Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

I shake my head; I didn’t know I was crying. “It feels so good, I can’t help it. God, Derek, so perfect. You feel so perfect.”

  “That’s because this is perfect.” His brows lower and his eyes widen as he moves into me, such a long slow wet slide in that it takes forever, a perfect forever just for him to fill my pussy with his cock the first time.

  “Oh, oh….” I love even the sound of my own voice, the erotic breathlessness of it, how the way I moan spurs him to pull back and almost out, pause, and glide deep once more.

  I bite his shoulder, so overwhelmed by the feel of him inside me that I don’t know what else to do but bite him and take him deep and rock with him and whisper his name…. “Derek….”

  DEREK

  She says my name on an exhalation, and it’s like a prayer.

  I’m a total mess, an emotional wreck, overcome by how she feels, how tight she is, how wet and warm and silk-smooth. Her hips move flush against mine, and I stay deep, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, loving the slide of body against body, the way her flesh feels against mine, how the depths of her squeeze my cock, how her walls clench around me. Her eyes never leave mine, at least until she latches onto my shoulder with her teeth and bites down. It’s not a gentle bite — oh, no, she’s got a hunk of my shoulder between her teeth and she’s bearing down, groaning, writhing against me, both hands now on my buttocks and pulling, pulling. Her heels are around my ankles, and now she lifts them, slides them up my calves and thighs, grips the backs of my shoulders with her hands and wraps her legs around my waist. This opens her up for me, and I delve deeper into her. I thrust like this for a few moments, palms planted, hips driving.

  And then I need more. I need to go deeper.

  I lean forward, into her, resting on her for a split second as I get a hold on her thighs and push them back. I find her ankles and hold onto them. Angle backward to get on my knees between her legs. This stretches my dick downward, but that’s good. Draw this out a bit. She scoots down toward me, and I get the soles of her feet planted in my armpits, splitting her sweet, gorgeous pussy wide open. Now I’m as deep as I can go, and I hold onto her calves and start moving.

  “Play with your tits, Reagan. Lemme watch you.”

  She grips her boobs and massages them, then takes her nipples in her fingers and pinches, twists. “Fuck yes, just like this. I love it. You’re so deep, so big.”

  “You like my cock?”

  She moans through her teeth, then wrenches her eyes open. “God, yes, Derek. I love your cock. So big inside me. It hurts so good.”

  I’m moving, sliding in, groaning with each thrust. “Fuck, Reagan. Fuck…so tight. Oh…fuck.”

  “Yes, fuck me. Please fuck me. Harder, Derek. I need it more. I need it harder.”

  How am I supposed to deny that? I fuck harder. Drive in hard, pull out soft and slow, and then slam deep, and she gasps at each impact, her mouth wide open, eyes wavering on mine. Each thrust is harder than the last as I near climax, heat burgeoning inside me. Her tits bounce every time my hips slap into her ass, and I’m mesmerized by the way they jiggle and jounce. God, she’s so beautiful. Have I told her that yet?

  “God, you’re gorgeous, Reagan.” I say it in time to my thrusts. “So…fucking…beautiful. So…fucking…sexy. God, I can’t—I can’t handle how perfect you look, just like that.”

  “More.”

  “More?” I ask. How can she take more?

  She slips her heels over my shoulders so her thighs are flush to my pectorals. “Come here. I can stretch farther.”

  I lean over her, slowly stretching out her thigh muscles until her knees are pressed against her chest and I’m so deep it should be impossible, so deep it should be illegal. She takes all of me and asks for more. How is this woman real? But there she is, hair splayed around her face in a halo, blue eyes blazing with need and arousal and satisfaction. She’s a dream, the seductive exotic erotic fantasy of female perfection, everything I could ever have even thought a woman could or should be and then some. I didn’t know it could be like this, didn’t know it could be more than sex, didn’t know it could feel like some part of me has joined with her, beyond the physical, like some tangible corporeal aspect of my soul has merged with hers.

  God, that scares the shit out of me. I’m going to freak the fuck out later, because I just don’t know what to do with this shredding surge of immense emotion, such intensity of feelings beyond the rush of sex, beyond the chemicals and the flesh.

