Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Derek, it’s fine. You don’t need to—”

  “No. If you take it down, do it for you. Not me. This is your home. Your place. It’s…Tom’s place. His photo belongs here. You deserve better than to let me—my moments of weakness like that force you to…to change things.”

  “Wait just a damn minute, Derek.” Her voice is strong now, and she takes my face in both hands, forcing me to look at her. “That wasn’t a moment of weakness. It was a panic attack. And, yeah, this is where Tom grew up. But—goddamn it. I didn’t want to think about this. Fuck, this is hard. Tom is dead, Derek. He’s gone. I miss him. You miss him. But…we lost him. That stupid fucking war took him from us. And we just…we have to keep living without him. You lived and he didn’t, and don’t you dare feel guilty about that. There was nothing you could do. And…I don’t know how to even put this. He’s gone and I loved him, and I’ll always miss him. There will always be a part of me that belongs to him. But I’m glad you lived. I’m—I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you came and gave me the dog tags and the letter, and I’m glad you stayed. You’ve made my life better since you’ve been here, Derek. I’ve mourned him. I’ve grieved him. But until you arrived, I wasn’t healing. I wasn’t even trying to. I was stuck. I don’t know what’s happening. Here, between us, I mean. It scares me, I don’t mind admitting. But it is happening, and I can’t deny it. And—I want to know more. I want to see what it is. I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I don’t want to feel…trapped. Stuck. Lost in between what was and what is, maybe.”

  What am I supposed to say to all that? “I’m not sure what to do about the guilt. Telling me not to feel it doesn’t make it go away. But…for the first time since the Raiders snatched me out of that village, I feel…alive. Like I’m someone. Like life can mean something to me. For my entire adult life, all I knew was combat. The Corps. And then I was the POW, and since then I haven’t known…I don’t know—who I am? What I am? Being here, working on your farm. Spending time with you…it’s given me something.” I duck my head, gather up the courage to speak the deepest truth I can muster into words. “It’s not the farm, really. It’s you. You’ve given me that. But even that comes with guilt. Because it still should be—should be him.”

  “But it’s not, Derek. It’s not him. It’s you.” She’s crying openly.

  I’m close to it myself.

  “What the fuck do you do to me, Reagan? My whole fucking life, I’m a typical dude. Heavy shit happens, you feel it, but that’s it. You don’t cry. I don’t cry. But since I’ve known you, I’ve spent more time crying like a fucking sissy than in the whole rest of my life.” I sniff and breathe and blink hard. It doesn’t work. “Shit.”

  She scrambles to her feet, climbs onto my lap, and buries her face against my chest. She wraps her arms around my neck and clings so tight it hurts, but it’s comforting, having her close, having her crush me, feeling her weight on my lap and her tears staining my shirt. I don’t feel judged.

  “You know what I think?” she murmurs into my cotton shirt. “I think it makes you stronger, that you’re able to cry. I think it makes you more of a man. Feelings are human, and you have them. You’re allowed them.”

  “Even the guilt?”

  “How are you not supposed to feel that?”

  “It sucks, though.” Something wet trickles down my cheek, dripping into her hair.

  She twists, looks up at me with her cheek on my heartbeat, and wipes her palm across my face. Does it again and again, and not once does she look at me as if she thinks less of me for crying like a damn girl. She just keeps wiping each droplet away, her own tears sliding down and mixing with mine.

  I don’t know exactly what I’m crying about. Everything. Combat. Losing buddies. Losing Tom. Being a prisoner. Survivor’s guilt. Guilt that I’m glad I’m alive, even though Tom isn’t, and Abraham isn’t, and Okuzawa isn’t, and neither are Lewis or McConnell or Nielsen or Martinez or Silva or Blast or Allen.

  And I’m crying, too, I think, because I’m relieved. I’ve been holding all this in, letting it out unwillingly, usually ripped out of me by Reagan and the things that pass between us.

  The stairs are hurting my ass. I slide my arm under Reagan’s legs and stand up with her. I carry her into her bedroom. Lay her on the bed, move in beside her. Somehow, she’s on top of me, and she’s kissing me. I taste salt, and I know she does, too, on my lips. We’re kissing and crying, both us. Her breath in my mouth and on my lips and her tongue sweeping over mine steals my tears, my breath, everything but my awareness of her.

