City Under Siege

by R. J. Prescott

  “Reg?”

  “Reginald Arthur Shaw the second,” he replied. “Heir to his father’s fortune from inventing some kind of reflective glass on road signs and husband number three.”

  “Wow. How many times has she been married?”

  “Just three. Reg was the last. I only knew him for about a year before he died of a massive heart attack. Nan refused to marry again. After outliving three husbands, she’s come to the conclusion that she’s a bit of a jinx as far as men are concerned.”

  “Poor woman. That must be awful to have to lose three men that you’ve loved,” I replied, making him scoff.

  “Poor woman my arse. A few years with her and they were probably banging on the pearly gates begging to come in,” he joked and laughed as my jaw dropped open in horror.

  “You can’t say that! That’s just awful!”

  “Nan tells me frequently that I’m the worst son she’s ever had,” he replied with a fond smile that told me how close they actually were. Their bizarre banter was just part of their odd relationship.

  “And of all the places she took you, this is the one you remembered most?” I asked, looking across the bench from where we were sitting to the old, fairy tale cottage in front of us.

  “I grew up in care homes, which were always pretty loud and chaotic. We came first thing in the morning on a spring day when the grounds were full of bluebells. Reg went off to find a coffee, and Nan and I sat where we are now, just listening to the quiet. That trip was the first time I remember experiencing anything close to peace.” Him sharing the memory felt like a deeply personal confession.

  “Being here has me itching to pick up a pen. I didn’t draw or paint for a year after Mum died, and with everything that’s happened, I haven’t done it since Dad,” I told him.

  “So, do it now,” he suggested, and I smiled at his foolishness.

  “With what?”

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a couple of napkins from the coffee shop and a pen. I craved a proper sketchbook and my watercolours, but the urge to draw overrode the craziness of his suggestion.

  “And while I’m sat here, what will you be doing?” I asked.

  “What I do best, buttercup. Watching over you,” he replied, smiling.

  The second my pen touched the paper, I felt the peace that he’d been talking about. In the time that followed, I realised that the meaningful silence between us was more precious to me than all the meaningless words I’d ever wasted on anyone else.

  Sarah

  Throwing my dirty laundry into the hamper, I reached for my blue silk robe while I waited for the shower water to warm. It was a habit left over from living in my old flat, where the water would have to run for at least ten minutes before you could avoid the risk of frostbit. At Dad’s place it was hot almost instantly, though I hardly noticed. My mind was elsewhere, focused on thoughts only of Tom. The last few days had been like nothing I’d ever known. Every day was a gauntlet of emotion, from fear, guilt, and self-loathing to affection, lust, and even respect. I authorised manifest change after manifest change, all with no word as to whether MI5 had tracked any of the shipments or traced any of the buyers. All with no hope that success might be in sight. So much of my time over the last few weeks had been spent copying records that I was now hopelessly behind with everything else. Every visit from Mark Devaney was followed by endless hours of work that made little sense to me. The days were filled with despair, but the nights, the nights were filled with hope. Watched constantly as we were, there was little opportunity for intimacy. But I didn’t need his hands on me to feel his touch. It was in every glance that lingered and every shallow breath. I felt his kiss long before his lips ever touched mine.

  It was Thursday before I knew it. Tom would stay long enough for Mark Devaney’s visit tomorrow, and then he and the whole team would be gone. The usual government four by four vehicles with blacked-out windows would transport the guys to a helipad where they’d go to a military base and then onto a training exercise in the North Sea. Tonight would be our last night together before I was officially handed over to Alpha Team B. My only comfort was the fact that I would be spending the days apart in Tom’s home. A place worlds apart from Dad’s mausoleum.

  A warm flush swept across my body as I imagined slipping between his sheets. Lying in his bed, protected in his walls from the outside world. Wiping away the sheen of condensation that covered the mirror, I looked at the face staring back at me. The heat of the bath had curled my dark hair into waves that fell down my back, and the constant biting of my bottom lip while I bathed had left it plump and reddened. The bathroom was the only room in the house not under surveillance, and I dreaded leaving it.