  Now, though, I focus on the rhythm of our bodies. On the crush of my shaft sliding so deep, deep, deep into her. The way she accepts it into her and clings to my neck with her thighs in a silent plea for more. I focus on the way she’s watching me without blinking, refusing to look away or miss a single second. I focus on the shiver of her lips, the way her tongue flicks out and tastes the salt sweat on her lower lip. She whimpers, and I drive in. Moans, and I pull out. Shrieks on her exhalation and sobs on her inhalation, which matches the pattern of my driving hips.

  I think of some stupid phrase from the couple of times as kids my mom tried to make me go to church: “and they shall become one flesh.” Never made a damn lick of sense to me, my whole life.

  Now it does.

  My body is hers, and hers is mine. I know exactly what she’s feeling, what she needs and wants. She’s close, and so am I. All the sex I’ve had in my life—and there’s been a lot—I’ve never had a mutual orgasm, never come at the exact same moment as the girl. But now I know, deep down in my soul, that when Reagan and I come, it will be simultaneous.

  And it will shatter both of us.

  REAGAN

  I’m wrapped up around him. Legs clinging to his neck, thighs clutching so hard I think I must be choking him, my hands holding onto his forearms beside my ear, my breath and his matching, lips so close but not touching, eyes locked and unwavering. And god, he’s so deep inside me, filling me so full. Whatever is happening here between us in this clearing is something I’ve never felt before, and that has a thread of panic weaving through my thoughts, but I ignore it, bury it beneath the fervor of my need, the burn of my arousal, the flames of his passion and mine fanned hotter and hotter until all is ablaze, my skin on fire, my core going nova, his cock throbbing, my pussy clenching so hard I know he feels it, and I know he knows what that means.

  We need no communication. Even as I think, I can’t take it like this any longer, he’s sliding my feet over and off his shoulders and I’m wrapping them low around his waist. He’s above me now, his weight on mine, and I’m clinging to him with my heels locked around his ass, which flexes iron-hard as he pistons into me, slow and steady and rhythmic. Arms around his shoulders, a hand on each of his shoulder blades. I claw at him, heedless of how hard. He knows that clawing of my fingers down his back means I need more, need it harder and faster, and he gives it to me just like I want it. I feather my fingers through his hair at his nape, because I know it drives him absolutely wild. And it does. He buries his face in my neck and, thank god, now I can move properly. I can fuck him back, fuck up into his thrusts, take him deep and give it back harder. I hold his head, cradle his skull, loving his breath on my breast, forehead, on the slope of my tits.

  We’re lost to each other in this now. Whatever it means, whatever this becomes and wherever it goes between us, this is the culmination of so much buildup, so much emotional devastation and mental turmoil and physical anguish, so much need and desperation and heated foreplay, and it’s exploding between us, through us, melting parts of my identity to his, our souls forming anew, parts of each of our essence becoming a xenolith within the substance of the other in some metaphysical ouroboros. He moves, and I move with him, breath and breath and breath, moan and hum and groan and curse and plead. So close.

  His grunts of exertion are beautiful to me.

  I put my mouth to his and devour his lips, eat them. I drink his mumbled plea of my name: “Reagan….”

  The syllables drawn out—Reeee-gannnn—

  And
I match him with the whispered song of his name as we merge and merge and merge: Derek…ohDerrrrrek. I don’t need to swear, don’t need to call out to God or to pant out the social epithet “god,” because in that moment, in that timeless time when I’ve abandoned myself to him, to this, to us, despite the blasphemy it might be, in this moment with Derek, he is God, all the god I need.

  We come.

  We detonate sun-hot, my shrill shriek harmonizing with his feral roar. His cock is a driving force within me, squeezing between the clamping walls of my core, and yet nothing is more potent than our orgasm. It’s neither mine nor his, but ours. It lasts and lasts, his groans and sighs matching my screams and whimpers, mirrored and tasted with kisses that miss mouths, lips found and tongues tangling even as we both moan and shift together, writhe together, his hips pounding into mine, my ass lifting clear off the ground to slam my pussy into his thrusting.

