“God, Reagan….”
I stroke him once, slowly, tip to root. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know — right or wrong, good or bad — I just know I couldn’t sleep, either, because I couldn’t stop thinking of you. I ache all over.”
“Me too. Everything is on fire.” His palm touches my stomach, over my shirt.
His fingers lift the hem, find my skin. I suck in my belly instinctively as his fingertips slide down. Under the elastic of the boxers. Through the thick thatch of my pubic hair. I’ve had no reason to trim there, not for a long time. He seems unaware or uncaring, so I hold in my apology for another time. I whimper as his long middle finger carves a path between the lips of my vagina, then curls in. A desperate breath as he drags his finger in a circle around my clit. My knees are weak, my lungs shaky and shuddering. His touch is fire; his touch is perfect. I’m kindling, and the catalytic heat of his touch ignites me. I stroke his length, gasping as he draws faster and faster circles around my throbbing clit. I suck in a whining whimper when he slicks a single finger into me, deep. Then adds a second.
Clouds part, and moonlight shines bright silver.
A frog trills.
Derek groans in my ear.
His cock pulsates in my fist, and I feel his hips drive, thrusting his girth through my grip. I wrench my eyes open and look down between our bodies. See his hand between my thighs, fingers moving, forearm muscles rippling as he caresses me into paroxysms. I can’t help but moan, both at the feelings he’s drawing from me and the way his iron-hard straining cock feels in my hand, soft yet hard, sliding through and pulling back as he starts to thrust unconsciously. I watch the pre-come bead on his head, smeared into my hand. My thighs shake and tremble as his middle and ring fingers curve in and find the upper, inner ridge deep inside me and rub it, his thumb pressing against the rigid and juice-wet button of my clit. His moving fingers make a sucking noise that should be embarrassing but is somehow unbearably hot.
“Fuck, Reagan. Fuck. I’m so close. I’m gonna come. It’s gonna be messy.”
“Me—me, too.”
His other hand leaves the barn wall, and he’s thrusting up into my fist, off-balance and demanding and urgent. He reaches up under my shirt and finds my boob, cups it, kneads it. My turn. I reach into his jeans and palm his tight, heavy balls, squeeze gently. He groans and loses his balance, tipping forward, into me. I take his weight and let him press me up against the wall.
“Derek…oh, god, Derek.”
“Right—right now. Ohhhhhh, oh, fuck. Oh, god.” He thrusts, a slow grind.
I open my eyes, which I don’t remember closing. I grip his cock tight and stroke hard and relish down to the darkest corners of my soul the way his dick feels in my hand. Fascinated, I watch as the tip of his cock squeezes up and out of my fist. He spasms, and a thick white stream of semen spurts over my hand. Cupping his head with my other hand, I stroke him root to tip hard and fast, watching the jizz seep out between my fingers, hot and sticky and wet as he gushes again and again, cursing, and whispering my name.
And through it all his fingers inside me never slow, never stop. He thrusts his fingers into me, pulls them out, smears my juices onto my clit and circles, circles, and while I’m watching him come into my hand, I’m right there at the edge, whimpering, hips fluttering. He shoves his fingers into me again, and somehow that draws it out of me. I bite my lip to muffle a shriek, lean my forehead against his chest, and watch his cock thrust, smear his come down his length and keep stroking him, feeling my thighs tense as a rocket of intensity shoots through me, every muscle spasming, another breathless scream leaving my lips. I thrust my hips at him, grinding my pussy against his fingers. Arch my spine to press my throbbing tit into his hand, my entire body writhing, his fingers twisting and pinching my nipples, palm cupping my core, heel against my pudendum, fingers inside me, ring finger against my taint, pinky and index finger buried in the flesh and muscle of my inner thighs, hand working and moving.
“Ohgodohgodohgod, Derek, yes, fuck, yes…oh…god….” My inner muscles clench and spasm, and something wet squirts out of me and over his hand.
He keeps going until I’m limp against him, batting his hand away because I can’t take any more; I’m too sensitive to be touched.
“Jesus Christ, Reagan,” he mumbles against my shoulder. “I’ve never come so hard in my life.”
