Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

  “I was so hurt, so confused as to why he never asked how I was doing with the pregnancy, how I felt, nothing. Not a word. So I never said anything, either. I didn’t want to make things harder for him, didn’t want to let him know I was upset. I didn’t want to distract him, you know? I figured he’d come home, and we’d sort it out. I loved him, he loved me, and we’d work the rest out. I was trying to be a supportive soldier’s wife. And then I got the news about the ambush, that you and he had gone missing, and…then they found his body.” I shrug, as if the rest is self-explanatory.

  “Soldiers? We’re superstitious. He carried that letter as a talisman. For luck. I carried my favorite baseball card. Hunter had this little pocketknife. All the guys had something. For Barrett, it was your letters, especially that one.” Derek leans against the stove, watching me, but his gaze is still hooded, cautious.

  “I don’t want you to go, Derek.” I stand up, taking a step toward him. I don’t touch him, though, because that’s just too dangerous. “I can’t come up with any other answers than that. I can’t answer any of the what-ifs. I’m scared of getting hurt. This whole thing is big and confusing and frightening, but the one thing that seems clear to me is that you’re here now, and that I feel better when you’re around.”

  Derek and I stand face to face, not quite touching.

  “Where do we go from here, then?” he asks finally.

  “I don’t know.” I’ve been thinking so hard, processing, sorting through my emotions, thinking of Tommy, of Tom, of the farm, of right and wrong and good and bad and what I want versus what’s best, and I’m just fried. I don’t want to decide.

  I want him to decide. I want someone to tell me what to do, rather than having to be the one who’s strong and decisive and in charge.

  “Come on,” Derek says. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  He takes me by the hand, and I follow him willingly. I let him tack up Henry the Eighth and Mirabelle, the bay quarter horse. He lifts me up into Henry’s saddle, and climbs onto Mirabelle. I follow him as he trots ahead of me, out to the north pasture. When we’re through the fence, he clicks Mirabelle into a canter. I’m beside him, and I realize that this is exactly what I need. The wind in my hair, Henry pounding the grass beneath me. Sunshine, Derek, freedom. We canter across the pasture, dismount, and go through the small gate separating my property from the Lovitzes’, remount on the other side. The Lovitz property is truly massive, four hundred acres of farmland, and another two hundred acres of woods. I’ve ridden through their forest from time to time, and I follow Derek along the tree line to the trail running north and east through the woods. Under the foliage, we walk the horses. Words are unnecessary.

  Thirty minutes later, the trail opens up in a clearing. Derek dismounts, extends his hand to me. We unsaddle Henry and Mirabelle, tie them to a tree branch with a nosebag of grain. Derek lays the saddle blankets side by side on the grass in the middle of the clearing, in the sunlight.

  My heart is suddenly pounding.

  He’s lying there on the saddle blankets, arms crossed beneath his head, staring up at the clouds as they twist and shift and pass.

  “C’mere.” He holds out one arm, inviting me. “Quit thinking, quit worrying. Just lie down with me and watch the clouds.”

  I lie down, and his arm curls around me, holds me against his left side. My head rests on his chest, and I can hear his heartbeat, faint and steady.

  “Your hair looks beautiful.” He takes my hand in his, examines my fingers. “These, too.”

  I shrug, still feeling absurdly nervous. “Thanks. I enjoyed the spa. It was really relaxing. Thank you.”

  “I just had the idea. Hank and Ida made it happen.”

  “They’ve got Tommy for the rest of the night,” I say, apropos of nothing. Or perhaps not. Maybe it is relevant. I’m trying not to think about it too hard, because I’ll start overthinking it again. Or maybe I’m already overthinking things.

  “Reagan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Quit thinking.”

  I laugh, a gentle snort. “I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.”

  He rolls, and suddenly I’m partially pinned beneath him. He’s looking down at me with his moss-green eyes searching, piercing, seeing into me. His hair is blond and thick and falling across one eye, a little too long. He’s got a beard, grown long enough to be soft to the touch now. He’s put on muscle; his T-shirt sleeves stretching out once again, shoulders broad and chest thick. His arm is beneath my neck; his hand is clutching my shoulder, weight on his elbow. His other palm touches my cheek, thumb caressing the corner of my mouth. He traces the line of my lips.

  For reasons I can’t even begin to fathom, I bite his thumb.