  After an eon of metamorphic climax, we slow and pant together, and finally he must slip out of me, and I take all his weight onto me, love the exhausted collapse of him onto my breast. I cradle his head still, kissing his forehead. His fingers trace idle swirls on my boobs and sternum and nipples. He shifts aside and removes the condom, ties the end in a knot, and tucks it into a back pocket of his jeans, starts to move off me.

  “No,” I murmur, pulling him down onto me again. “I like it.”

  I wasn’t going to say “like,” but I’ve thought that troublesome, tricky other word too often in the course of this experience with Derek.

  So he stays, stubbornly letting a portion of his weight slide off me, though his head remains on my breast, his leg thrown over mine.

  Holding him like this is its own kind of heaven.

  CHAPTER 15

  DEREK

  Somehow it’s dusk. Did we doze? It doesn’t matter. She seems to like the way I’m lying half on top of her, even though I have to be heavy. At some point, she starts weaving her fingers through my hair past my ear, over the top of my scalp. I could very seriously purr when she does that.

  Her fingertip touches my chin; I lift my head and look into her sky-hued eyes. “I’ll go ahead and be the first to say it…whatever that was” —she pauses, for effect or to gather her thoughts, and to brush my hair out of my eye and trace from temple to jaw— “it was the most—I don’t even know.”

  I swallow hard. I was half-hoping I’d imagined it. The ramifications are scary. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before,” I admit.

  “No kidding.” She lets out a sigh that is part laugh, buries her nose against my forehead. Inhales. “I’m glad it wasn’t just me.”

  “What was that, then?”

  She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know.” A moment passes. Several. She kneads the muscle of my shoulder. “Can we go back?”

  I have a tripartite emotional reaction to her words. I think she’s talking about what just occurred between us, and I’m relieved that she wants to go back, too, but I’m also devastated that she might want to take it back, and then I think, with a thrill, that she wants to go back so we can do it all over again.

  And then I realize that she means literally, physically, go back to the house. Go home? Is that right, for me? Is that my home? Do I have a home? Yet another epiphany hits me—this one more frightening than the others—and it’s that her home, the farm, the barn, this little remote scrap of Texas, is the closest thing to home I have, that I’ve ever had since joining the Corps right out of high school.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  We saddle up the horses and ride back ho—ride back to the farm. The horses seem to know where they’re going, which is good because I sure as hell don’t, and I’m not the greatest rider. I can stay on a horse, but not with any great skill. We make it back to the barn in what feels like half an hour, unsaddle the horses, and let them loose in the east pasture. I put the saddles and tack away. By this time it’s dark, and my heart and mind are whirling in mad circles. I don’t know what’s going to happen now, or what to expect. Or what I want. I’m scared of what I’m feeling. I’m scared of what I’m sure Reagan is feeling. I’m not sure I’m ready for what just happened, for the intense bond that was just created between us.

  Until today, it was a dance: an attraction and a mutual emotional need drawing us closer and closer, creating chemical reactions in the form of sexual fervor. It was all of that, yet clearly it was more, a subtext I, at least, didn’t anticipate being woven under the surface of our interaction. And now that we’ve consummated it, our relationship has somehow grown, deepened, expanded, and it scares me. I don’t know if I’m ready for it, if I’m capable of it. If I’m man enough for what Reagan needs and deserves.

  Do I assume we’re going inside the house?

  I’m standing in the open door of the barn, staring out at the fading reddish-purple-orange of the setting sun behind the house. Reagan is behind me. I feel her move closer. Feel her press up against me, chin on my back, arms circling my middle, hands flattening against my chest.

  “Derek? What happens now?” Guess she’s just as confused as I am.

  And here I thought sex would simplify, or at least clarify, things between us. Turns out it only deepened the shades and shadows of all the gray areas, making the tangled web joining us more complex.

  I owe her my strength. Decisiveness. Or, failing that, I owe her a modicum of honesty. “I don’t know. What just happened between us, Reagan, it was…a lot.” I place my hands over hers, because for some reason touching her in any way makes it easier to let the honesty tumble out. “I don’t know what to make of it. What to do with it.”