  Hands push and pull at clothes. Skin emerges slowly. Kisses merge into kisses. I’ve got her breast in my mouth as she straddles me, her hands planted on my chest, head tilted back, spine arched to push her nipple against my lips. Her hips writhe, but I’m still wearing my jeans, and so is she. She’s grinding on me, and we’re both breathing in rasping gasps. She moves away, tugging her nipple from my mouth with a pop, jerks open my fly, and pulls down my jeans, traveling down my body, mouth touching my stomach, navel, hip bone, thigh, knee. She gets stuck at my boots, glances up at me in amused frustration, fumbles with the laces. She reaches up with one hand and palms my cock, strokes me, then returns her attention to removing my boots. As soon as she has the laces loosened, I kick them off and she’s ripping at my socks, pulling my jeans off over my feet. Tossing them to the floor, then diving after them, snagging them up. Pulls the string of condoms from the hip pocket. Rips one free. Stands up, facing me, shucking her jeans in record time. Those panties, god. Dark red silk. Cut high up over her hips, the silk making a deep “V” to cup her pussy. The silk is damp over her opening, darkened with moisture.

  Eyes locked on me, she hooks her thumbs in the elastic waistband, pushes them down, steps out. Her palms smooth over her belly, as if she’s contemplating covering herself, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, hands at her sides, chin high, hair loose and tangled, a bit of grass in it, unnoticed. She’s owning her body, owning her beauty. And fuck it’s hot, watching her deny the insecurity, watching her claim her self-identify as sexy, powerful. She pops one hip out, lifts her chin a bit more, tongue-tip licking her lip, and then her hand hovers over her thigh. Palms the flesh there, then dives into the slight gap between her legs. Gasps as she drags her fingers up between her thighs, touching herself. One brief circling touch, and her knees buckle and she whimpers. I sit up, swing my legs off the bed, reach for her. Grab her hand and pull her close, position her between my legs. Lean in and flick her nipple with my tongue.

  Trace the opening of her pussy with my fingers. “Open up,” I say.

  She shuffles her feet to either side until they’re shoulder-width apart. She rests her hands on my shoulders as I delve up into her with two fingers. So wet, so hot, so tight. I groan and lave my tongue between her breasts, gathering the wetness of her arousal on my fingers and smear it over her clit. She falls forward against me, grasps my cheeks, and lifts my face up for a kiss. But the kiss stutters and fades as she moans with my ministrations, her mouth hanging open against mine, forehead to forehead, gripping my jaw with both hands and groaning.

  No games this time. Bring her to climax as fast as possible, circling her clit and delving into her tight channel in an alternating pattern. She shrieks as she comes, leaning into me, riding my fingers, knees dipping, hips gyrating.

  When the climax fades to shudders, she opens her eyes, and her usually clear blue eyes are clouded, hooded. She pushes at me, shoves me forcefully to the mattress, climbs up on me. She finds the condom, rips it open. Rolls it onto me. I’m in an awkward position, lying back on the bed with my feet on the floor, but Reagan isn’t waiting, isn’t going to let me adjust. She leans over me, palms on my chest, kisses me and raises her ass. I gasp into her mouth as she reaches between us, guides me to her opening, and sits on me. Impales herself on me, letting out a growling moan as I fill her.

  Reagan’s eyes are feral, her mouth open, lip curled, low groans escaping as she grinds her
ass against my hips, rolling my cock inside her, moving in circles and then side to side, getting me deeper. She gets her knees under herself, spreads her thighs wide, and holy fuck, am I deep inside her. Her fingers are clawed into my chest, raking my pecs. She bites her lips and stares down at me, grinds on me. Side to side. Side to side, working me in and in until I’m as deep as I can physically get, and then she starts moving in circles, around and around, stretching her abdomen to widen the circle her hips circumscribe. The circling grind has me wanting to thrust, but she’s pressing down so hard I can’t — all I can do is let her have her way with me.

  And then she abruptly lifts up, raising her ass off my hips, hesitating at the apex, the tip of me just barely inside her. Slams down so hard our hips crash together.

  “Fuck…yes….” she growls.

  She lifts up slowly this time. The feel of her labia sliding slick along my cock drives me wild, has me trying to thrust up, but she pulls away, shakes her head.

  “Unh-uh.” She hovers like that, teasing us both. “Not yet.”

  Reagan flutters her hips, biting her tongue and lower lip, fucking just the tip of my cock in quick rolling thrusts.