  “Ow.” He pulls his thumb away and fits it to the tiny hollow beneath my lower lip.

  “Sissy.” It’s more of a breath than a word.

  “Reagan?”

  Whisper in response. “Yeah?”

  His face descends, his words a murmur as his lips touch mine. “You’re breathtaking.”

  “I—”

  He cuts me off with a kiss. Kisses me breathless. Pulls away, speaks before I can. “All of you, who you are. You’re stunning.”

  “So are you.”

  He grins and shakes his head. But his eyes, dark and perceptive, see that I’m still wondering, still worrying, and the smile fades. “Tell me what you want. Just for you. Not for Tommy. Not for Tom. Not for me. Not for Hank or Ida or the farm. Just for you. Reagan—what’s your middle name? I don’t even know.”

  “Olivia.”

  “Reagan Olivia Barrett. What do you want for you?”

  My answer is immediate. “To forget. To not be in charge. To give in and not think about the consequences. To just…even for an hour…not have to worry.”

  His hand cradles the back of my head, his fingertips massaging my scalp. “You want to feel. To get lost.”

  “Yes,” I sigh.

  “I think I can do that.”

  “But what about—” I’m cut off by his lips. He steals my breath, eats my words, and leaves me dizzy.

  The kiss goes on, and on. It doesn’t deepen, only continues. Lips scouring, moving, tasting, demanding, giving and receiving. I breathe into him, accept his breath. I slide my hands onto his shoulders, explore the hard muscles there. I wonder how long you can kiss and let it remain only a kiss?

  He flicks his tongue into my mouth, and I gasp at the sudden intrusion. My gasp breaks the kiss. Instead of crushing his mouth to mine to continue it, he shifts downward, touches his mouth to my jaw. My head tilts back, baring my throat. Another kiss, lower, near the hollow at the base. I hold onto his shoulders, my eyes closed. Birds chirp, trees rustle. The late afternoon sun bathes us.

  His palms brush my T-shirt up, baring my stomach, my ribs. Bra. Then my shirt is off, and it’s broad daylight and I’m self-conscious, nervous. What if he doesn’t like the way I look when he sees all of me, bare in the light? What if—

  My thoughts are scattered by his mouth on my ribcage, his palm on my side, warm and callused and strong. I feather my fingers through his hair and remember to breathe, but I can’t because his lips stutter across my skin to the opposite side of my torso, sliding and kissing down to my waist. He kisses my belly. Above my navel.

  Worry returns.

  “Not there, Derek, don’t—” He pauses, looks up at me. Then back down to my waist, my belly. I slide my hands over the stretch marks. “I’m sorry. I’m just weird about them. They’re not sexy.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, glances down at my crossed hands. He shifts back on his elbow, withdraws his hand from beneath my head. I watch him, worried I’ve turned him off. So much for an hour of forgetting. But then his fingers close around my wrists, both of them. His grip on my wrists is gentle but implacable iron. Slowly, deliberately, he moves my hands above my head, ignoring easily my attempts to fight him. When my arms are stretched out, held in place by his strong hand, he adjusts his position
beside me. I cling with both hands to his thick wrist and palm, squeezing with all my strength, insecurity and fear and exhilaration warring within me. I don’t know what’s he’s going to do. I’m bared to him now. But not totally. The waistline of my jeans hides the worst of my pregnancy scars.

  And yes, his free hand smooths over my stomach, finds the button of my jeans. Unsnaps. Lowers the zipper. I can’t swallow, can’t breathe. He pinches the denim over one thigh and tugs down. My hip is bared, the elastic of my underwear pulled with it. He repeats the process on the other side and lowers my jeans down over my hips.

  “Kick ’em off.” He touches a kiss to my rib, just below the underwire of my bra.

  “Derek, I’m—no, I—”

  “Do it, Reagan. Please.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, eyes squeezed tight, I hook my big toe in the cuff of one leg, lift my knee to draw my leg out. But then I chicken out and start fighting him, tugging at his grip on my hands, trying to cover my stomach by curling my thigh up, twist away. He’s too strong. Gentle, but strong.

  “Reagan.” His voice is whip-sharp, cutting through my struggles. I open my eyes and look at him. “You’re beautiful.”