  I needed more time. More time to compose myself. To feign indifference for the microphones like Tom could. To perfect my mask like the one he gave the world. By unspoken agreement, every night since I’d been discharged from hospital had been spent either in Tom’s bed or mine. No one would believe me if I admitted that he’d done nothing more than hold me. But something had changed. It was palpable. The feeling of anticipation, almost desperation to act on this attraction. He was leaving tomorrow, my bruises from the accident had faded and as the days went on, we knew the expiration date for our time together was drawing nearer. I wasn’t sure I was ready to lose him, or that I ever would be. Sighing deeply, I wrestled to control the fire in my blood, when I heard a gentle, almost inaudible knock.

  As I opened it, Tom pushed his way past me and closed the door to press me up against it. I’d barely drawn breath when his lips were on mine. Every minute that had passed from the first time we met had been an interminable seduction that culminated in this kiss. Beneath his huge frame, I felt so small, but not fragile. His touch wasn’t delicate. I wasn’t made from glass. I was steel. Made from metal every bit as strong as his. Our hands were everywhere. All over each other in frenzied desperation. He turned his head as he ducked towards me, finding that perfect angle. I speared my fingers into his hair, gripping tightly as we eliminated any last vestige of oxygen between us. My hand slid under his T-shirt as his tongue slipped into my mouth.

  The skin beneath my fingertips was hot and smooth, but it was an illusion. Nothing about his body was soft. Scars that mark healed wounds peppered his torso. The seemingly imperfect blemishes doing nothing to detract from the beauty of a body built for combat. They were part of who he was.

  My angel of war.

  The man who would sacrifice his life to save mine.

  I tried to memorise every inch, and suddenly, even the thin cotton between us was too much. Like he could read my thoughts, he reached behind him and pulled it over his head, dropping it carelessly to the floor. As he did, his abdominals contracted, drawing my hungry eyes to the corded muscles that made me ache to touch. I closed my eyes as his scent, a mixture of shaving soap and something uniquely him, filled my lungs and drugged my senses. Strong hands threaded in my hair as he buried his nose in my neck and inhaled deeply. A shudder ran through me as he groaned. The sound reverberated through my body, answered unconsciously with a whimper as his calloused thumb brushed across my beaded nipple. Painfully slowly, his lips traced a path up my neck. I opened my mouth to beg for more when he kissed me. My ability to make a conscious decision evaporated. Every action now was born of thousands of years of instinct.

  To mate. To worship. To claim.

  I wanted him so badly I could taste it, and my hunger was only matched by his own. It wasn’t a gentle, tentative kiss. He devoured me in the best, most delicious way possible. His lips pushed mine to open wider, and I gave him what he wanted. It was his to take. The wet heat of his mouth enveloped me as his tongue led mine.

  Craving more, I pressed closer. We were restless, feverish, out of control. I wanted him inside me more than my next breath, and then I wanted him all over again. I knew, with absolute certainty, that once would never be enough. We’d both waited so long, and that waiting meant something.

  T
ime. That interminable void so difficult to endure, now seemed like a gift. It was an abyss filled with friendship, respect, affection, and memories. This was no clumsy fumble in the dark. Without realising, the wait had elevated this beyond anything I’d ever experienced. Calloused fingertips skimmed the hem of my robe as he lifted my thigh to wrap a leg around him. Our breathing escalated as he hit home. His rock-hard cock hit exactly the right spot, and my back arched, bringing us closer still. His pelvis rocked, leaving me powerless to do anything other than grip the counter behind me and ride out the storm. His kisses slowed, and I let go to grasp at his bicep, silently begging him not to stop.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, almost reverently as he stared deep into my eyes. Nobody had ever made me feel this special. This cherished. This loved. His hips ground against mine, and I was so caught up in this tide of ecstasy, I barely registered that he’d loosened the knot of my robe until the silk slid over my shoulders. His strong, tanned hands coiled around my waist, and I was airborne, lifted onto the marble counter as though I weighed nothing at all. The room echoed with the sounds of our kisses, our tongues colliding wildly as we gasped for air. The desire to breathe second only to the need to finish what we’d started.

