Falling for the Beast

by Skye Warren

  “Yeah.” Ricardo’s voice got stronger. “We’re going to get out.”

  Blake wasn’t so sure about that, but there was no better plan. No plan at all except the one that had already gone to hell.

  They fought through thousands of feet of dense jungle, wary of an ambush at any moment. They ran over exposed flat rock, expecting a bullet from an unseen shooter to take them out all the way.

  And somehow—an actual fucking miracle—they made it to the checkpoint.

  “Empty,” Ricardo breathed.

  Empty. And the hollow feeling in Blake’s stomach couldn’t be surprise, could it? He’d known this would happen. He’d known as soon as the first man had fallen, that something had gone horribly wrong. They wouldn’t make it out of this.

  He wasn’t even sorry for himself. He had the strangest thought that his fiancée wouldn’t mind if he never came back. His parents would milk the tragic hero story until they’d made it to the fucking White House. And his work? It was just a bunch of smoke and mirrors—the political stage, the historical backdrop. Intellectual sleight of hand to cover up this, the living and breathing, the fighting and dying of men that amounted to nothing.

  No, he wasn’t sorry for himself but he was seriously pissed about Ricardo. Ricardo had a brother. They’d lost so many men today but right now all he could think about was Ricardo’s little brother. He idolized him—and wasn’t Ricardo too young to be an idol? To be a fucking martyr?

  He wasn’t much younger than Blake, not in years, but a few tours made all the difference.

  Then he heard it—the whoop of a chopper, so faint he might have imagined it.

  “What the fuck,” he breathed.

  Ricardo looked wary. “You hear something?”

  Not insurgents. He hoped not anyway. And there it was, the chopper come to take them away. Only a few minutes late. It was a miracle. A miracle kicking dust into their eyes. They ran to the side, giving the chopper room to land.

  That was the only thing that saved them when the first bullet hit the ground.

  Under fire. They were under siege.

  Had the enemy been waiting for the chopper to land so they could take it?

  For a second, the chopper hovered, and Blake was sure it would fly right up again, taking with it any chance of rescue or hope. Ricardo’s little brother.

  But then it battered almost gently against the hard-packed earth, landing only seconds before the door slid open. A barrel appeared, taking shots near the tree line, providing the cover he and Ricardo needed to make it inside.

  “Let’s go,” Blake shouted over the heavy thrum of the propellers. He pushed Ricardo in front of him so he’d cover behind. They both ran.

  They reached the door of the chopper. An arm came out to pull them inside.

  Blake was already standing in the heavy vibrating machine when he looked back and saw Ricardo crumple to the ground—outside the chopper. “Get up,” he shouted. He didn’t care if it was cruel to drive him like this. They’d leave without him.

  Their cover was gone.

  “Move,” the man shouted into his headset—telling the pilot to go.

  Blake moved to jump out, but the man blocked him. The other man had fifty pounds on him, as well as more nights of sleep in the past 72 hours and more food and water. But Blake had the fucking determination, the certainty that he couldn’t, wouldn’t leave his teammate behind. His last one. The only man left. If there was anyone left behind on this rock, in this oven, it would be him.

  A shot hit the chopper—impossible to know where. It rocked the whole machine, and Blake fell off-balance. The doors were still open, but tilted up, and Blake was sliding back, falling. Every second took him farther from Ricardo, every second took him one more foot in the air.

  “No,” he roared, lunging for the doors. It would almost kill him to make the jump now, but he didn’t care. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t fucking be happening.

  The guy caught him by the ankle just as he was almost out of the chopper.

  He landed hard on the metal grate. The force of his fall swung the chopper far enough that he could see over the edge: the man sprawled on the ground, wounded. And he could see the other men, closing in now that the chopper was leaving range, surrounding him like a pack of wolves.

  “No.” This time it was only a quiet sound, stricken. Too soft to hear over the roar of the bird.

  Ricardo’s brother. Ricardo.

