“David,” she whimpered, letting her head fall back against his shoulder.
Her mouth opened and her eyes closed. He loved watching her. “Come for me, Katie.”
She turned her face toward him and he cupped her chin for a kiss, the fingers of his other hand moving in her, thumb circling her clit until she moaned and started shuddering in his arms.
“Ahh, more.” She tensed and arched, her ass pressing back into the cradle of his hips. “Fuck me, please.”
He fumbled his pants open, pulled a condom from his pocket—yes, he’d been optimistic—and tore it open. He rolled it on and pushed her forward with a hand on her neck. Arms spread wide, she held on to the edge of the countertop. He probed the entrance of her pussy with the tip of his sheathed cock.
“Do it,” she urged, tilting her ass higher. “Oh god, do it hard. Do it now—”
She gasped as he thrust into her, sliding right to the hilt in one forceful move that pushed her knees into the cupboards.
Heaven.
Oh yeah. She was tight and warm and perfect. He tried to hold still and savor the culmination of weeks of wanting her, but she was already sliding forward and back on him and the sight of his cock disappearing between the cheeks of her round ass was too much. Soon her restless little attempts to make him start moving threw him over the edge.
“Think of this while you’re gone.” His voice was gruff and hoarse, his throat tight. He fucked her with long, deep strokes, loving the way the tension built higher and higher with each one. “Think of me and how much I’ll be missing you.”
She whimpered, her body shaking just before the wild spasms of her pussy started squeezing him and he couldn’t hold back any longer. He wrapped his arm around her waist and thrust one last time before giving in to the release.
When she turned in his arms, he gathered her close and buried his face in her hair, still breathing heavily. The sweat on their skin started to dry and stick them together, and his leg ached, but he didn’t care.
“Oh, David,” she whispered. “I’m going to miss you. I knew I was in trouble the first day I saw you. Why did we have to meet now when we can’t have any time together?”
His arms tightened. “We have tonight. And that’ll have to be enough to get me to your next leave.”
She stroked his chest and sighed. “What will you do while I’m gone?”
“I’ll find a way to put my life back together. Find something I can do here with a gimp leg and a former military background.” He’d already gotten a few calls for positions that would mean he could stay in the service, so he wasn’t feeling as pessimistic about his options as he had only days ago.
He gazed into her eyes. “And I’ll be waiting.”
It wouldn’t be what he’d planned…but he hadn’t planned on Katie O’Meara either. Yet here they were and he’d never been happier, despite the fact that she would be leaving in just a few short hours.
She smiled up at him. “Then keep a light on for me.”
DONE
Charlotte Stein
He always comes to me this way. Skin smelling of something I can’t identify and probably shouldn’t want to, fresh new scars littering his body, that look in his eyes like I don’t know what. Sometimes it’s as though someone has punched both of them out, even though there are no bruises around that hollow gaze. And sometimes it’s like a fire is in there, burning down the house of him.
But mostly I just can’t tell, because he’s Jack and he does things for his country and what does it really matter anyway? Jack isn’t even his real name. It’s probably something less clipped and generically exciting, like Peter or Paul. Or even something ridiculous, like Dwayne or Dwight.
Though I make do with Jack because without it he’d just be the man with no name who comes to my house and does unspeakable things to me for one day out of every sixty. I’d be a whole new version of the Fugitive, only my bad guy is missing a moniker instead of an arm, and rather than killing my spouse he just fucks me up against a whole variety of things until I come, and come, and come.
I figure my version is unlikely to star Harrison Ford—I can’t imagine Harrison Ford speaking some of the dialogue from my particular movie. Like in the bar that first time, when he’d told me he just wanted to get his face between my legs. That he wanted to spread me over something and lick my little clit until I screamed.
Yeah, I can’t imagine many people saying something like that.
But he does, because he’s straight to the point. He’s direct in a way other people never get to be, with all of their hours and hours of time to go on dates and negotiate sex and make everything nice with hearts and flowers.
