her on her lips, ran one hand along the sweat-beaded canyon between her breasts, and then sought and found the rhythm that matched their heartbeats, their breathing, and the increasingly rapid movement of sex against sex, body against body, hip against hip.

  Time lost its meaning as he bonded with Cynthia in that most ancient, most special, most secret of ways, their bodies discovering a shared pace, their souls seemingly as intertwined as their bodies were.

  He had no idea how long it went on—hours, perhaps, or maybe only minutes.

  Cynthia’s eyes suddenly widened. “I’m—“

  Whatever she was going to say was overtaken by the wave of climax that broke over her.

  “Oh. Oh, my.” It wasn’t just pleasure. Surprise filled her voice as well.

  As much as purely physical need, Cynthia’s joy pushed Russ to completion.

  * * *

  Cynthia ran a finger along one of the dark scars that marked the sleeping Russ’s body.

  He shifted slightly, but his breathing remained deep.

  Well, he had every right to be exhausted. They’d made love two more times after that glorious first joining. On the third, he’d actually let her mount him, given up a piece of that need for control that had become a part of his personality.

  She couldn’t figure him out. He had joined the National Guard out of a vague sense of duty and as a lark, figuring to ride around in a jeep and help out when the Missouri River flooded its banks and threatened the levies that protected farmland and towns from its flood. But he’d been sent into a foreign land and come back a different person.

  She wondered how he would have changed if he hadn’t been wounded. Surely no soldier could come back from battle unaltered. Even if the bomb had missed him completely, the death and destruction of war must always change its participants.

  She traced her thumb along another of those horrible gouges, cut deep into the muscle of his chest and belly.

  Without seeming to wake, without opening his eyes, he moved his hand moved incredibly quickly, grasping her wrist, stopping her touch before it could reach past his lower ribs.

  “Russ? Did I hurt you?”

  “Hurt me? Of course you didn’t hurt me.”

  “But you—“

  He opened his deep blue eyes and glanced down at where he still held her wrist.

  “Oh.”

  Grief shadowed his face. "I am so sorry. Was I rough with you? I clocked one of the Army doctors when he was trying to sneak an examination while they had me under some sort of anesthetic.”

  “You weren’t rough with me, Russ. You just scared me.”

  He brushed his knuckles against the soft skin of her cheek and neck. “Sorry, darling. I’ll try not to do that again.”

  Chapter 9

  Darling. Russ had called her darling, and he didn’t regret it at all.

  Words of endearment weren’t that big a leap, considering the night of passion they’d enjoyed together, but it was still a step in intimacy he found both comforting and frightening. It deepened his attachment to the present. It was something else he would lose when the real Russell returned.

  Cynthia jerked away from him at his use of the word.

  “What? Don’t tell me that’s what the other Russell called Heather.”

  “I think you always called her 'babycakes'.”

  “Oh, gag.”

  She shrugged. “I thought it was cute.”

  He shook his head. There were some things about women that were just going to remain mysteries no matter what memories returned.

  Which reminded him. “We need to talk about my memories, Cynthia. How did I know where my condoms were kept? I haven’t bought any new ones since I came home. I don’t remember ever glancing in that drawer before. But when the time came, I knew where to go.”

  She nodded. “I meant to ask you about Gomer. Did you intentionally name him after the puppy you had when you were a kid? You talked about him in your valedictorian speech.”

  He’d been fighting a fear of returning memories ever since he’d found Cynthia, realized that he no longer wanted to speed the return of the earlier self but instead wanted to fight for control. “You’re kidding. I already had a dog named Gomer?”

  “That’s what you said.”

  It could be coincidence, but he didn’t think so. Gomer wasn’t that common a name, yet it had come to him without conscious thought. Just as he’d known where to reach for the condoms when he and Cynthia had made love.


  He wanted to cuddle closer to Cynthia, make love again, and explore their feelings, temporarily forgetting the dangers that a return of memory promised. But her mention of his puppy brought a quick surge of guilt.

  “Speaking of Gomer, I need to take him out for a quick walk. He’s been quiet and good and I don’t want to take advantage of that.”

  He brushed a kiss onto her forehead. “Don’t go away, though I won't be long.”

  He stepped from the bed, pulled on a pair of jeans and sneakers without bothering with socks, and jingled Gomer’s leash.

  Usually, his puppy came running when he called. This morning, though, there was no answer.

  He jogged glanced around the open expanse of his loft, then jogged downstairs. He’d never forgive himself if Gomer had somehow fallen and hurt himself.

  There was no injured puppy at the bottom of the stairs, but there was no Gomer anywhere downstairs.

  “Cynthia. I can’t find Gomer. I’m going outside to look for him.” Gomer was pretty smart for a puppy, but Russ didn’t think he was smart enough to open doors by himself.

  Still, people in Shermann didn’t lock their doors. Maybe someone had opened his door to drop something off, and Gomer had seized the moment to escape.

  That didn’t make a lot of sense, especially since there weren’t any packages or anything that someone would have dropped off, but it was the only thing he could imagine.

  “Hang on and I’ll come look with you,” Cynthia called down.

  If he hadn’t known better, he would have guessed there was a tone of guilt in Cynthia’s voice. Could she have accidentally let Gomer out during the night?

  Surely if she had, she would have awakened him instantly. Besides, even asleep, he would have sensed if she had gotten up, moved away from him. Instead, she’d slept through what had been left of the night after they had made love for hours, cupped against his body.

  But when was the last time he’d been aware of his puppy?

  Gomer was way too young to be out in the streets of even a small town like Shermann.

  “Catch up with me,” he shouted. “I need to be out there looking for him. Now.”

  He jogged down Old Wharf Street, past the struggling restaurants, artist studios, and auto detail shops that had taken over the old warehouse buildings left behind when the railroad and riverboat lines had closed shop and abandoned their city.