  Something wasn’t right. The bullet must have struck something vital, because the engine was sputtering now. They were still in the air but shifting sideways. At this height they’d crash. They’d burn.

  And then they didn’t have to wait that long. A flare of orange out of the corner of his eye was the only clue the chopper would explode in the split seconds before it did, before flames engulfed him, before the force of the blast threw him from the chopper, and then he was falling, falling out of the sky.

  Blake

  “Get up!”

  Blake jerked from sleep, breaths bellowing in and out of his chest, blood racing. His body was covered in sweat and tangled up, constrained, tied down by fabric and hands.

  Something warm was beside him, something soft.

  He grew still. His eyes closed. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

  Of course he’d woken her. He always woke her when he got like this.

  In fact, she was the one who had to wake him up, because he wouldn’t stop thrashing and screaming. How many years had it been now? He’d come back, put his life together. He’d found Erin. Things were good, but the nightmares wouldn’t stop. Would they ever?

  Erin trembled beside him. He could feel her tremors through the mattress they shared. A strip of moonlight fell over her face. Her eyes were wide, lips tight. Fear. She was afraid of him.

  His stomach clenched. “What did I do?”

  She shook her head, her voice shaking only slightly when she said, “Nothing.”

  A lie. “What did I do to you?”

  Her hands tightened and released a twisted corner of the sheet. “You were…on me.”

  Something inside him went cold. He didn’t want to believe it. But maybe that was just a sign of how fucked up he was, that he wasn’t even surprised. Angry. Furious. At himself. But not even fucking surprised. “I was hurting you?” he asked softly.

  “No.” The word came out too forcefully—too false. “Not on purpose. You were… I think you were protecting me. You kept saying to stay down.”

  “Jesus.” He shook his head and looked at the wall. Jesus.

  He was one fucked-up soldier. What business did he have with a woman like her?

  “Are you okay?” he asked. He didn’t wait for her to answer. He ran his hands over her shoulders, her arms, assuring himself that she was put together, her body just as whole, her skin just as smooth. His dream self may have been trying to protect her, but he could have hurt her in the process. He was a brute, an animal, and she was so fragile.

  “I’m fine,” she said, and at least her voice did sound more normal now.

  Maybe he’d just scared her more than hurt her, but either way it was too damn close. Even if he’d been in a dream, if he’d believed that somehow he was protecting her, he’d used his body to dominate her. He could have injured her and not even known it. Or God, what if his dream self had thought of her as the enemy? He could kill her.

  Snap her pretty little neck before he was even awake.

  Abruptly, he stood. The master bedroom was large, but suddenly it felt suffocating. He paced away from the bed, away from her, moving to stand at the window. So many nights he’d looked out of this window, awake again, panting and sweating again.

  When would the nightmares stop?

  He heard the sheets rustle as Erin got out of bed.

  Her footsteps were soft over the hardwood floors. And then she was behind him, her arms around his waist, her lips pressed to his back. So many nights he’d stood here, staring out the window, and so many
nights, she’d stood behind him, kissing him, making him whole again.

  He knew she deserved better, deserved someone already whole, but he couldn’t give her up. Not when it seemed almost bearable with her here.

  After a few minutes of stroking his chest, of pressing light kisses to his back, she said, “Come back to bed.”

  He nodded. “Soon.”

  “Not soon,” she said gently. “Now. We have to be up early tomorrow.”

  The plan was to drive to his parents’ house tomorrow. It was a few hours away—and yet didn’t feel nearly far enough. “I’ll still be able to drive.”

  She made a sound of protest. “I know you will, but I want you to feel okay too. Come on. I’ll help you relax.”

  His body stirred at just the suggestion. Hell, he was half-hard whenever she was around. Now was no exception. His cock already formed a tent in his boxers. It would only grow painful if she kept touching him, kept pressing those lovely breasts against his back, kept her warm breath against his skin.

  His hips actually bucked, his body blindly seeking her, an animal instinct, a need.

