Gifts of Honor: Starting from ScratchHero's Homecoming

by Gail, Stacy

He teased her with his tongue, flicking it over her hardened nub, then increased the contact first with quick circular strokes, and then with long, lingering laps. Beth’s moans steadily rose in volume and frequency, and soon she was up on her elbows, one hand gripping his shoulder like it was the last thing anchoring her to earth.

  After he was wounded, Chris had spent a lot of time—like any red-blooded male would—thinking about sex. How it would change with his blindness, and whether he would ever have any again. He could imagine receiving pitying kindness from women, sure, but romantic interest? It seemed unlikely. And on the off chance he did find himself in bed with someone, how would he make it work? He couldn’t read expressions anymore—how would he know when to move faster or slower? Or if something felt good, or if one spot was more sensitive than another?

  If he’d known he would have a chance to be with Beth again, he wouldn’t have wasted so much time worrying. She was as much an open book as he remembered, clearly communicating her pleasure. She groaned from somewhere deep in her gut when something was good, and gently shifted to redirect him when he was in the wrong place. Now that he couldn’t see her, he found himself picking up on tantalizing cues he never would have noticed before—the contraction of the muscles in her abdomen, the toes that curled along his sides and the way her voice became breathier as her arousal heightened.

  When her thighs began their telltale quivering, Chris placed one last kiss on her stomach before sitting up. He patted his hands over the duvet, and then realized that there was no suave way to accomplish this—he just had to ask.

  “Where did you put the—”

  “I’ve got it,” Beth interrupted, and he could hear her coy smile. The mattress shifted under her weight and then her small hands were moving over him, rolling the condom over his erection with more sensual, lingering touches than were technically necessary.

  “Come here,” he growled, gathering her in his arms and bringing them both down to the bed. “I wish I could see how beautiful you are right now,” he murmured, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them.

  She shushed him, shifting beneath him and reaching between them to guide him to her warm, eager opening.

  “Welcome home, soldier,” she whispered, and Chris slid inside her, nearly losing his grip at that first thrust into her hot, consuming body.

  Her moan was primal as she crossed her legs behind his hips, drawing him deeper and rocking her abdomen. Chris stroked slowly, every nerve ending alive and electrified, incredulous that something could feel so good, that such a vibrant, stunning woman would give him the precious gift of her body in this way.

  This was the point of survival, he realized suddenly. Not what he could and couldn’t do, how he looked or what challenges he struggled with on a daily basis, but who he was with, and this almost painfully profound connection to another person. Beth was fundamental—everything else was just trappings.

  Beth tensed beneath him, her inner muscles contracting as she clawed at his back, her spine arching as her climax approached. Chris groaned as the ripples of her pleasure washed over him, carrying him closer and closer to the edge. He drove into her again and again, burying himself in the woman he loved, and in the last few hazy seconds before he was overtaken by oblivion he thought, I’m home.

  Chapter Seven

  Chris wasn’t sure how long they’d been laying there, their limbs entangled and their bodies supple with lovemaking, when Beth propped herself up with her forearms on his chest.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He reached to find her hair, tucked it behind her ear. “Of course.”

  “Do you think you have post-traumatic stress disorder?”

  He blinked at the unexpected question. What had been going through her mind for the past few minutes, as she’d rested against his rib cage?

  “To a certain extent,” he replied carefully, “Yes. I do.”

  She stiffened against him, and he ran his hand down her back, trying to read her body language in place of the expression he couldn’t see.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he urged.

  She hesitated. “When you say to a certain extent, what do you mean?”

  Chris cringed inwardly. He hated talking about this element of himself—he felt like it testified to some kind of mental weakness on his part, and that was even more humiliating than the help he needed now that he was blind. Having a bomb explode in his face wasn’t his fault, but he was a soldier—he should be tough enough to control his thoughts and emotions.

  “It’s nowhere near as bad as what a lot of guys come away with,” he began. “And it’s already better than when I first got back. I never had any symptoms after my first two deployments, so the shrink thinks it’s related to the physical trauma, and that eventually it’ll go away completely.”

  “And what are your symptoms?” Beth pressed. Her body felt taut with anxious tension.

  He shifted, pulling her down on the bed beside him and turning onto his side to face her.

  “Sometimes I have nightmares,” he said quietly, lacing his fingers through hers. He took a long breath, readying himself for his next admission. “And flashbacks.”

  “Is that what happened when you heard the snowplow, when you dropped to the floor? Did you have a flashback?”

  He quirked a sheepish half smile. “Nope, that was just residual combat instinct. I always hit the deck at loud noises for the first couple of months out of a war zone, and I have done ever since my first tour. I probably would’ve done it back in June when I was on R & R if a truck had backfired outside or something like that. I know it was a little intense—it’ll stop soon, don’t worry.”

  “And in the hotel? When I came into your room you were on the floor.” She pulled in a breath so tight he could hear it. “You were shaking.”

  He gritted his teeth. Jesus Christ, he hated being this vulnerable.

  Be honest with her. She’s earned it.

  “The transformer exploded on the street outside and—yeah, I had one then.”

  She was silent, and he braced himself for his next question. “Did I scare you? Is that why you’re asking?”

