Once the craft was high up in the black sky, he flipped a switch and the thing lit up. Anyone looking out their window would have shit themselves. It was glorious.
He handed me the kite and said, “Run to the other end of the field.” The field was three miles long.
“You kidding?” I said.
“And run fast, too, make it convincing. Then crash the thing into the ground.”
Sammy got into the truck (which I later learned he stole from his dad) and leaned out the window. “I’ll meet you over there,” he said and then peeled off.
So I ran as fast as I could, pulling the UFO behind me. After a mile, I started to wonder what the hell the point of the thing was. After two miles, I was wondering why I agreed to help out with something so juvenile, with someone I hardly even knew. By the time I reached Sammy, I wondered why we couldn’t have just strapped the kite to the truck. Sammy’s laughter when I arrived at the other end of the field suggested it was for his own amusement. I crashed the UFO as directed.
In the bed of his truck, he had another bizarre art project, scraps of metal, glass, plastic, and a large carton filled with green liquid, with one label that said, “highly corrosive,” and another that said, “Property of Nintipi Middle School.”
He spread all the junk out, poured the whole carton on the mess like maple syrup on pancakes, and we got out of there.
Sure as shit, it made the front page of every paper within fifty miles of Nintipi for the next week. It was all anyone could talk about. Anyone who saw the craft beamed with pride when they talked about it, as if looking out your window at the right moment was some sort of accomplishment. Anyone who hadn’t seen the thing lied about seeing it. They didn’t want to be left out.
“I’m just makin’ life more interesting,” I remembered Sammy saying. And shit, he was right. The kid didn’t care one way or another what people thought of him. He knew no one was going to understand him but he didn’t give two shits.
And I liked that about him.
Now that he was dead, the world was a lot less interesting. No mysterious monsters in the woods, no alien spaceships over the fields. Just a bunch of scared, sad, and bored people.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I finally left the bedroom on the third morning at the cabin. Thankfully, Hunter didn’t draw any attention to the fact I hadn’t spoken in over twenty-four hours. I’d calmed down some since he sprung Sammy’s dying words on me, but I was still angry. Angry or not, I couldn’t spend another five minutes in that small, windowless room. I needed human interaction for the sake of my own sanity.
Every time he looked at me, I expected him to bring it up. A part of me wanted him to at least apologize, but the rest of me just wanted to think of something else.
He looked into my eyes and his lips pressed thin. So much for forgetting about it, I thought.
“Can you make me some eggs?” he asked. “Scrambled.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be miffed or relieved. Like usual, he was off in his own world, not caring about anyone else’s problems. Just his own.
“Are you going to say please?” I asked.
“Pretty please with sugar on top.” It was more polite without. He smirked.
I made him his eggs. It wasn’t easy cooking eggs on an open flame, but the cabin was powerless, and had been since the day I showed up there. There were two solar panels on the roof, which stopped serving any purpose the moment the blizzard hit, and the blizzard was still going strong.
When I dropped off his cooked eggs, he looked up at me and again, I expected a delayed apology to follow. “Salt?” he said.
“I already salted them.”
“I like lots of salt,” he said, having not even tried them. He was lucky I didn’t unscrew the cap and pour the whole container onto his eggs. When he didn’t say thank you, I wished I would have. Instead, he gobbled down the eggs, left his plate on the table, and said, “I’m going to take a shower,” leaving me to clean up the mess.
Hunter disappeared into the bathroom. I was looking forward to the silence, but I didn’t get any. Through the thin walls I could hear everything from the rushing water and rattling pipes, to Hunter’s godforsaken singing voice, which he did not hesitate to hold back. It was an old Jefferson Airplane tune but Hunter was no Grace Slick.
I looked out the window, hoping to spot a patch of clear sky, some suggestion that the blizzard would soon be over. But I couldn’t see ten feet from the cabin, never mind one-hundred feet up into the sky. The blizzard had worsened. Snow was beginning to pile high on the windowsill.
It had been four days since I last saw Liam. Was that enough time for him to calm down and come to his senses? Was it enough time for him to realize that he was hurting me? Would any amount of time make a difference, or was that just who Liam was and always would be?
And if he did change, would I stay with him?
I paced around the room and settled on the couch. Four days and I was already going stir-crazy. I couldn’t help but wonder what Hunter must have done to pass the time in the Congo prison camp. At least the cabin had stacks of old books, old board games, and a well-out-dated box of Trivial Pursuit; with age, the questions become more trivial. “Which small country is just south of Tibet?” Sikkim? What?
Steam billowed out from under the bathroom door as Hunter reached the end of the song and restarted from the beginning. It didn’t help that the couch was right up against the wall, which did absolutely nothing to stop sound from passing through. The steam in the bathroom was becoming so dense that it began to seep through the gaps between the wooden panels. I couldn’t help the urge to take a peek through the slats.