  I cried out as he rubbed his thumb gently across my nipple, then cupped my breast, lifting it to worship with his mouth. The pleasure was acute. Even more so when he repeated the action with the other one. I was a slave to his touch. My body his to control. His hands slid to the tops of my thighs, and they opened wider in answer to his silent command. When he dropped to his knees, I was lost. His tongue slid against me, and I was on fire, burning in the most exquisitely torturous way. I gripped the counter so hard that my knuckles turned white. I wanted to scream at him to stop, then beg him not to. It was too powerful, too intense, and the most unbelievably intimate thing that I’ve ever experienced. I was so close to that sweet oblivion that would end the torture, when his fingers slid inside me, moving seamlessly to the rhythm of his tongue. Throwing my head back, my spine bowed as blinding light flashed across my eyelids. I convulsed as my body exploded with pleasure, my orgasm riding over me in wave after wave.

  Reality was cruel and unforgiving, but there was no room for reality in the moments that followed. As I drifted languidly back to earth, his urgent kisses became tender, his touch almost reverent. Lifting me once more, he carried me into the shower and rained hot water down on us, cocooning us in its warmth. We were a million miles away from the troubles that haunted us. Hands that were trained to fight, trained to kill, were nothing but tender as he cared for me in a way that brought tears to my eyes. My giant of a man shampooed and rinsed my hair, in between kissing my shoulders and the back of my neck. When he was done, I smiled before dropping to my knees, wanting to worship him like he’d done for me.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, as I caressed him with my tongue, drawing out his pleasure as long as I could. Running my hands up his thickly muscled legs, I used his perfect arse to deepen my touch. Like he’d been struck by lightning, tension ran throughout his body, and he came with a horse cry of pleasure. When he lifted me to my feet, he was still hard.

  “Again?” I asked, melting into his arms.

  “With you? Always. But I’m greedy. I want a bed and enough food to ensure we don’t have to leave it for a week,” he replied, gently tracing his fingers along my spine and making me shiver.

  “One day,” I whispered.

  “One day,” he answered, laying a gentle kiss on my shoulder. We procrastinated for as long as we could, feasting on and caressing one another long after our skin pruned. When we could hold back the world no longer, he turned off the water and wrapped me in an oversized fluffy towel before reaching for one himself.

  “I wish you didn’t have to leave tomorrow,” I admitted.

  “Not as much as I do,” he replied. “Freezing my arse off in the North Sea is not my idea of fun. But we need the training, and if I have to leave you, I’d rather do it knowing you’ll be safe at my place.”

  “And this Alpha Team B, are they as good as you guys are?”

  “Baby, no one is as good as we are, but they’re the only ones I’d trust your safety to. That being said, I don’t want you getting too friendly with any of them. They’re led by a guy called Hunter Jackson who lives to give me shit. I have no doubt that he’ll do his best to charm you just to piss me the fuck off.”

  “And not because he actually likes me?” I teased.

  “You’ll have them all on their knees begging within five minutes of meeting you. But I’ve never had anyone who was mine before. Turns out I’m pretty fucking possessive when it comes to you. The thought of that arsehole making you smile when I’m hanging out of a helicopter off the coast of Scotland is like a kick in the balls in sub-zero temperatures.”

  “Aah, and they are such nice balls,” I replied, nudging him playfully.

  “So can I count on you to give him the cold shoulder and tell me every one of his cheesy pickup lines, so I can make him bleed that little bit more when we have combat training together?”

  “For you,” I replied, sliding my arms around his neck, “I’ll be positively arctic.”

  Apparently, it was the answer he needed to hear. Smiling triumphantly, he bent his head to kiss me again, and it was a very long time before we left that bathroom.

  Droplets of rain blanketed the window as we sped through the lanes to Tom’s home.