  He felt her lips curve in a smile. “I didn’t mean that,” she said. “But we could.”

  Except he didn’t like to fuck her when he’d just woken up from one of the nightmares. It felt too dirty, like letting her get close to that moment and all the darkness that infected him. He also didn’t quite trust himself right after one of those dreams, still shaky and overly alert.

  Especially after he’d been fucking holding her down.

  “Let me hold you,” he said instead. He wanted to hold her gently, sweetly. He wanted to erase every rough touch he’d used on her a few minutes ago. He wanted to erase those memories she had of him doing that, but he knew well how impossible that would be.

  Wordlessly she took his hand and led him back to bed.

  After she climbed in, he curved his body around hers. God, she was warm and soft. It was like fucking heaven to feel her in his arms. It scared him sometimes, how good she felt. Like he might hold her too tight, might force her to stay even if she’d be better off gone.

  He let out an uneven breath.

  She stroked her fingers over the back of his hand, rhythmic and soothing. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

  He pressed his face into her hair. She smelled so fucking good. His arms tightened around her. He forced himself to relax a fraction, to let her breathe. But not much, because he needed her. Needed to hold her, to feel her safe and whole with him.

  There were questions he wanted to ask her. Like if he’d hurt her while he was dreaming. If he’d hurt her before tonight. He wanted to know if she was happy with him, truly. But he knew what her answers would be. She was fine, fine, fine. He wasn’t sure she’d ever tell him if she wasn’t.

  She was too damn strong for her own good.

  His heart had stopped racing, his nerves had cooled. She had that effect on him. His dick was also hard as a fucking flagpole. She had that effect on him too, especially with her ass pressed up against him.

  He smoothed his hand over her hip and down between her legs. Soft. Wet. Fucking heaven.

  A small hitch in her breath was the sound of her assent. That and the widening of her thighs, giving him more access. She always let him in, and at least in this one thing, he could give her pleasure. He could make her feel good.

  As long as he kept the dark side of him in check.

  As long as he kept the beast locked up.

  Erin

  Erin shuddered as his thick finger slid through her folds.

  God, she was slick. She could hear the sounds of her wetness. Her cheeks burned with humiliation. It was one thing for a man to wake up hard. That was normal. Natural. But this?

  Her body was constantly primed for him. As if it knew he might roll on top of her and slide inside at any moment—and he did. She’d wake up clenching around him, her hips already rocking. She didn’t need to be awake for him to make her come.

  He gave her the best dreams.

  Her body was ready, but her mind was…worried. Worried about the dark expression on Blake’s face, the loneliness in his stance. Sex distracted him, but it was a temporary fix. Then again, there was no permanent fix. Not to war. Not to the scars that covered his body. No permanent fix for the ones inside him.

  “Wait,” she gasped. “Let me…” She wasn’t sure what she’d do. Stroke him. Tell him everything would be okay, even if it wouldn’t. Something, anything.

  He was already shaking his head. She felt the motion of it just like she felt his arm tighten around her, his fingers stroke more forcefully. His touch was merciless on her body.

  “I want to make you feel good,” he muttered against her neck, and she was helpless then. Helpless except to relax her legs completely as he stroked and stroked.

  He was hard and big against the small of her back. His fingers weren’t entering her. They just teased at the opening, taunting her. “Fuck me,” she moaned. “Please.”

  “Yes,” he muttered, sounding hard, unforgiving. His masterful fingers, his endless teasing was all the answer he would give. She bucked her hips mindlessly, trying to grasp those thick fingers, trying to fuck them. He wouldn’t let her, always pulling away, bringing her to the brink only to push her back again. She was gasping, crying, begging.

  Begging him, when she should have had more pride than that.

  It physically hurt, how much she needed him. “Please, Blake. Fuck me.”

  Only then did he move. But it wasn’t to mount her.

  His shoulders were between her thighs, his head bent, before she could say no. She wanted his cock inside her, filling her up. Only then did she feel complete. Only then did she feel safe, knowing that he wasn’t thinking of anything but this.