Thanks to the cabin’s lack of shower curtains, I could see Hunter standing naked in the shower, lathering his body in suds. His hands moved everywhere, over his thick, tattooed biceps, his cut chest, and his rippling abs. He reached the bar of soap down, across his long cock, under his balls, and around the whole package. My heart skipped a beat. I’d forgotten how big he was. After years with Liam, I’d forgotten a man could even be that big.
The hot water washed the suds away from his body and his singing slowly tapered off. He turned his back to me, reaching the bar of soap back up to its resting place. The deep muscles in his back flexed.
When he left for the Congo, he was a powerful man. Now, he was a tank, two-hundred and fifty pounds of chiselled stone muscle. The way the steam rose off of his body made him look like Ares, the Greek god of war. It’s no wonder the Congolese Rebels couldn’t hold him, couldn’t break him the way they broke Greg. Hunter’s body was a perfectly sculpted machine, meticulously honed for survival, for killing. He was the perfect military weapon.
Using his hands, he cleared the suds that gravity couldn’t reach from his body, under his arms, in the crevices between his muscles, and under his big cock. His fingers finished stroking away the foamy soap from under his long member. But his hand didn’t leave. He was silent now, no longer singing. His eyes closed and hand still clenching his cock, he slipped away to another world.
Hunter had big, muscular hands, but even in his firm grip, his member looked huge, and it wasn’t even hard yet.
Yet.
That was quickly changing. Starting with a gentle wrist motion, he began stroking his dick, pushing his curled grip to the tip and then pulling his palm back to his pelvis. My heart took off the moment I realized Hunter was about to jerk off. I was suddenly hyper-aware of every little creak and groan in the small cabin, afraid Greg would walk in at any second and see me with my face pressed up against the wall like a lunatic—or worse, like a spy. Thanks to the strong blizzard winds, there were loud creaks and groans every couple of seconds, keeping my heart rate at a steady high.
Hunter’s hand looked smaller and smaller every second, his cock extending out further and further from his firm grip. It was incredible to think that that beast had once been inside of me, the entire length of it, his pelvis pressed against my ass. Even five years later,
I couldn’t hear a slapping noise without thinking of Hunter holding my legs up in the air, slamming his member into me, turning my butt cheeks redder and redder with every swift penetration.
I wondered how it might feel now that Hunter had an extra forty pounds of muscle or so to work with, an extra forty pounds of raw force to drive that monster cock into my body. God, would I even be able to handle it? I hardly could before.
His cock was huge now, fully erect, the bulbous tip of the monolith nearly touching his sternum as he bent forward and grabbed the shower’s ledge for support. Whoever he was fantasizing about must have been gorgeous. She had his cock as hard as a slab of iron, throbbing mercilessly as if it wanted to grow even larger, as if it wanted to leave its fantasy-victim a limp mess on the bed.
Creak! I spun to the door. A false alarm. My heart rate was climbing. How long had Greg been out? How long can a person handle the cold? It was a matter of time before one of those creaks belonged to the door hinges.
My shoulders were tense, up near my ears. Adrenaline was surging through me. My heart was begging me to look away, my pussy was trembling, begging me to turn my face back to the wall, continue watching the sculpted masterpiece of a man beating his big, hard dick in the other room.
My heart rate only fuelled the rush, made me want it more. I couldn’t help myself.
I slipped my fingers down the front of my tights and turned back to the wall.
Hunter’s package was too big for a simple flick of the wrist; it took his whole forearm to pump the full length of his cock, and he made sure to please every inch. And even through the slit between those old oak panels, I could see the veins in his cock, pumping blood through the swollen member. God, I could remember that feeling—the feeling of his thick dick pressing tightly against my pussy. I could feel each throb tingle through my body, my juice spilling out all over the beast.
My fingers were deep inside of me, pushing in, pulling out, trying desperately to recreate that feeling of Hunter filling me, pounding me raw. Even his cock was muscular, rigid, bulging out in every direction with its own ridges and edges, perfectly constructed to stimulate my clit with every forceful entry and swift exit. No one else’s package was ever quite the same. It was like my hole was a lock and Hunter’s member was the big, pulsing, veiny key.
Shit.
My legs trembled and my knees buckled. My thighs closed in on my hand. I wished he would come out from the bathroom, throw me down, spread me wide, and fuck me like a ragdoll. Take me from behind, pump me until my whole body was numb, fill me up with his hot come.
His knuckles were ivory and the tip of his cock was red. Every muscle in his arm was rigid, bulging, veins throbbing, straining as he beat his cock with unmatched intensity. The woman in his fantasies was probably a crippled mess by now, legs weak, head spinning, coming so hard; her brain was overdosing on euphoria. I wanted it. I wanted it so badly.
Screw Liam.
Screw the reporters. Screw the Nintipians. Screw Roger Patrick. I was done trying to be who they all wanted me to be. I knew what I wanted and no one could tell me otherwise. And if that made me a bad person, then I was a bad person.
I knocked on the bathroom door with my shaking fist. Silence.