“Me, neither,” I admit.
He removes his hand from between my legs, and I let him go as well. A little reluctantly Derek pulls me toward the water pump, gets a jet of water going. We weave our fingers together, my essence coating his hand, and his mine, smearing on our palms, merging. The well water is bitterly cold as he moves our joined hands under the stream, scrubbing us clean. I untangle my hand from his, get a palm full of water and splash it on his crotch, washing away the mess.
“God, that’s cold,” he laughs.
We’re both sort of clean, although his jeans are damp where the water splashed onto them. My boxers are wet from the well water, too, and there’s come on my shirt, and on his belly. I work the pump handle, get my hand wet, and wipe the streak of semen off his stomach.
A good few minutes after orgasm, and his cock is still semi-rigid and thick.
Derek backs away from me, tries to button his jeans, but they won’t close around his still-fading erection. He abandons the effort, leaving them open. I honestly don’t mind.
I dry my hands on my shirt, and look up to see him stalking toward me. I back away from him, unblinking, putting my hands on his chest. I don’t push him away, though. God, no. My back to the wall, I stare into his eyes. He presses against me. Shameless in my need for contact, I lift my shirt so I can feel the warmth of his stomach and the still-thick but softening ridge of his penis against my belly. His hands brace against the wall on either side of my face.
His mouth descends, his lips slant across mine. I lift my palms to his jaw, hold him close and kiss him. Caress the back of his neck with one hand, tangling my fingers in the short, soft hair there. God, his kiss is drunk-making. Slow and tender and sweet and hesitant.
I feel him thickening. Already? Jesus. His kiss deepens, his tongue demands mine. I give it, willingly. Taste his tongue, his mouth. Scrape palms against the beard growing on his jaw. And then he breaks the kiss, breath shuddering, hands clenching into fists against the barn wall, pushing. But he can’t seem to actually move away.
He’s panting, chest heaving. Eyes shut. “You’d better go.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t….” His eyes open, and those deep, mossy pools drill into mine, piercing, rife with need and intensity and sincerity. “If you don’t, I’m gonna take you up against this wall, right here, right now.”
Not good. Not good. That should have me turning tail and going inside. But instead, it only makes my thighs quake and my core tighten and grow damp. I want that. Damn me, I want it.
“I came out here looking for you, Derek. I didn’t expect…this…to happen, but like you said at the pond earlier, I’m not sorry it did.”
“But Reagan, we shouldn’t—” he begins.
I interrupt him, two fingers against his lips. “Derek, shush. I thought that, too. I think it still, in some ways. But I had some other thoughts, too, while trying and failing to sleep. I thought, ‘why not?’. Why can’t we, why shouldn’t we? God, there are so many reasons, I know.”
He smacks his fist against the wall, making me flinch, and rolls away, puts his back to the wall next to me. “What are your reasons?”
“I’m a widow. I’m—I’m still grieving. I still miss Tom. I still think about him. I still wish he were here. I’m sorry, Derek, I know that’s not what you—”
“No, it’s exactly what I think, too. I wish he were here, too. Every—every fucking day, I think that. I wish he were here instead of me. He didn’t deserve to die. He should’ve—fuck—it should’ve been me.” He shoves his fists into his eye sockets. “I miss him, too. Damn it�
�” He slides down the wall, shoulders shaking.
I pivot and kneel in front of him, taking his wrists in my hands, and pull. He resists. I pull harder.
“Look at me.” I can’t overpower him; I’m not trying.
He lets me tug his hands away from his face, but turns his head away to hide the fact that tears are slipping down his cheeks.
“Derek, no. No. Look at me, goddamn it!” He slowly, grudgingly turns to look at me, blinks, scrubs at his face angrily, embarrassed. I hold his wrists and lock eyes with him. His are bloodshot, tortured. “I don’t wish that. I don’t. Yes, I miss him. Every fucking day I miss him. I loved him. I still love him. I’ll always love him. I wish he were here. But I don’t wish that you’d died instead of him. Yes, I want him back. I’d give anything—anything—to have him back. But he’s not—he’s not coming back. You’re here, and he’s not.”