  Before I can protest or agree or whatever would have come out of my mouth, he’s kissing me. Jesus, the man can kiss. His lips are soft and skillful, moving against mine so my breath catches and my heart swells and my body heats, and then his tongue delves into my mouth and slides across my tongue, sweeps over my teeth, and he pulls away, draws his tongue over my upper lip, my lower lip, and I’m left breathless.

  I’m still partly twisted away from him, my jeans half on, half off. His palm slides over my stretched buttock, sweeping over the curve, cupping my thigh and grazing downward. I register it only as pleasure. He does it again, and I moan at the heat of his palm on my flesh, and then he moves his hand to the other side of my butt, where my jeans are still half on. He slides the denim off me, and his kiss steals away my breath, my protest, and I don’t even think to be nervous because his hand is caressing my skin, moving over my thigh, up my back. I’m twisted awkwardly, turned away from him, but he’s kissing me, and I’m locked into the kiss so my neck is twisted back.

  I want more of his touch. His touch I like. It’s the scrutiny that unnerves me.

  I roll into him, and he takes my weight on top of him, still gripping my wrists so I can’t escape, kissing me and deepening it, turning it heated and needy. I moan and struggle against his grip, wanting to touch him. He doesn’t relent; instead, he tugs me fully onto his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under me and his hard-on at my core. His mouth is demanding and relentless and insistent on mine, and I’m powerless to do anything but give in, give him all he’s demanding of me and beg for more with whimpers in the back of my throat. Oh, god, his hand. On my spine between my shoulder blades, nails scraping down my flesh. Pausing at my bra strap. Unhooking it in one deft move. Brushing the straps from my shoulders. Guiding my arms out, and I willingly cooperate, not knowing why or how, but only that he’s eliciting desperate compliance from me. Lift up my torso enough for him to slide the undergarment out and set it aside. Now I’m lying completely on top of him clad in only my panties, and he’s still kissing the ever-loving life out of me.

  He’s tongue-fucking my mouth.

  God, I love it.

  Oh, shit. Ohshitohshit. He’s rolling with me and I’m on my back, and he’s still got my damn hands pinned above my head, except now his mouth has finally left mine and he’s kissing down my throat to my chest, between my tits, cupping one to bring it to his mouth and sucking my nipple in, and I actually squeak with surprised need. With ecstasy. I soften. I melt, and then I moan and moan and moan as he crosses my sternum with tongue-laving kisses and finds my other boob, suckling that nipple with equally passionate attention.

  He moves down my body, kneeling between my thighs, holding my wrists over my chest now.

  “Derek?” I don’t know what I’m asking, only that I’m pleading with him.

  I’m scared and I’m needy and I’m on fire and I’m nervous and I’m self-conscious. My core trembles. His eyes are on mine, unwavering and intense. He gathers a handful of the front of my underwear, a pair of deep crimson silk, high-cut bikinis, and drags them slowly and deliberately down, removing them the rest of the way.

  “Lift up for me, sexy.”

  “Sexy?” It’s part question, part protest.

  But yet, I’m lifting up — my hips are off the saddle blanket to let him pull the silk the rest of the way off.

  “It’s not a strong enough word.” His eyes are still on mine, unwavering all this while.

  Now that I’m totally naked for him with the evening sun streaming through the trees and bathing me in golden light, his eyes rove downward. They search me, take me in totally and completely, head to toe, up and down and up and down. Perhaps more than anything he could ever say to me, the best motivation for me to realize my own beauty in his eyes is being able to watch his zipper tighten and tent out, watching his nostrils flare and his breathing deepen, his tongue wetting his lips in anticipation.

  Being told you’re beautiful? Unless you never hear it, it can quickly become cheap. Any guy desperate for sex will tell you you’re beautiful. Friends or family will say things like, “oh, well you’re a beautiful woman, so…”, and it just becomes part of you, people telling you you’re beautiful. I know what I look like. I’m beautiful. Fair, attractive, proportioned features. Curves, nice eyes, thick hair. Whatever. That doesn’t mean I don’t have my insecurities. I dare any woman who has carried a child to tell me she’s never, ever felt insecure or self-conscious about her stretch marks. Some use oils and lotions and yoga to get rid of them, some don’t. I haven’t. Haven’t had the time. Some learn to own them, to rock bikinis and strut their stuff on the beach. Good for them. That’s just not me.

