by Sandra Hill
“Knowing you . . . my nipples,” she said.
“Good guess, if I could see your nipples. But, no, that’s the wrong answer.”
“My lipstick?”
“Nope. Your tongue. I win again. Woot-woot!”
“I suspect I’ve been set up here.”
“Fair is fair,” he said. “Okay, lift your dress so that your bare butt is sitting on the leather seat, and spread your legs.”
“That’s two things.”
“Just spread then.”
She did.
“How does that feel?”
“What do you think?”
“Sexy?” he remarked hopefully.
“I spy something black,” she said, declining to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was getting turned on.
But he knew. “Something black, huh? The dashboard,” he guessed.
“Nope.”
“My eyebrows.”
“Nope.”
“My eye patch?”
“No, no, no!”
“You win that one. What’s your poison, sweetheart?”
“Okay, in the almost nine years we’ve been married, we must have made love hundreds of times.”
“Thousands,” he corrected.
She gave him a frown of reprimand for interrupting. “Okay, which one of those thousands sticks in your mind?”
He didn’t even hesitate before saying, “The first time we made love after Matt was born. We’d just moved into our own home, and it felt special.”
“I’m surprised. I thought you would say some of the more perverted things you talked me into doing . . .”
“I don’t recall anything perverted.”
“Like that vibrator thingee you bought in Dubai.”
“I forgot about that.” He grinned.
“Or I expected you would go for some unusual position.”
“Unlike now when I can bend my body in only a few directions.”
“I was thinking more like that ridiculous wheelbarrow nonsense.”
“Hey, that was fun.”
“Fun? You pulled a hamstring.”
“Well worth the pain, baby!”
“Or I would have thought your favorite would be a place, like the kitchen sink.”
“No, it was good old missionary style. In my own bed in my own house, no longer living in the guest room at my parents’, with my wife, who’d recently given me a baby. And did I mention it had been six weeks since we’d had sex?”
She was silent for a moment before saying, quietly, “Yeah, that was good.”
Of course, the next time he won a game, he reversed the table on her by saying, “What was your most memorable sex?”
She didn’t answer right away. “It was the last time you said ‘I love you’ during sex and meant it. Not just a throwaway line.”
“Huh? I always mean it . . . meant it,” he argued. “When was this?”
“Christmas, three and a half or so years ago. We had just had a big argument about the usual subject—your leaving again. And then we made up.”
“Makeup sex,” he said dismissively, but she’d given him something to think about. And, by the way, he thought, when was the last time you said those three words to me and meant them, cupcake? He didn’t say that, though, not wanting to provoke her into saying something he might not like, or starting a conversation he wasn’t ready for.
“Whoa! This game is getting way too serious,” she declared with sudden brightness. “How about we switch to ‘Truth or Dare’?”
The ride home from then on was like an hours-long exercise in foreplay. Arousing to the point of pain, tantalizing to the point of almost, but never quite, release. In other words, prolonged sexual bliss.
It was so much fun that Jake could have cried.
It was gaming, but so much more.
It was wicked sex. Not with a stranger, but his wife.
By the time they arrived back at the cottage in Bell Cove, they stumbled out of the car and barely made it into the house before he had her on the kitchen table. Or rather she had him on the kitchen table—shoved him against the edge and on his back, with her crawling up over him. She was the one struggling to get his belt unbuckled and his pants unzipped.
So much for her being repulsed by him!
He was too busy being in shock, and then laughing so hard he choked on his words. Between bursts of laughter, he was trying to say, “Wait—oh, hell—Sally, give me a chance to . . . oh, my God, you almost zipped my cock.”
But then she lifted her dress up and over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Looking downward, she grinned and cooed, “Oh, good, a big ol’ Blue Steeler.”
He let out a hoot of laughter at that risqué observation. And grew a bit bigger and bit more blue.
Gritting his teeth, he got his blue-veined self in hand, literally, and was guiding himself up and into her hot, hot, thank-You-God wetness. His eyes rolled back into his head (both of them, he was pretty sure) at the sheer extreme pleasure of her inner muscles grasping him, hard. Leaning up, he took one nipple into his mouth and she was the one choking out, “Oh . . . that feels . . . so good . . . I can’t . . .” Then he switched and gave equal rhythmic attention to the other breast until she was keening a continuous “Aaaaaahhhhh!”
He did a mental “Chalk one up!”
No sooner did her inner spasming end than she began to ride him, but he controlled the pace. Her eyes were so glazed with passion that she probably didn’t know what she was doing at this point. He wasn’t much better off. The sex didn’t last long. It couldn’t, not with their sexual drives in overload.
And yet, she ordered, “Don’t come yet,” and reached behind her buttocks to cup his balls.
Which of course caused him to come to a roaring climax.
And she followed soon after when he used a middle finger between their melded bodies to tickle her clit. He didn’t know if it was her second or third orgasm. He’d lost count.
In the end, she lay on top of him, his flaccid dick still inside her, her face nestled in the crook of his neck. When their breaths slowed to a mere panting, she raised her head to look at him. She was crying.
And he was the one most shocked when he kissed her softly and said, “I love you.”
