by Stella Noir
Copyright © 2016 by Stella Noir
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
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Content
VOID
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
VOID
By
Stella Noir
Prologue
Lily
I shiver with anticipation as his lips trail hungrily along my collarbone. I'm lying on my back in our king-sized bed, still recovering from my climax, while he's hovering above me. The silken sheets are pressed against my back, the smooth fabric competing with his tender touch, while I fight the urge to doze off in elysium.
As wild and hungry as his kisses can be, he never ceases to amaze me with his ability to switch to an out of this world tenderness. I sigh with bliss as his fingertips caress the side of my belly, tickling me just enough to send little sparks of sweet sensation coursing throughout my body.
I know this attention won't last long. He's still aching with desire and restraining his own need to prepare me for the next round of ecstasy.
He always does this. It always starts with a furious dance of carnal demand, as he devours my entire body, bringing me to a first climax before he lets me touch him.
His hard length meets the sensitive inside of my thighs as a precursor of what is to follow, and my eager body yearns for it, even in this post-orgasmic state. I spread my legs for him, inviting him into my depths. He growls with approval and a satisfied smirk fleets across his handsome face.
I lift my hands to touch his body – a masterpiece – a well-sculpted wall of rippling muscle, adorned with scars that illustrate his terribly dark past. Seeing these symbols of his past pain revealed before my eyes like this always gets to me. It reminds me of who he is and what he endured before our paths crossed. Just the thought of it is nearly unbearable for me, I can't even imagine what it must have been like to have had to live through these experiences.
But he's smiling now. His black eyes flicker with life and lustful craving as he starts teasing my wet entrance with the tip of his steel-hard cock.
"Look at me," he commands.
Our eyes lock onto each other as he spreads me even wider with his girth, gliding inside of me inch by inch while my muscles tighten around him. He's massive, and soon, his sweet and cautious conduct will turn into violent thrusts when he takes what he needs from me. The anticipation is killing me.
He leans forward, shoving himself inside me until my swollen clit is pressed against his pelvis and he's buried full hilt inside of me, his face now close to mine.
"My turn," he whispers, his lips brushing lightly next to my left ear.
His turn always ends up being just as good for me as it is for him, if not better, so his allegedly ominous words only add to my anticipation.
He starts planting little bites and kisses along the line of my jaw. He’s pressing his pelvis against me, his length throbbing inside me. I moan and throw my head back. Any moment now.
He turns my head, forcing me to face him and for our eyes to meet, and as soon as I do, our lips connect for a greedy kiss. There it is. He no longer suppresses his strong need for me. His savage lust takes charge as he claims me with a voracious kiss, his tongue swirling desperately inside my mouth.
I let out a groan when our lips part as he withdraws from my depths and straightens up. He holds my thighs and pushes my legs further apart, before he plunges into my heat and starts pounding in and out of me. I hold on to the silky sheets, my hands crawling into the fabric as he drives his thick length inside me with fierce thrusts. He knows what he's doing and deliberately keeps me positioned at an angle that allows for him to reach the sweet spot just inside my entrance. With every shove, he drives me closer to another release. I can feel the urge building up, and I instinctively lean into it.
I know he's close, too. His hard rod is pulsing with impatient longing as he rams into me. When he lets go of my left thigh and reaches for my center, I know that he wants me to come. He places his thumb on my swollen clit, applying pressure before he slowly starts rubbing it. The contrast of his slow motion against the sheer force with which he's fucking me soon sends me over the edge.
I don't have to announce it, he knows. His thrusts change their rhythm as soon as the first waves of my orgasm roll over me, and just a moment later, I can feel him pulsating inside me as my muscles clench around him.
We climax in unison, both panting in satisfaction as the sensation begins receding, leaving us in our post-release daze.
He collapses next to my side and quickly pulls me into his arms.
Words are not needed to express the depth of our feelings for one another. I can see it in his eyes, all of it. The pain, the relief, the love he has for me.
My eyes water as I'm overtaken with emotion. This is so unlike me. I'm not one to weep easily, but lately, things have been different. I feel a thousand times stronger than I've ever felt before, I crave things I've never craved before, and I know I'll be facing a lot more of these changes in the near future.
Silent tears are rolling down my cheeks and he catches one of them with the tip of his finger, casting me a quizzical look.
"You are crying," he whispers. "Are you okay?"
I nod. "Yes."
My reply is nothing but a hoarse innuendo. I'm overwhelmed, feeling too much, too deeply. My hand is resting on my belly, absentmindedly stroking the skin below my belly button.
He doesn't know it, but we haven’t even started to experience the full range of our happiness yet – it is just beginning. We're blessed with more than the overflowing bliss that has come from finding each other – and the time has come for him to learn the truth.
CHAPTER ONE
Lily
One year earlier
I'm so nervous. When I lift up my coffee mug to take a drink, my hand is shaking so much that I almost spill it all over me. I probably shouldn't be drinking coffee in the first place. It doesn't exactly help curb my rapid heartbeat.
I put the mug down on the desk and stare at my computer screen, reading my notes and scrolling through my research again. I've done this about a million times by now and know most of it by heart, but I don't know what else to do. I still have about twenty minutes until I have to leave, and even then I'll still be early.
I wish I could be less anxious about this, but I can't. It's too big. It's been three months since I started on as a trainee at this job, and I finally have a real chance to prove myself. It's always been my dream to become a journalist, to write stories about interesting things, and more importantly, about interesting people. Breaking into the field has become so hard. It seemed like everybody kept telling me that I won't make it, and that I’m no different than the thousands and thousands before me who dreamed about becoming a journalist, only to find themselves out on the streets an
d taking just about any job while they tried to get their foot in the door. At some point, though, it's just too late and no one will be willing to give you a chance.