  “Stop,” she managed to say. Only that. Stop.

  He looked up, his expression severe. “You don’t want me to kiss that pretty pussy? You don’t want me to suck your soft skin or lap that little clit? You don’t want me to shove my tongue as far as I can inside you, feeling your inner muscles tighten?”

  Her sex clenched at his words. She wanted all of that.

  All of him, forever and always.

  There was something forced and almost frantic about the way he held her, as if he thought she might disappear. That wasn’t forever. And the way he’d sometimes go away, his eyes dark and opaque, the past almost a living thing in the room—that wasn’t always.

  His voice got low. Seductive. “You want me to push my tongue into your slit, fuck you with it? Then I’ll shove two fingers inside—no, three. That’s all it’ll take to hold you still, three fingers inside you. You’ll be so full of me, you won’t be able to move. I wouldn’t have to hold down your hips or your hands, but you still wouldn’t be able to move. Pinned down by three fingers in your pussy. You’d fuck herself on my hand. You wouldn’t be able to stop.”

  Her breathing grew heavy. “Blake.”

  “That’s right, baby,” he said, and the approving note in his voice made her rock against him, seeking his lips, his tongue. His three fingers. “And while I’m holding you still like that, from the inside out, that’s when I’ll suck on your clit.”

  She pressed her heels into the bed, pushing up, begging with her body. All she succeeded in doing was brushing her sex against his chin, and the bristles there made her ache in the best ways. “It hurts inside,” she whispered. “Hurts because you’re not there.”

  He chuckled. “Impatient.”

  “Always,” she gasped.

  “Then you aren’t going to like this.” He bent his head and finally, finally dragged a long slow lick from the bottom to the top of her slit, each millimeter as long as a mile, while she writhed and moaned. “I’m going to take a long time with you tonight. I’m going to spend a long time tasting this pretty pussy, drawing out every drop of that sweet come. I won’t stop until you’re begging me. I won’t stop until you’re crying because you need it that bad.”

&nbs
p; “I’m begging you now,” she moaned.

  He pressed a quick kiss to her mound. “Not yet.”

  Not enough. “Please.”

  His expression was tender but his voice was stern. “Hands above your head, sweetheart. Hold on to your pillow. Don’t let go of it. Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

  “Oh God.” She reached up and did as instructed, grasping the sides of the pillow.

  Already her body was thrashing against her will, as if she could climb him, as if she could climb the peak—but she couldn’t. He wouldn’t let her until he was good and ready.

  If there was one thing the man had most of all, it was patience. He drew out their lovemaking to last hours. They were both sweaty and exhausted by the time he was done. And most of all, incredibly sated. She longed for those nights as much as she feared them. They were more than a sexual act, they were a test, and sometimes it felt like they would break her.

  He nibbled at her pussy with his lips and with light touches of his teeth that made her squirm. He spread her wide with his fingers and feasted, leaving no part of her untouched. He bathed her with his tongue until she could only clench and clench at nothing, could only keen in helpless unfulfilled desire.

  It might have been minutes or hours or days that he played with her, tasting her and teasing her. Barely brushing her clit and then roaming back down to her slit. He fucked her entrance with his tongue like it was a cock, and it felt somehow sweeter than his cock—but less fulfilling too. She’d never come this way, never come at all, she’d be forever strung up on his tongue and fingers and relentless, bittersweet patience.

  Only when she’d come again and again, when her body was wrung out, somehow tighter and more needful after climaxing three times, did he raise his head. She panted on the bed, clinging to the pillow, fabric clenched and sweat-damped in her hands.

  “Take me,” she said, her voice soft and broken.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. He’d done that to her. Just like he promised he would.

  He pushed up, onto his knees, and for one heartbreaking minute she thought he would leave her like this. His eyes flickered with that distance, that darkness—the same one he had after every one of his nightmares. His broad chest expanded, and his breath came out in a harsh groan of giving in.