  “Are you scared?”

  This feels like going into combat, when you feel fear and know you have to face it, admit it, and gut through it, man up and deal with shit despite it. “Yes.”

  She ducks under my arm, slides up the length of my body, and looks up at me. “I am, too. I wasn’t expecting that.” She runs her palms up and down my chest. Her eyes are so soft, so understanding. “Explore it with me? Please?”

  Reagan steps away from me, backward. Toward the house. Holds her hand out to me. I don’t think I have any real clue what I’m agreeing to, but I take her hand anyway, and we walk side by side to the house.

  Each moment is a vignette, a tableau: my boots crunching on the gravel; a glance sideways at Reagan, her honey hair swinging and tossed in the breeze, the subtle bounce of her tits as she walks; a thick shred of white cloud shaded dark by coming night, hanging low over the house; our feet clomping on the wooden porch steps; the screen door creaking open, a pause, a slam.

  I follow her up the stairs. Watch her fine ass sway from side to side with each step. I glance at the generations of framed photographs lining the wall of the stairway, photos ranging from sepia tone and black and white to washed-out ’70s to the ’90s, Tom as a kid, his official Corps photo. One of Reagan and Tom and Tom’s dad. Look away from that one. Twinge of guilt. I stop, and I’m staring at the photo of Tom, Reagan, and Carl. Must’ve been just before Tom shipped out for the first time, after he and Reagan eloped. They’re both so young, just kids. Reagan realizes I’ve stopped following her, and she turns back.

  “I see that photo every time I come up these stairs,” she says. “And it hurts every time. But I can’t bring myself to take it down.”

  “Good-looking son of a bitch, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he was.”

  What am I doing here? What did I do? That’s Tom’s wife coming down the stairs, concern in her eyes. His widow.

  Shit.

  I’m not breathing, shaking all over, sweating. Panic attack. Haven’t had one of these in a while.

  “Derek?” She’s on the step above me, touching my cheek with a tender hand. “Breathe, baby. Look at me. Look into my eyes.”

  I find her eyes, so blue, so blue. Palest blue and wide as the Texas sky. But I still can’t breathe. Find myself sinking to the step, mouth open and trying to find oxygen, blinkin
g too fast, seeing double, fists clenched and shaking.

  I see Reagan, see her mouth moving. Hear nothing. Ceiling, wall. The photo, the fucking photo, fucking Tom and a young, slim, bright-eyed Reagan with flaxen hair a lighter blonde than it is now and an arm around Tom and her hand on his chest, big burly beefy Carl with his arm across both.

  Then I can feel Reagan’s hand on my back, scratching and smoothing and circling, start to hear sounds, words, distorting and cohering into her voice.

  “…Rek….Derek? Talk to me. Please, please come back. Breathe. I’m here. You’re okay.”

  I shift, roll. I see her eyes again, scared and worried. “I need to sit up.” I’m lying down, falling, sliding down the stairs, an edge of one of the steps in my back. “Help me sit up.”

  Reagan moves down past me, takes my hands, and helps me to a sitting position. She sits on the stair below me, sideways. A tear slides down her cheek. “Are you—are you okay now?”

  I’m still gasping for breath and sweating, but the attack has passed. “Yeah. I just need a second.”

  She wipes at her face, rests her cheek on my knee. “You scared me, Derek.”

  “Scared myself. It just…hit. No warning.”

  “The photo triggered the panic attack?”

  I deliberately stare down at her, anywhere other than the photograph. “Yeah.”

  She reaches up for it, takes it off the wall. Holds it. Stares at it. Another tear. She wipes them away.

  No. That’s hers. Her family. Her memory. I have no right to let my weakness force her take it down. I tug the photograph free from her hand, make myself look at it. I see her, see him. Remember him as he was, in the good times. Easy smile, bawdy jokes. Constantly talking about Reagan, how he can’t wait to get home and see her. I see him lying on his bunk, writing her a letter. I block the wave of flashbacks that threaten and hang up the photo where it belongs, nestled among the others.