  And really, it’s not like I’m paranoid about it. It’s less about the stretch marks and more about the fact that I’ve not been looked at as a sexual creature in so long that it’s unfamiliar and scary. It’s about the fact that I only had two partners before Tom, both short-term, awkward, teenage romances. Then I was with Tom, and only Tom, for the rest of my life. And he was gone for most of our marriage. Meaning, there have been many long periods in my life without sex. Tom was my best friend and my husband, so it was easy with him. He knew me, he got me. And even still, I’d be nervous the first time after he was back on leave.

  So now, with Derek staring down at me, I’m rife with insecurity and nerves.

  Yet Derek’s expression…it reassures me. He’s nervous, too. And looking at me, he’s clearly attracted to me. His gaze rakes over me, takes in my breasts, my thighs, my stomach, my core, my eyes, my face. My lips. And with the way he looks at me, the appreciation so apparent in his eyes, I feel beautiful. I feel wanted.

  I feel sexy.

  He lets go of my wrists. “Leave ’em there, okay?”

  I nod. I don’t question. He smiles at me. Licks his lips again and touches his lips to the side of my boob, the underside, my rib. My stomach. And then, ever so gently, ever so deliberately, he kisses each mark on my stomach. Each blemish, each gap in the tautness of my belly, he kisses. He draws his tongue up, pressing his lips over each…and every…one.

  I’m crying by the time he’s done. He didn’t have to say a thing, but his meaning was clear.

  I let my tears fall, tears that are soft and gentle, appreciative and thankful. He looks up at me, his chin on my hipbone. “Okay?”

  I can only nod. My heart rate ratchets up between one second and the next, though, because his gaze slides away from mine, over my body once more, down between my thighs. Hooo…shit. No insecurities here. I did Kegels and all those other exercises to keep things tight down there, so I feel fine about myself in that area. What I’m feeling right now is just raw nerves. He’s moving, his hands sliding over my hipbones, trailing down through the trimmed “V” of hair—I wonder if I should have shaved it for him?—h
is finger sliding over the seam of my opening. I tremble. Exhale. Keep my eyes on him, hands above my head as requested.

  A finger inside me. His mouth on my stomach, then my left thigh, then the softness of my inner leg, near the knee. All of that is within the bounds of what I was anticipating. I close my eyes, thread my fingers together, and sigh at the soft, wet feel of his mouth on the crease of my thigh where hip meets leg.

  I don’t expect his tongue sliding up my opening. I gasp out loud, eyes jerking open, knees closing around his shoulders. “Derek! What are you—?”

  “Tasting you.”

  “But I’m—” I don’t even really know what my protest was going to be.

  “Sweet as sugar and twice as nice.” He caresses my inner, upper thighs, gently parting my legs. “Now relax and enjoy it.”

  This Derek, the slightly bossy one? I really like him. I offer up a token resistance, nervous about my taste, my smell. Whether I’m groomed enough for him down there. Whether he expects me to return the favor, because I’m not sure I’m ready for that just yet, either. My token resistance, a stiffening of my legs, has him taking my ankle in his hand, placing it where he wants it. Namely, over his shoulder. Then the other. My knees are wide apart, spreading my vag open for him to see all of me, every fold and crease and wrinkle. My ass is almost off the ground, my knees hooked over his shoulders.

  “I feel ridiculous like this,” I mutter.

  Derek doesn’t answer. Not right away, at least. He glides in, palms sliding up my thighs, back down. Around my hips to cup my tautened ass, and then I’m subsumed by sensations. His tongue on my clitoris. A long, thick finger sliding into my opening, diving in, exploring, circling, curling. His tongue, sweeping and swiping and stabbing and spearing and tasting. I moan — I can’t help it. It’s a breathy, erotic sound in the quiet forest, a long, drawn-out “ohhhhhh.” And my hips drive up, demanding more of him. Because holy god Jesus, does this feel amazing. So good. So, so, so good. His tongue is strong and relentless, finding a slow circling rhythm around my clit, which is throbbing and thick with sensitivity, each touch of his mouth and lips and tongue shooting rockets of ecstasy through me. I’m tingling from my toes to my scalp, my fingers grasping my own wrists, then stealing down in disobedience to feather through his hair and hold him in place, clutching him against me, greedy for more.