“And I’m sorry for that.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. But it’s true. I’m sorry I lived and he died. I’m sorry I’m not him.”
“Damn it, Derek! Stop it! You lived! You don’t have to feel guilty about that!” I shout.
“But I do!” he shouts back. “Okay? I do. I feel really fucking guilty because I lived and Tom didn’t. His last request was that I tell you he loved you, to give you that letter.” He blinks, and another tear falls, brushed away. “And I did. I should’ve left. But I didn’t, and look what’s just happened? Look what I just did.”
“We, Derek. Look what we just did. It wasn’t just you. I came out here, and I touched you first. And, yeah, part of me feels guilty.” He winces, but I keep going. “I’m so torn, so confused. Because I—I want this. I want you. I can’t help it. Part of me says I shouldn’t, part of me says this is…wrong. I feel like I’m betraying Tom. Like what we just did together is a betrayal of his memory. It’s as if wanting you now that he’s dead is cheating, or…god, I don’t know…like it’s making less of what I had with Tom. And I feel guilty, too, for not feeling guilty enough. Because I’m still not sorry. I enjoyed it. You said it earlier: just now, I felt more alive than I have in so, so long. And I want it again. I want more. I want to touch you again. I want you to touch me again. I want to kiss you and—fuck it, I’ll say it—I want to have sex with you. When you said you were about to take me up against the wall? I wouldn’t have stopped you. Because the other part of me says that Tom is gone. He’s gone. And don’t I—don’t I deserve happiness? Am I supposed to mourn him forever? I’m lonely, Derek! I’ve been lonely for eleven fucking years! I married a Marine, and he was gone more than he was home for the eight years we were married, and I’ve been even more lonely since he went missing and died, because I knew he wasn’t coming home this time. I was faithful to him, Derek. Every day he was gone, I loved him, and I was faithful. I stayed true to him, and welcomed him home and never made him feel guilty for always having to leave. I loved him with all that I had for eight years, even though he was gone all the time, and then he was fucking taken from me!”
I sob, choke it down.
“He was taken from me,” I say again. “And I mourned him. For three years I grieved. I kept going, and I raised his son. Ran his family’s farm by myself. Did everything I was supposed to, and more.”
“Reagan—” he begins.
I talk right over him. “When do I get something for me? When do I get happiness? When do I get to be selfish? I’m angry, Derek. I’m angry at Tom for dying. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t felt angry at you, too, for living instead of him. But I can’t change what happened. You lived, and he died, and I’m left to pick up the pieces. And I’m lonely. I’m horny. I’m scared. I’m tired. I feel old and frumpy and ugly. I’m sweaty all the time. I haven’t put on makeup in months. I barely ever even shave my legs because there’s been no reason. There’s no one to see, no one to care. The only TV I watch are kids’ shows. And I’m usually too tired at night to even masturbate. Until you came along, I felt dried up. Empty. Alone.” I swallow hard, blink. I let go of his wrists and sink to my butt in the damp grass.
“And then you—you started making me feel like a woman again. And I—I like it. Even if it is a betrayal of Tom, and that just makes me feel worse. Because I just keep asking myself, ‘Why can’t I have something for myself, just this once?’ And you—you make me feel so good. You look at me like I’m beautiful, and I really like feeling beautiful again. I like it,” I whisper, struggling for control now myself, “and I don’t want to give it up.”
“You are beautiful, and you don’t have to give it up. You aren’t alone.” It’s his turn to take my hands in his, pull at them. Pulls me toward him, lifts, and I’m on his lap, cradled against his chest as dawn begins to touch the night sky with gray. “I like the way you make me feel, too. Like I’m a real man again. Like I’m more than just the soldier with scars and PTSD and a sackload of psychological damage. Like I’m more than just the fucked-up ex-P-O-W. Like I’m someone who can do something right. Like I can make you feel good, like I have something to give. Like maybe I can overcome my issues and be normal someday. Like—shit. Like I could be someone somebody could—could care about.”
My heart breaks for him.
“Someone already does care, Derek.” I say it through sniffles.
As fraught and tense as things are between us, I find myself drowsing. His skin is warm, and his arms make me feel protected. I nod off, then jerk awake when I hear the screen door creak. Somehow, while I was sleeping, Derek carried me to the house.