She was no fool! . . .
What a day!
When Sally thought about everything that had happened since they’d left the house this morning, her mind boggled. And the day wasn’t over yet.
After their voracious bout of sex on the kitchen table, she and Jake voraciously scarfed up leftovers in the fridge, from ham and cheese on swirl bread to rice pudding, and everything in between. Salads, diced fruits, crab dip with crusty bits of a French loaf. And two of Delilah’s specialty cinnamon rolls, a peach pecan and a ginger apple. Yum! They’d washed it all down with some of Father Brad’s wine.
Sally offered to clean up, and Jake made his way upstairs to take a hot shower. Although she’d told him she would join him shortly in the shower, she was going to delay, to give him time to get his act together. The day was catching up with his body aches. As evidenced by his more pronounced limp and the fact that he took the backward method on the steps this time, that’s how bad off he was.
Making quick work of the cleanup, she went into the hall and removed her laptop from its leather bag. Taking it into the kitchen, she set it on the table and logged into her account. First off, she wanted to look at that press release that the DOD had put out the day after that bullshit general had come to inform her that her dead husband was, in fact, alive.
Carefully, she parsed out parts of the media document, realizing now what she hadn’t noticed before. It was very general, and could be interpreted in many ways. For example:
“Although Captain Dawson suffered serious injuries to one eye and a leg following a HALO jump into the mountains of Balakistan on May 19, 2016 . . .”
She realized that in this statement, it hadn’t said, exactly, that his injuries occurred as a result of t
he jump. Could they have occurred later? she wondered. Like under torture?
Then there was this statement:
“He managed to survive for three years by living in a remote cave in the middle of hostile territory, with the aid of some rebel friendlies.”
So, did this mean he was hiding in a cave, or that he was being kept in a cave? Like, as a prisoner?
And then, “Survival skills mastered during his military training helped the soldier to endure the brutal conditions.”
What brutal conditions?
“During recent high-level negotiations between the US and the newly elected Qadir government, the president first learned of Captain Dawson’s amazing survival story and demanded his immediate return. The President thanks Balakistan Minister of Defense Nazim bin Jamil for his efforts in this operation.”
There were so many questions here. Why did the Qadir government suddenly notify the US of Jake’s existence? And when? Were there negotiations involved? Politics, or humanity?
“Captain Dawson has been in Landstuhl Hospital in Germany, recovering from his injuries. Two other soldiers on Captain Dawson’s team, Sergeant Frank Bailey and Corporal David Guttierez, died on the mission, according to Captain Dawson.”
When did those two die, precisely? And how?
“The pilots who were to be rescued, Lieutenant Anton “Ace” Sampsell and Lieutenant Gerald Frank, were rescued in another section of Afghanistan soon after Captain Dawson went MIA.”
MIA? Baloney! I’m not buying it! Not anymore!
“For more information, contact US Department of Defense, Press Information, Major Raymond Durand, at the above address.”
Ah, the famous Major Durand! Yes, I have a few questions for you and your bogus press information.
She felt like such a fool. What was that old expression? “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” Well, Sally was done being a fool.
Next up, she Googled Balakistan’s new minister of defense, Nazim bin Jamil. What popped up were an alarming two thousand and thirty-seven links going back ten years. When she clicked on an early one, her blood went cold and the hair rose on the back of her neck as she read an article in the Washington Post accusing the man of brutality on a level with some of the world’s worst villains. He’d been a Qadir tribal leader back then.
“Hey, Sal,” she heard Jake call from the top of the stairs. “When you come up, would you bring a glass of ice water and that vial of pills in the downstairs bathroom medicine cabinet?”
“Sure,” she called out. “Be right there.”
Sally had more sleuthing to do, lots more, before she confronted Jake with what she was beginning to suspect. For now, she had more important things on her mind. Like those three precious words he’d said to her, and what they meant in the scheme of all these other issues. Most glaring had to be, at least to him, that she hadn’t said the words back to him.
And she wasn’t sure why.
Were they night terrors, or night terrorists? . . .
The day had taken more out of Jake than he’d realized. He’d barely been able to continue standing in the shower with the pain racking his back and leg. Even his damaged eyeball hurt.
He sat on the edge of the bed until Sally came up with the ice water and his pain meds. Impatiently, he popped one pill and downed the entire glass of water.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I will be. Go take your shower, or a bubble bath. I should be fine by then.”
“Don’t feel like you have to prove anything to me, Jacob. Lie down. Sleep if you need to.”
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing? Trying to prove something? Am I that pathetic?”
“Don’t be so sensitive.”
“Sensitive am I now, too?”
“Really, Jacob, sometimes you can be such an ass. Don’t spoil what has been a good day.”
He mumbled something about good being in the eye of the beholder and he had only one eye.
“Too bad you weren’t around last Christmas, Mister Grumpy, you for sure would have been voted Grinch of the Year.” She put her hands on her hips and shook her head at him. “Are we having a fight?”
He grinned, realizing that he had been acting like an ass, all because she hadn’t mirrored back his “I love you.” And because he hurt like hell, physically. He’d overdone it today. “Only if we have makeup sex afterward,” he responded.