  “Yes and no.” She flattened her palm on his chest and he covered his hand with hers, his tension easing slightly at the reassuring contact. “I was startled and confused, and then I read some stuff on the internet that freaked me out. But I trust you. I know you’d ask for help if you needed it.”

  Her fingers were on his face, tracing the scarred line of his jaw. He resisted the urge to flinch from her touch, understanding now that she needed to see who he had become—and hopefully learn to love that man.

  “What are the flashbacks like?”

  He sighed as he settled back against the pillows, finding an unexpected relief in this discussion. “Disorienting. Exhausting. Always about the explosion. When I first woke up in the hospital I couldn’t remember anything about the blast, and I thought I must’ve blacked out straight away. Now I realize that I was conscious, and the memories were hidden somewhere in my brain, and they’re triggered when something reminds me of the incident, like a noise or a smell. It’s like I zap back to the desert, and I’m stuck there, frozen, until something snaps me out of it.”

  His smirk was bitter. “All those months of combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, everything I’ve seen and done, I always handled it. Then one nutjob straps himself up with explosives and bam.” He snapped his fingers. “I’m a certified head case.”

  “You are not,” Beth soothed, cuddling closer. “You’ve had a pretty horrific experience, and you’re working through it. I’d be more worried if you weren’t. As it is, I think you just need some time,” she concluded, sounding more confident than at the beginning of the conversation.

  “And what about you? What do you need, after all of this?” He gestured to indicate the tw
o of them in bed.

  “Honestly?” He nodded, and she continued, “Tonight was great—being with you has been great. But I need some time to process too.”

  Chris frowned, and opened his mouth to speak but Beth went on, “You’ve had time to get used to the change in your life. I only found out you were blind two days ago. I’m not saying I won’t want to be with you, but I need time to decide whether I can trust you not to leave me again. I know you’ve tried to explain why you did it, but you can’t underestimate how hurtful you were. I never thought the man I met in June was capable of such coldness, and you have to give me the space to rethink my expectations.”

  Anguish ripped through Chris’s chest like wildfire and he sat bolt upright. “But I am that man,” he insisted, groping for her hand and squeezing it to press home his point. “That was me in your bed in June, Beth. The man who unlocked the archives for you, who talked his way past the departmental secretary to find your office, who sat at your kitchen table and talked about your family—I’m still him. I know I screwed up with that email, and I’m sorry, I really am, but I’m exactly the same person.” His tone was adamant, his volume rising, but he didn’t care. He’d felt so close to having her back, to picking up from where they left off as much as they could, that he couldn’t believe he was hearing this from her now. Hadn’t they just made love with the same passion and intensity as they had before? Weren’t they having an intimate, wide-open conversation just like they used to?

  “You say that,” Beth told him in a placatory voice that almost offended him more than her words. “But you also thought I could be dismissed without so much as a phone call. I don’t think it’s unfair to need some time to get over that.”

  “Are you worried about the PTSD?” he asked, flailing to find a way to justify what he felt was totally unjustifiable. “I know the moment in the kitchen was probably scary, and I’m sorry about that, but it’s a completely normal reaction for someone recently returned from combat. It’ll fade away eventually, it always has.”

  “It’s not that,” she said gently, but he didn’t give her a chance to finish before he found himself speaking again, his mouth running on overtime as he fought to grab hold of the woman he could feel was slipping out of his grasp.

  “Come on, Beth, you have to give me a break.” He spread his palms, aware of but unable to check the desperation in his voice. “I’ve had some seriously ugly experiences, and all things considered I’m pretty damn stable. I’ve stepped over the bodies of people who were tortured to death where they lay in the street, I’ve ordered attacks in which I know there were civilian casualties and I’ve held my own troops in my arms as they’ve bled to death thousands of miles from their families, men in my command, men whose parents and wives were going about their days with no idea that at that exact moment their soldier was choking on his own blood and begging me to tell his kids that he loves them. If I can come through all of that with nothing more than nightmares and the odd flashback, I’m one lucky bastard.”

  He sat back against the wall, drawing a steadying breath, trying to cool the anger that roared through him.

  “How naive do you think I am?” Her voice trembled despite her audible effort to keep it still. “Did you think I drifted easily off to sleep every night, imagining you in some luxurious oasis? When your emails dropped off and weeks went by without a word, did you think I put it down to your busy party schedule? I was terrified.” Her voice broke on the word, but after a moment’s recovery she pressed on, stronger than ever. “When I finally got the nerve to call the fort, the person I spoke to asked what my relationship was to you. I didn’t know what else to say, so I told him the truth. You know what he did? He told me I sounded like a nice girl who could do better. I nearly laughed him off the phone, my faith in you was so solid—then guess what turns up in my inbox a couple of days later?” She exhaled derisively. “All those sleepless nights, all those horrible nightmares, all those stomach pains from worrying, all those days spent thinking about nothing except whether or not you were alive—I know you’ve explained your reasoning, but I don’t think you really understand what I went through.”

  He was speechless. She was absolutely right—he was so busy wallowing in his own self-pity, and then so consumed with excitement at the possibility of winning her back, that he hadn’t given any thought to the impact on her.