“Derek?” I mumble.
“Sshh. Sleep.”
“Tommy—”
“I’ll take care of everything. I want you to rest.”
He carries me upstairs, nudges my door open. Sets me in my bed and covers me with the blankets. I feel his breath on my cheek, and I blink my eyes open, grab at him. “I care. I’m the someone.”
He smiles. “I know.”
“And you’re beautiful, too.”
I can’t stay awake anymore. I should. He doesn’t know anything about kids, and Tommy will need breakfast and the tractor is hard to start and….
Sleep claims me. I surrender.
CHAPTER 11
DEREK
I set her down and cover her with the blankets. Watch her fall into slumber. Watch her features relax. She curls her hand by her cheek, mouth slack, knees drawn up beneath the blanket. I should go. Leave the room. Leave Hempstead. Leave Texas. But I don’t. Instead, I take a seat on the floor in the doorway, one foot propped up against the opposite post, watching Reagan sleep.
I’m woken up by a finger tapping my shoulder. I start, jerk awake. Tommy. “Hey, buddy. What’s up?”
“Mama?”
I stand up. “Mama is sleeping, bud.”
He glances past me, at Reagan. God, I shouldn’t have followed his gaze. Her T-shirt is hiked up; she’s twisted in the bed with the blankets shoved down around her knees. I’m afforded a delicious glimpse of underboob, waist, the angular beauty of her hipbone. God, so fucking beautiful. I turn away, back to Tommy.
“I hungry,” he says.
I nod. “You’re hungry, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too. Let’s eat, then.” I head down the stairs, but he doesn’t follow, so I stop and look back at him. “You comin’?”
“Uppy.” He extends his arms.
I hesitate, then pick him up like last time. He clings to me with his legs, one arm on my shoulder. So weird, me holding a kid. I don’t know jack shit about kids or this little guy in particular. Nonetheless, I told Reagan I’d take care of it, so I will. I mean, it’s one three-year-old for a couple of hours. How hard can it be?
“So,” I ask him, “what do little snots like you eat for breakfast, huh? Cheerios?”
“Can-cakes.”
I just stare at him. “Can-cakes? What the hell does that mean?”
“Can-cakes. See-up.”
I take a guess. “Pancakes and syrup?”
I frown. “Dude, I ain’t made pancakes in fifteen years.” He seems to be catching my drift, because his face screws up like he’s gonna cry. I hold up my hands. “All right, all right. I’ll do my best. Hang on, give me a minute.”
He sits in his little booster that’s strapped to the kitchen chair, wiggling his little butt. I spy a cookbook on a shelf above the stove, and flip through it. I find a recipe for pancakes and discover that, amazingly, and perhaps not surprisingly, the kitchen is stocked with all of the ingredients. Plus coffee, which allows me to actually function on three hours of sleep.
And, amazingly, I actually manage to get the batter put together, a griddle heated, and some pancakes made. They’re about two inches thick, just this side of burnt, and enormous. Tommy doesn’t seem to care, though. I slather the flapjack liberally with butter and syrup, cut it up in pieces, and hand him a fork.
Holy shit, that kid can eat. And holy shit, that kid can make a godawful mess.
He’s got butter in his hair, all over his PJs, on his hands…syrup is literally everywhere. I suppose, in retrospect, I probably should’ve helped him eat it, but I didn’t think of it. Besides, I was hungry too.
I find a box of wipes under the sink in the half bath, and I use at least half of the box cleaning him up, and another half of a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex cleaning the mess off the table, the chair, the booster seat, the floor. Eventually, things are clean…ish.
I look at Tommy, who is sitting on the floor smashing a Tonka truck into a white, red, and green airplane that has eyes and a mouth and is wearing a cape. Weird.
“Okay, dude. Now what?”
He hands the plane to me. “Play.”
So I sit and play. And you know what? It’s kinda fun. I make airplane noises, fly it around. I make it do Cuban eights and make machine-gun noises. Tommy giggles, so I do it again. And damn, the sound of that kid laughing hits me in some part of my heart that I didn’t know I had.
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