Instead, he comes in my door like a gunshot and tells me right off: I’ve been thinking of that pussy, baby. I’ve been thinking of it so hard and long I forget my own name.
So I suppose that’s why he’s just Jack. Because my cunt hypnotized him and made him lose it someplace I can’t even imagine. And though I know that’s a ridiculous thing to think, it stays with me when he gets up from the table. It matches the sight of his cock, all thick and stiff beneath the material of his rough pants.
Could be he does think about me that way, if he’s hard before we’ve finished the dinner I made. Before he’s finished his drink—a beer he’s barely touched, really—and such a sight to see. I don’t mind admitting that my mouth goes dry, and that could be because he’s hot.
He’s big and roped with more muscle than I’m used to, eyes all dark like that hollow I always think of, the stubble on his shaved head so fine it’s almost a grain. It’s the insides of a strip of wood, and as smooth as that to the touch.
But it’s not any of those things that speak to me. That make me wet before he’s laid a finger on me, so ready to feel him fucking into my defenseless body.
It’s his hunger. His complete greed for the feel of me, after so many months away doing god knows what. It’s like he can hardly contain himself, like a hurricane in my house, just waiting to take everything apart.
And he does. He takes me apart. He pulls open the front of my dress without saying a word, hands so heavy and rough on me. And when I make a little sound—a little shocked note of protest, maybe—he kisses my suddenly bared breasts by way of apology.
“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he tells me, and it’s the strangest thing. I’ve never felt the word had quite the same ring of truth as when he says it. Even with the swearing shunted right up against its ass, I feel it keenly, I feel it perfectly.
I am beautiful when he kisses my breasts and cups my backside in his big hands, all of him so voracious somehow it’s impossible to resist.
And oh god, he’s so strong. I won’t deny that’s anything but a bonus. Where other men would squeeze and be done with it, he uses that tight—near-painful—grip to lift me clean off my feet, my legs going around his waist like a reflex. That mouth now on my throat as he grinds me hard against that stiff length between his thighs.
And then he tells me. He tells me things that should be embarrassing, that would be embarrassing if someone else said them, but somehow aren’t with him.
“Oh yeah,” he tells me as he rubs right over my cotton-clad pussy, “I can almost feel how wet you are, baby. You want it, huh? You want my cock in your cunt.”
I’d hate it if another man used that word. I’d shut him down, tell him off. But then again, another man wouldn’t say it the way Jack does—like he’s praying to a god I don’t have.
“Please,” I say, because that’s how I feel right now. I’m one big please, one big long need for him inside me, and he doesn’t disappoint. He gets me on the kitchen table, slides my panties down my legs. Exposes my pussy in a way I’ve never been exposed before—two fingers either side of my slit, spreading me open.
“Oh, look at that,” he says, though I don’t have to. I can imagine what it looks like just by the feel of it—all of the wetness easing between the cheeks of my ass, my clit just one big long thrum before he’s
even touched it.
And then he does touch it, and I sob for him. I writhe on the kitchen table, pinned more effectively than a bug.
“Mmm, yeah,” he says, and then he does something that should make me blush tomorrow. It should, but I know it won’t. Tomorrow I’ll think of it and masturbate instead, because just the image of him spitting right over my little swollen bud will be enough to get me going.
It’s such a dirty thing. It’s so rude. And yet oh, it feels so good when he works that extra bit of slickness over and around my clit. He just does it with the pad of his thumb until I’m half-crazy, then works and works it until I’m all the way there. All the way into crazy and out the other side, crying and begging him to just fuck me.
“Give it to me,” I tell him, but he waits. I don’t know where he gets the patience from, with those things he said about forgetting his name still hanging between us, but somehow he finds it. He’s like a worked rod of iron, molded into something steely and straight.
And then just when I’m sure I can’t take it anymore, he starts stripping out of those clothes.