“Hunter!” I called out.
Another moment of silence. “Yeah?” he finally said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I was moments from coming when Kyla banged on the door. I nearly jumped three feet in the air. The damned door had no lock on it, and the door’s hardware was rusty; a hard enough knock could have sent the thing flying open.
The last thing I needed was for Kyla to catch me jerking off. It was bad enough that she already thought I was some kind of pervert. Thankfully, the door held, despite her aggressive knocks.
I grabbed a towel but it didn’t do much to hide my stiffy. “What’s up?” I called.
“Can I come in?”
Shit. I was going to need more than a towel to cover up, but there was nothing else to use. “What do you want?”
“I need to come in.”
“Can’t you wait?”
“Please,” she said. Her voice sounded shaken like something was wrong. I couldn’t figure out what could have suddenly been so urgent. There was no cell service, no TV, and no radio—no way to stumble upon any bad news.
“Is everything okay? Is something wrong?” I asked, trying to adjust my cock under the towel so it would look less conspicuous. No matter which way I positioned it, it looked like I had a big, raging boner.
The door opened and Kyla stepped in. I snapped my hand down, covering my cock with my forearm. I don’t know why I bothered; the move only drew more attention to my now semi-erect dick.
Kyla was biting her lip and her eyes were wide. Her voice wasn’t the only thing trembling. Her hands, which she kept awkwardly joined near her sternum, were shaking too. She looked like she just found out she was terminal, which was impossible because were out of cell range. “What is it?” I asked.
Her lips parted and she froze. Nothing came out. She closed her lips, took a deep breath, and tried again. This time, words came out. “I want you to fuck me,” she said.
Jesus. I was expecting her to tell me her dog died. For a moment I thought I misheard her, that maybe my mind was still half lost in my fantasy from just moments earlier. But before I could question it, she repeated herself, and sure as shit, she asked me to fuck her.
It’s a trap, I thought. It’s some sort of cruel joke, her way of getting me to humiliate myself. But again, before I could question it, she proved my hesitation wrong, grabbing her shirt from the base and pulling it up, over her head. Her braless tits fell out and bounced gently before settling into place.
Within seconds, my cock was rock-solid once again. “Can you please fuck me,” she said.
“Fuck yes,” I said. She was begging for it. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t stop to ask. Twenty minutes before, I thought she was going to slam my head with a frying pan. I had no idea why she’d suddenly changed her mind, and to be honest, I didn’t give a fuck. The thought was out of my head before my towel even hit the ground.
Her eyes lit up as they snapped to my dick. Her mouth hung open like a hungry dog staring at an eighteen ounce steak. She wasn’t kidding. She wanted me to fuck her blind.
I walked up to her and her small hands gently moved down my sides. “Be gentle,” she said with her eyes still locked on my dick. But her voice wasn’t convincing.
I laughed. Gentle? If she wanted to fuck, it wasn’t going to be gentle. She knew what she was getting into when she came and knocked on that door. She knew I wasn’t going to take it easy on her. She didn’t really want “gentle.”
Her lips were soft and sweet, timid at first. I could feel her tension as I moved my hands across her body. That tension wouldn’t last long. Her tits pressed up against my chest and I could feel her hard nipples pressing against my ribs.
I was right, the tension didn’t last long. Within seconds she was devouring my lower lip, clawing at my body for something to grab onto. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for, wrapping her fingers around my cock, straining to reach her fingertips around my whole throbbing girth. She couldn’t, but that didn’t stop her from trying, squeezing my dick with her trembling hand.
Shit. The last time a woman held my cock like that was five years ago—when she held it last. Even the ladies in the Congolese brothels never grabbed my member like that. Hell, they were all afraid of the thing, worried it would leave them a broken wreck. They weren’t wrong.
Kyla wasn’t afraid of it. Kyla knew what my dick could do, and she wanted it anyway. “I want you to fuck me so badly,” she whimpered into my ear. They say you should be careful what you wish for. I could feel her heart beating against my chest. It was beating fast enough that I worried the thing was going to explode.
I turned her over and pushed her up against the wall. The way her tits pressed up against the wooden boards, bulging o
ut to the sides, made me harder than I thought was possible. Had I been any harder, it would have been like I was about to fuck her with a goddamned steel pipe.
I sunk down to my knees, grabbed the waistband of her tights and pulled them down, along with her panties. Her ass—holy fuck—her ass. I could have buried my face between those perfect, round cheeks—and shit, I wanted to, too. But I had other plans, and she’d had enough foreplay. Fuck foreplay. I could see her warm juice running down her legs. She was ready.
I nudged her legs wide with my foot, separating those thick thighs, revealing that perfect pussy—those sweet dangling lips. With another nudge, I spread her wider still, letting those sweet lips part to reveal the little button that drove her wild. I could hear her breathing heavily. She was nervous. She knew what was coming. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who remembered our fuck, five years before.
GAGE: A Bad Boy Military Romance Page 27