  I’m groaning and cursing. “Fuck, fuck. Oh, god, Reagan, god. Give it to me.” I grip her hips and hold on, try to pull her down, but I can’t. She resists, leaning forward and continuing the small shallow fucks.

  “You want it?” she demands.

  “Yeah.” I pull at her again. “I need it.”

  “What do you need?” Slower, shallower, the head of my cock held delicately between her labia, thighs flexing to slide me a quarter-inch in, then out again. Tantalizing.

  “You.”

  She shakes her head. “I want to hear it, Derek.” She walks her hands down my chest toward my stomach, angling my cock toward my feet in gradual increments as she finds her balance on top of me. Then she plants her palms on her thighs, lifts up off me in what has to be a precarious and difficult position to hold. “Please? Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

  Playing for control, huh? I cup her perfect tits, pinching her nipples between the middle and ring fingers of each hand. “What—god, you’re gorgeous—what do I want you to do?”

  “Yeah, tell me. So I can do it.”

  “I want you to take what you want. How you want it.”

  She lets her head hang back on her neck. I’m stretched out so far it aches. Strains. She takes my hands, one at a time, threads her fingers through mine, and we shift her balance onto our joined hands. Reagan tilts her head forward and leans over me, and I’m supporting the weight of her upper torso on my hands. Her tits hang, sway, thick tan nipples hard, begging for my mouth. I lift up, lick her nipples, each in turn, and then fall back onto the mattress.

  “I want…this,” she says, and sinks down, burying me deep, deep inside her.

  “Fuck, yes.”

  And then she’s moving, letting me take all of her weight on our joined hands, and she starts rolling her hips again. She gasps, moans, lifts up, then sinks down. Grinding on me, she rolls my tip through her labia. Seeking what she needs. Her tits bounce and sway with each movement, and I love watching them. Love even more staring between our bodies at my sex-slick cock sliding up into her, watching her pussy take me in and out, in and out, watch the way the lips of her pussy flatten and stretch as I drive in, watch the juices drip and coat me, smear me, on her, on us both.

  She’s gushing wetness, and fuck, fuck, is it hot watching us. She’s watching, too. And loving it just as much.

  Reagan finds an angle, tilted forward slightly, lifting her hips to pull me out, then canting her hips forward and sinking down and grinding backward hard to get me deep, using my cock to hit her G-spot. Once she finds the zone, she falls into a rhythm, and I don’t care if my arms are trembling, if my forearms ache and my biceps shake, I’ll hold her like this until I give out. I groan and thrust with her, working my hips up to match the way she angles down to drive my dick against that perfect spot, and she’s shrieking now, “oh, oh, oh, oh, fuck yes, Derek, godyesohfuckyes…” shouting, thrusting onto me hard and fast, and our hips crash together, bodies meeting with a slapslapslap and a delicious wet sucking noise and she’s screaming and I’m grunting and bellowing as I feel her pussy tighten, feel her pistoning motions grow frantic and shuddering. The tempo slows, but now she’s drawing me out slowly and slamming me into her hard.

  And then I feel it. Watch it. Her face screws up and her eyes squeeze shut, and I’m taking all of her weight now and thrusting for both of us, fucking into her as hard as I can, still trying to hit her just right, and she’s trying to move, too, but she’s lost all sense, all rhythm, all capacity to do anything but sob and scream breathlessly.

  Reagan collapses onto me, gasping for breath, sucking in shuddering, sobbing breaths, still holding my hands, my cock still buried inside her.

  When I think she’s regained her breath, gotten some composure, and I’ve had a chance to push down my own heated near-climax, I squeeze her hands. “Reagan?” She lifts up her head, hair a curtain, eyes wide, pupils dilated, lips parted. “My turn.”

  “Oh, god.”

  I roll her onto her back, give her all my weight for a brief moment, push into her, feeling her walls spasm around me. A couple slow, gentle thrusts, just until she starts to move with me. And then I pull out entirely. Lean down, kiss her hard, and shove my tongue past her teeth, take hers into mine and taste her beautiful mouth. Break the kiss, shove my hand between the bed and her body to cup her ass, roll her to her stomach. She crawls forward, away from me, toward the head of the bed. I follow her. I grasp her ankles and pull her back toward me. She cranes her head over her neck to watch me, eyes wide, mouth open. Tucks her knees beneath her.