Of course, it’s always a treat. Always. I even like some of the smallest, strangest things about him, like the weird tautness of his belly button, as though his muscles have forced it to nearly disappear. Or the way the sinew in his left shoulder is just a little bit off, because he’s obviously hurt himself at some point but naturally won’t tell me how.
He doesn’t tell me about the scars, either, but that’s okay. I kiss them all anyway, because when I do he shows me the only unrestrained reaction he has—a kind of guttural oh, just for me. All for me, my man with no name.
“Turn over, baby,” he says, and I do. Though I wonder the same thing as always as I press my belly to the table. As I let my legs trail off it, almost but not quite touching the ground.
Is it because this is too much? Is it too much to look at my face when he fucks me?
I don’t know, I don’t know, but I do know that he asks me to turn over often enough to always think about it the second he says it. And then when I’m done thinking about him I think about me and how I would feel to have him over me. Those eyes of his like something burnt out but still on fire, staring into mine as he went about this thing we’re doing.
Of course I know the answer. And it tells me why he does it, it always tells me the reason why: It would feel like heaven. It would feel like hell.
“Fuck me,” I demand, and it’s bad enough when his hands go to my hips. It’s bad enough when he tells me to spread myself for him, and I do. It’s bad enough when I feel him urging himself against my always tightly clenching cunt, and then finally, finally…
He slides in. So steady and slow, for someone with shaking hands.
And shaking thighs.
I can feel them against my own, just going and going, but that’s not really what I’m thinking about. Instead, my mind goes to the peculiar, being-taken-apart sensation I always get, the second he fills me up.
And I understand, in that brief moment of bliss, what it means. I recognize it for what it is, for the first time: relief. I’m relieved that he’s inside me again, taking me so slow and easy. In a second, he’ll descend into that pounding, fierce, frantic kind of rhythm, and I’ll come in about a second.
But for now there’s just the sense of his body, his hands on me, his cock in my pussy. His voice, like something I’d wait longer than sixty days to hear. I’d wait a hundred for you. I’d wait a thousand. I’d wait in years, not days, just to know that you’re here again with me.
And then I’m not sure what happens to me, because I reach my hand up to my face and only afterward realize I’ve done it so he won’t know about the wet that’s on my face. I’ve done it so that I won’t know about the wet that’s on my face.
It’s too late for that, though—I understand. The wet is still on my fingers and that feeling is still in my throat, even though he’s fucking me hard enough to get right up against that sweet little place inside me. The one that only blooms when he touches me, when he takes me, when he says my name in a way I wish I could say his.
“Hilly,” he pants, and oh I wish, I wish, I wish I had a better name than that. I wish I was like him, with a new and secret identity. Yvette, I’d be, or maybe Natassja, with a J. And I’d visit him in some cold country in a room that’s bare except for a lightbulb, and say something mysterious and deadly, like:
Your time is up, Jackson.
Because apparently in my head his name is Jack Jackson and everything is a bit like an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Whereas in reality, he’s fucking me frantically, near viciously, as though maybe there’s no tomorrow.
And most of the time, I’m sure there won’t be. There won’t be a tomorrow. Everything is in his gaze, in his hands on me, in the way he takes me like this until my body arches and I scrabble to hold something on him, anything on him.
“Yeah, that’s it baby, give it up,” he tells me, which sounds rough but isn’t. It isn’t, because the second he says it he clasps my frantically clawing hand. He works me slower, softer, sweeter, and then just waits for my orgasm to sing out of me like some kind of goddamn love song.
“Ohhhh, Jack,” I say to him when it happens, and I swear to god there’s something else behind my sigh. More words I want to say, but never do. I can’t say them when he’s fucking me, in the middle of my orgasm.
But who am I really fooling? I can’t say them any other time, either. Instead I just let the pleasure surge through me, thick and forceful. I let my cunt clench hard around his still-working cock until he tells me, clearly: oh there’s nothing on earth like the feel of your sweet pussy.