“Deal!” she said.
“Keep in mind, the kids should be back by noon. That leaves us time to do the deed only another, oh, five or six times.”
“Dreamer!” She smiled. “I’m going to take a bubble bath, and, no, you are not invited to join me. Relax. When I get back, I have a surprise for you.”
“I’m not sure I like surprises. Give me a clue.”
She stuck out her tongue and showed him the ball of gum she’d been chewing. Then, before he could say something else snarky, she turned on her heel and sashayed away, giving a little extra wiggle to her hips.
Jake stood and shrugged out of his clothes, then slipped nude between the sheets. The pill was already beginning to take effect. That on top of the wine he’d drunk with dinner, and the overall exhaustion of a full day of driving and rehab, caused him to sink into almost instant slumber.
Unfortunately, for only the second time since he’d been home, he felt himself on the brink of one of his nightmare attacks, this one of the red-tide rage variety. In other words, a monster. He tried to fight it off, but couldn’t.
In his dream, he saw the ice pick in Nazim’s hand. The point was getting closer and closer to his eyeball, which was being exposed by the grimy fingers of Nazim’s assistant.
“Tell me the names of your contacts in Balakistan. Just one. And then we’ll let you go home.”
“My name is Jacob Lloyd Dawson. Rank: captain. Identification number . . . what? No, I don’t know any traitors. I’ve told you that a million fucking times. Put the pick away, you sonofabitch!”
And then he screamed.
“Rock-a-bye, Baby” . . .
Sally had finished her bath and was applying scented lotion to her legs and arms. The OBX sun was brutal at drying out skin, even when sunscreen was used religiously. That’s when she heard Jake’s scream. A piercing, agonizing, drawn-out cry that tore at Sally’s heart.
Without bothering to grab a nightshirt or any other clothing, she rushed into the bedroom. Unlike the other time when Jake had been flailing about on the floor, seeming to be fighting off some attacker, now he was drawn up into a fetal position on the bed, moaning continuously. He was totally naked. Even the eye patch was off and lying on the floor.
She got onto the mattress behind him, and tried to spoon her body into his. He was so stiff, it was as if his limbs were frozen, like an obscene statue, into this pose. Even so, she pressed her breasts against his back and tucked her knees behind his knees. She managed to get one arm under his neck and wrap her other arm around his waist. She crooned against his ear, “Jacob, it’s all right. You’re home. It’s all right. You’re safe now. Please, honey, wake up.”
Sally felt totally ill-equipped for this situation. She had no idea what a person should do for someone suffering from PTSD, and there was no doubt in her mind that this was what was happening to her husband. She would have to Google this tomorrow, along with all her other sleuthing, or seek expert help.
But could she do that behind Jake’s back? Would he resent her for what he would consider interfering?
Did it matter? He needed help, that was for certain.
So, she did the one thing she knew how to do. Sing. And the only song she could think of at the moment was the silly one she used to sing to the boys when they were overtired and grumpy and unable to fall asleep. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .” The whole time she sang, she rocked back and forth, back and forth against him until he rocked with her.
Eventually, she felt Jake’s body relax, and then finally shake a little. At first, she
worried that he was shaking with shock. But then she realized that he was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Are you trying to torture me, too?” he said, turning onto his back. An inadvertent acknowledgement that his nightmare had indeed been about torture.
She was on her side, leaning over him. “Are you okay now?”
He nodded, but the expression on his face was grim. It was odd to be seeing him with both eyes open. And, yes, it was a little disconcerting to have the one eye not moving like the other. But when he was staring straight ahead, it almost seemed normal. “If you’re worried about the boys ever witnessing this, don’t be,” Jake said. “I won’t allow it to ever happen.”
A chill ran over Sally as she realized that the only way he could guarantee that, at this point in his recovery, was to not be here. Oh, no, no! You plan to bail out, don’t you? Maybe disappear, like some of those Special Forces guys do sometimes. Uh-uh! You don’t get to make that kind of decision on your own. And if you think I can’t stop you, just watch, buster. She had to visibly breathe in and out to calm herself down, not to start an argument when Jake was still in this state. Later, though. Oh, yeah, later! “Jacob, I’m not worried about the boys. You’d be surprised at how understanding kids can be. I’m just worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’m going to take care of it.”
The silent message was “his way.”
But then he said, “What’s that smell?” He sniffed the air.
“Oh, it’s lilac. My body lotion. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s okay,” he said, “but I’m more in the mood for cinnamon. What happened to the gum?”
“I think I swallowed it when I heard you scream.”
“Did you say swallow? Hmm. Maybe I could scream at a certain opportune moment, and you could . . .”
“Swallow?” she finished for him. “You are so bad.”
“Just kidding.” He laughed and tugged her closer. “Stick out your tongue.”
When she did, he licked her tongue.
“Jacob!”
“Still tastes like cinnamon,” he announced jubilantly. “And guess what? I brought a pack up with me, too.” He reached over to the bedside table, pulled out a drawer, and showed her the package of spicy gum. He popped two sticks in his mouth and began to chew in an exaggerated fashion.