  He’d screwed up. Again.

  “You’re right,” he admitted quietly. “I guess I thought an explanation and an apology would be enough. I was so intent to getting us back to where we were that—” He drew a long, bracing breath. “Please tell me I haven’t ruined this. Tell me you still think we could be together.”

  Beth’s answering silence was long, and significant, and indecipherable. After what felt like a lifetime, she leaned forward, swept a kiss over his forehead, and then swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  “Try to get some sleep—you’ve got a big day tomorrow.” He heard her gathering up her pajamas and padding to the door. “Good night, Chris.”

  He waited until the door closed behind her and her footsteps disappeared down the hall. Then he clenched his fists, gritted his teeth and sank a punch into the pillows with all his might.

  * * *

  The frying pan sizzled as Beth cracked the eggs into it. She used a wooden spoon to carefully separate the whites, then leaned one hip on the oven and yawned.

  She’d struggled to sleep after leaving Chris the night before, tossing and turning as she reviewed their conversation in her mind. She couldn’t stop replaying the situations Chris had described, and her imagination ran riot as she thought about all that he’d seen and done in his years of deployments.

  She was being honest when she said she needed time to reset her expectations and evaluate whether she could heal from the wound of his dismissal. The strength of Chris’s reaction had surprised her, and made her question her own response. Was she being unfair? Was it wrong to still be so guarded after all he’d said and done in the past couple of days? She hadn’t thought so at the time, but now she wondered whether she was being unreasonable.

  Beth crossed her arms, shivering in the early morning chill. She’d moved through so many wildly vacillating emotions over the previous few days that she didn’t know what she felt anymore. She was tired and numb, and she couldn’t wait to drop Chris off and finally get time for some quiet reflection.

  Chris appeared in the kitchen as she was adding salt and pepper to the eggs. He was in his jeans and army T-shirt, but his demeanor as he greeted her and took a seat at the table was tentative and awkward, like he was afraid he might say or do the wrong thing. Beth’s heart tugged guiltily at his hesitance, but she didn’t acknowledge it, and resisted the impulse to lay a comforting hand on his back as she set his plate down in front of him.

  “Fried egg at nine o’clock, buttered wheat toast at three,” she informed him with forced cheeriness.

  “Thanks,” he replied quietly.

  They ate in silence. She watched him from her position across the table, staring unabashedly at the sightless eyes that seemed fixed on a point several inches above his plate. Chris’s movements were slow and methodical, but not without confidence. He found his coffee mug with minimal fumbling, and after the first attempt, his hand closed easily on the handle each time he reached for it. He positioned his cutlery carefully on the top edge of his plate, tore his toast into sections, which he set out in a row, and then used them to mop up the runny yolk that pooled in the center. His motion was spare and deliberate and ordered, and, she noted with an endeared tilt of her head, surprisingly elegant.

  Something about the contrast between Chris’s broad, powerful body and his precise, measured actions raised a lump in her throat. She stood and began to gather the dishes, assuring herself it was just exhaustion, and the holidays, and the emotional onslaught of the past few days. She swallowed determinedl
y as she moved to collect Chris’s plate.

  Without warning, he grabbed her wrist as she reached across him. He brought her hand to his face, brushed a kiss over her palm and then laced his fingers through hers, squeezing gently.

  “I love you, Beth,” he said softly, his voice husky and low. “Do whatever you need to do, but know that I love you. And that I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

  Heavy, unstoppable tears welled in her eyes, and her legs felt shaky and weak, ready to buckle at any moment. His grip was dry and warm, and every nerve in her body urged her to drop into his lap, fling her arms around his neck and accept all of the affection and commitment and vitally masculine solidity he offered her. He loved her, and whether or not she was ready to admit it, she loved him too. She would grow accustomed to his physical limitations, she would learn when to help him and when to let him fend for himself, she could handle his blindness, she could handle the jagged scars that bore testament to his survival, she could handle the flashbacks and the nightmares and the haunted stories of death and violence—but could she handle waking up each morning, wondering if it would be the day he left her again?

  Her heart thudded to a stop. What if she was wrong? What if she was making the same mistake all over again?

  Doubt flickered and then shone like a lit match, throwing all of the worries and anxieties that plagued her mind into stark relief. She dropped the plates onto the table with a clatter as she jerked her hand out of his and fled from the kitchen. She shut the door to her bedroom, stripped off her clothes on her way into the adjoining bathroom and stepped gratefully into the shower where the hot streams of water concealed her tears, and the clanging of the old pipes masked her heaving, racking sobs.

  Chapter Eight

  Chris squared his cap on his head, touching the silver buttons on either end of the blue-and-gold nylon braid to make sure the brim was in line. He closed the top button on his collar, tightened his tie and pulled his dress jacket up over his arms. He quickly ran his hand over the rows of bars pinned above his left breast pocket to make sure none were crooked, and then checked to ensure that the name badge that announced Walker in white letters was in place on the other side. Then he buttoned his jacket, hauled his duffel bag over his shoulder, gave the bed where he’d made love to Beth less than six hours ago a final, sentimental tap and headed out to meet her by the front door.