  “Yeah, baby, stay just like that.” I caress the globes of her ass. “Look at this ass. Fuck, I love your ass. So round and soft and perfect….” I palm her cheeks, spread her wide, lift the heavy flesh and muscle, let it go with a lush bounce.

  She’s watching me as I kneel behind her, playing with her ass, my cock standing tall and achingly hard. Watching me, stilled, waiting, breathing in long sighs.

  Anticipating.

  REAGAN

  I’m totally incapable of moving or breathing. I’m waiting, barely breathing. His rough tender hands massage my buttocks, kneading the muscle, and then his fingers slide into the crack and part me, spreading me open. My heart hammers. I should tell him.

  “I’ve never…oh-oooooohgod—” I’m stopped as the fingers of his left hand dip between my legs and find my clit, caress me there with feather-soft touches, his left hand still on my ass, fingers spreading me wide. “Back there…never—never done anything.”

  “Jesus, Reagan, don’t fucking tempt me. I’m just looking at you. I want to see every sexy inch of you.” He licks his lips, flicks his eyes to mine, back to my butt. My breath huffs out, I suck in oxygen, and then lose it again, and even my heart stops as he touches the pad of his middle finger to my puckered, tensed hole. “Never been touched here, huh? Never felt this? Hmmm?”

  I can’t look at him, can only hang my head between my shoulders, shake it, grunt a negative.

  The tip of his finger is barely touching me back there, but I’m frozen in place, every nerve ending in my body heated like an electric live wire. I couldn’t move if I tried, and I don’t even try. I let out a whimper, as the slightest increase of pressure has me tensing even tighter, fearful exhilaration rocketing through me.

  “You like this? I’m not even touching you, and you’re coming apart.”

  “I—I’m scared,” I murmur into the blanket.

  “Don’t be scared, Reagan. God, I’d never do anything to hurt you, never, never. Tell me no. Tell me to stop.”

  “Stop.”

  Immediately, the breath of pressure is gone, and his hand is skimming over my ass cheeks, and the pressure of his other hand on my clit increases, making me forget what just almost happened, what I almost let him do. His car
essing hand never stops, moves over my back and cups my butt, one side and then the other, over and over, down to the backs of my thighs and up again, as if he couldn’t ever get enough of touching me like this. I could take this all day, let him touch me like this forever, never quite come and never get tired of it, never get enough of his ravenous appetite for touching me.

  Somehow, his gentle circling of my clit with his left hand turns into the three-finger fuck, that thing he does that morphs me into some ravening orgasmic monster. Except this way, on my hands and knees in front of him, his hand is palm-down, the curve of his fingers pointing to the bed, and of course this has his fingers scraping even more accurately against that place I’m thinking about as my Jesus-fuck spot, because “G-spot” isn’t nearly descriptive enough a term. Plus, it has me saying that, over and over again, “Jesus…fuck, oh, god, Jesus, Derek, Jesus-fuck, that feels good.”

  I’m not a church-goer or a believer by any means, but neither am I a habitual blasphemer, nor even usually very vulgar. But Derek does something to me, has this way of pulling just the most vulgar, blasphemous things from me.

  Four or five thrusts of his fingers, and I’m coming with firecracker rapidity: oh-oh-oh, coming and coming and coming, and now he’s got that tender, erogenous place where leg meets hip in his right hand, strong fingers holding me hard, left-hand digits still inside me, getting me up and up and up, driving in so hard I’m almost lifted off the mattress, and I’m exploding—

  “OH, FUCK!”

  That’s me, screaming as he jerks his fingers out of me and shoves his thick, iron-hard cock inside me in one smooth move, grabbing my thigh with his sticky fingers and pulling me against him. I’m pulverized by the feel of him inside me like this, and holy SHIT, I’m still coming, and he’s so fucking big, stretching me to a blissful burn with his girth and pushing deep with his glorious length.

  He holds my hips in place as he pushes in, then shoves me forward, and I move for him, crane my neck to watch him kneeling tall and gorgeous behind me, thick blond hair a riotous mess, moss eyes blazing, pecs flexing and abs tensed, V-cut rippling, thighs like trees, scars glinting in the moonlight. I’m glutting on his beauty. Gorging on the image of him up there behind me, spine straight, so tall and muscular, plowing into me, teeth white as he peels his lips back in a hissing sigh. He moves slowly, drawing out and pushing in glacially, just holding my hips for the moment.