  “We should be arriving in the next fifteen minutes, ma’am,” Hunter informed me. Honestly, it looked like it was taking a serious amount of willpower for him not to wink at me. I imagined what Tom’s face would look like if he sat here with us, and I had to hold back a grin. As the weather worsened, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was having to endure, and my smile faded. The melancholy clung to me the rest of the way to the cottage, and when we arrived, I headed straight for my room. Hunter had informed me that food would be arriving in the hour, but until then, I needed some time alone.

  Dropping my bag, I switched on the light and threw myself down on the bed, nearly crushing something in the process. Sitting straight back up, it took me a moment to register what I was looking at. I had no idea how he’d done it, but wrapped in a big yellow ribbon, topped off with an enormous bow, was an A3 artist’s sketch book, Windsor & Newton painter’s journal, a set of charcoal, and a watercolour block set. The man was my hero. It was a gift that spoke to the heart of who I was. It told me that he paid attention, that he listened and that he knew me better than any man I’d ever met.

  Shrugging off my coat, I grabbed the supplies, flicked off the light, and raced back downstairs. For the next hour, I sat by the fire and lost myself in my art. The charcoal flew across the page as I poured my heart onto the paper, stopping only when Hunter thrust a plate of Chinese food in front of me. For the most part, the guys gave me a wide berth, and I suspected one or two threats of violence had been passed on ahead of the handover between the teams. Hunter tried to make conversation a few times, but rolled his eyes at my brief, uncommunicative responses. There came a point where, if he kept me from drawing much longer, I resolved to reply only in grunts. I’d seen the guys do it enough times that I figured it was a perfectly acceptable form of communication in the military. Finally giving up, he left me to it.

  By two o’clock in the morning, I had inky black fingers and a beautiful likeness of Tom in charcoal. Too tired to do much else, I trudged upstairs for a quick shower before stinking myself into the decadent bed. Feeling profoundly grateful for such a beautiful gift, I slept soundly, until strained threats of violence and aggression filtered through to my room.

  “Young man, I realise that a body like that isn’t a gift from God. I imagine you’ve worked very hard to look like something most women would like to climb. So you can imagine how much regret and remorse I’ll be filled with when I’m forced to rip off your nipples and feed them to you, which is exactly what I’ll do if you don’t move that fine arse and get out o
f my way!”

  As I opened the wardrobe and pulled out a hoodie of Tom’s that almost reached my knees, I wondered if the poor soul, who was clearly the object of Nan’s ire, realised that she probably meant every word.

  Sarah

  “So, a flush is five cards of the same suit, but a straight flush is five cards of the same suit in any order, right?” I asked, looking to Nan.

  “Right. The straight flush is the higher hand, but both are beaten by the royal flush,” she replied, tapping her cigarette into the glass ashtray before bringing it back to her lips. I was pretty sure Tom would have a coronary at seeing her smoking in the dining room, but even if it bothered anyone, there wasn’t a single person in this house full of trained killers who would have the guts to complain about it.

  “And there’s an Ace high straight flush, right? All the same suit going in numerical order from Ace to ten?” I said.

  “Exactly. Now, am I going to have to go over this shit again or are you actually going to try a hand this time?” she asked.

  Outside, the storm continued to rage. The occasional crack of thunder against the backdrop of the smoke-filled room lent the place an atmosphere that was more than a little intimidating. The dining table had been covered with worn baize that was obviously well used. Around it sat stone-faced men, well-practised in interrogation resistance. Whether they were as clueless as I was at playing poker didn’t matter. I was a tiny little mouse at a table full of predators. When it no longer amused them to watch me scurry about, I’d be squashed and eaten.

  “Okay,” I agreed, taking a deep breath. “I’ll give it a go. What are the stakes again?”

  “It’s a £5 buy in, 50p a blind. There’s no re-buy. When your chips are gone, you’re out of the game. Red chips are 50p.Blue chips are £5,” she replied, shuffling the cards like a professional croupier.

  “You know, I’m happy to sit this one out,” Hunter volunteered. “I can help you with your hands until you get the hang of it.”