And that has to be enough.
Or at least, I think it has to be. I’m sure it has to be, right up to the point where he stops fucking me and gathers me up in his arms. Takes me to a place we almost never go, like my bedroom. Spreads me out on the sheets, with his arms still around me.
And then I’m not sure of anything, anymore. All I can do is hold on as he does the thing I always thought he wouldn’t. He takes me on my back, with one big arm still around my shoulders and those eyes holding mine—not burnt out at all, not even on fire.
Like melting chocolate, I think they are, just before he kisses my mouth over and over. As he says to me you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, my lovely Hilly. My girl, he says, so that I have to just hold tight and hide my face in his shoulder.
I am your girl, I think, but I won’t be soon.
Soon he’ll get up, and get dressed, and go away again. Everything will go back to how it was as though he barely even leaves a print on anything—though that’s wrong, isn’t it?
He leaves a print on me. He has pushed his thumb into the formless shape of me and left an indentation forever. I can still feel him, after he’s gone. I can still smell his steely smell, still feel his hands on me, still hear him saying what he’s saying now.
“Oh fuck, you’re gonna make me come,” he tells me, which I suppose sounds singularly unromantic, in the face of all the thoughts I’ve just been having. But here’s the thing—it isn’t. It can’t be, because no other man lets me know things like that. No other man makes me feel the way he does, as though I’m worth something.
I give him something, and he’s grateful for it.
He moans against the side of my face, and oh, that’s even sweeter. It makes me clutch at him, pleasure swelling in me, again. Everything now so wet between my legs that I can hear it and he can feel it—and he tells me so. He tells me how slippery I am, how good it is, how much he wants to just let go, let go.
And when he does, it’s glorious. It’s like that heaven and hell I thought of, only a moment ago, because on the one hand I can see and feel every little part of him, all exposed—his pleasure-glazed eyes, the shudder that goes through him, the swell of his thick cock inside me.
But on the other, all of those things mean it’s over. It’s over. In a second, he’ll stop looking at me like that—a
s though he isn’t someplace faraway and too horrible to mention. And his arm will unwind from around my shoulder, and all of the delicious shaking he’s doing will stop and I’ll have to pretend again that I don’t love him.
Only then he asks, “Is it okay if I stay?”
Without a single hint that he’s going to do it. There’s nothing that suggests it in the way he eventually rolls off me—even though that arm stays around my shoulders. Even though I can feel a shift, just creeping in around the edges and oh so full of hope that I can hardly face it.
Instead, I keep my voice light. I’m casual, I think. Impervious.
“Sure,” I say. “You can stay the night.”
But he corrects me, almost immediately.
“I don’t mean just tonight,” he says, as casual as I was. Like he’s talking about the weather. “I mean always.”
And then I realize.
He’s done.
WILCO
Christine d’Abo
Lucy always found it amusing when submissives discovered she was in the navy. Especially if the men turned out to have a uniform fetish and begged her to wear it. Not that she ever did, but those nights were usually entertaining. Her khakis were currently neatly folded and tucked away back at her apartment away from any prying eyes. Tonight wasn’t about that part of her life. And while many would argue she was simply trading one uniform for another, Lucy knew it wasn’t that simple.
She needed this.
The hem of the PVC skirt clung to her thighs as she made a circle around the club. It had been a few months since she’d been able to wear this outfit and her body had forgotten how to move in the material. Her ankles wobbled ever so slightly in the spike-heeled boots and her face itched beneath the leather mask she wore to hide her identity. This wasn’t simply a costume, it was a refuge from the daily pressures of constantly taking orders. The never-ending press of bowing to someone else’s will day in and day out made it necessary for Lucy to find an outlet for her naturally dominant tendencies where and when she could.
Duty and Desire: Military Erotic Romance Page 14