I was lucky. I landed this gig after only submitting six applications, which is nothing compared to what I've heard from others. I was accepted as a trainee just a few months after finishing college. I only had to endure six months of unemployment and moving back in with my supportive but skeptical parents before I landed this opportunity.
While those six months weren't easy, I'm still grateful and fully aware that I was indeed lucky. I'm still young, unexperienced and not taken seriously. I know it will take a few more years and a lot of hard work. So far, I have only been allowed to write short pieces that ended up being squeezed in somewhere as filler among the big features. They were often done under the eyes of a real editor, one who put in less work than I did on the piece, but whose name appeared before mine in the byline.
I want to be someone like that some day. One of those writers whose name is well-known and gets printed in big letters simply because people love reading my stories. But I still have a very long road in front of me to get there.
The story I’m working on right now is the first editorial piece that I will write all by myself. When they first assigned the job, it was nothing but a vague idea tossed out during an editorial brainstorming session.
"Veterans. We want to do something about local veterans," is what the editor-in-chief told me. "Bring me a few ideas, and if they’re good enough, we'll see about assigning the job to you."
I was excited at first, but found myself struggling to come up with ideas once I was back at my desk.
What can I possibly come up with about story-worthy ideas about veterans? When I originally heard the idea, all I could picture were old, cynical men talking about the war as if it happened yesterday. My grandfather, God rest his soul, was a veteran and that’s exactly what he was like.
"Local veterans," I kept repeating those words to myself, sitting in my office and staring at the wall.
Local... Should I visit a retirement home? What then? Would people really be interested in reading about the same old stories that they have already heard from their own grandparents again and again? I highly doubt it.
"Veterans don't have to be old, right?" I asked Sara, one of my coworkers. She is a little older and more expierenced than I am, and she was promoted to editor just a few months back and now has her own little column. Unlike most of the other editors here, she doesn't consider it beneath her to help newbies like me because she can still remember what it was like to be in my shoes.
Still, I hesitated asking her for help because I don't want to annoy her or make her feel like I'm taking advantage of her good nature.
Sara was sitting on the edge of the big desk in the break room, tilting her head to the side so that strands of her long blond hair fall back over her shoulder. She shrugged, lifting her coffee up to her mouth to take a sip.
"No, with everything that's going on in the world right now and the amount of soldiers fighting overseas, you shouldn't limit yourself to those who fought several decades ago," she said. "Besides, it's always good to tackle a current hot topic. You have plenty of material to go with, I'm sure."
I nodded, looking back and forth between Sara, my feet on the floor and the clock on the wall. I felt stressed and in a hurry to come up with a good story lead the same day I had been presented with the proposal.
But, of course, things don't always work out like that. After my little chat with Sara, days went by without me making any progress. I still had other things to do, so it's not like I just sat around staring into space. It's one thing to deliver concise and up-to-the-minute news, but an entirely different thing to write a story that goes above and beyond news.
While things didn't develop as quickly as I wanted them to, the idea evolved day by day. I read up on recent issues regarding military investment, the activity of our troops overseas, and how those who returned from deployment transitioned back to civilian life or else faced obstacles when it came to receiving health care or landing jobs.
As soon as I was exposed to the challenges returning soldiers faced, that’s when I knew where I wanted to go with this story. Soldiers are resilient people, men and women. They’re seen as strong and well-trained, willing to do things that most of us couldn't or wouldn't do, who go to dangerous places to carry out a dangerous job. They’re treated with respect for their commitment and sacrifice, but it comes with a downside.
Maintaining that tough, resilient image after returning to civilian life often turns out to be more difficult than they imagined, and it’s not unusual to struggle with their memories or battle accepting how different life is when they’re back home. Someone like me who has never served or been exposed to the atrocities of war can't even begin to imagine what these people go through, despite following the news.
"It's a sensitive issue," Sara acknowledged when I asked her what she thought about my idea of addressing post-traumatic stress disorder in young veterans. "You should put a positive spin on it."
"How?" I asked her. We were sitting in her office this time, discussing my idea before I met with my editor-in-chief.
"Well," she said, "maybe don't emphasize the issue itself, but instead focus on how they managed their condition. Or you could contact some local counseling centers and interview them about their work with returning servicemen and women."
My eyes widened and I sat up straight, paying close attention while Sara's suggestion settled inside my head.
"That sounds great," I murmured, still caught up in the thoughts racing through my head about her approach to the idea.
"I like that," I added. "I like that a lot."
Sara smiled at me. "Glad I could help. Just make sure you sell that idea as your own. Put your own spin on it."
"Yes, sure," I replied, nodding hastily. "I mean... But I don't want to steal your idea and just –"
"That's not what I meant," Sara said, raising her hand in defense. "You don't have to worry about that, I merely gave you a suggestion. It's not my article, not my topic. I just planted the seed, a thought. I'm sure you can take it even further and build it into something better."
Sara has a way of making me feel good about myself. When I first started working here, I kept wondering if she was just being nice to me, but after she heavily critiqued one of my articles, I realized that she's one of those rare people who is willing to share her honest opinion and expertise to help others.
My head was buzzing with ideas when I left her office, and I spent the bulk of my afternoon researching counseling facilities for veterans.
A little over a week since our talk, I had already visited one of the facilities, hoping to be able to interview one of the volunteers who work there. That endeavor wasn't as successful as I'd hoped it would be, and even though it left me rather disappointed, I wasn’t about to give up.
While I managed to talk to the guy in charge of the facility and learned a lot about what they do, it was one of his random comments that sparked my attention.
"We take into account what most people in this field of work overlook,“ he said. "Emotions."
I looked at him, tilting my head to the side quizzically as I tried to understand where he was going with this. He was a nice guy, a veteran himself and an imposing giant of a man. I'm anything but short myself, but compared to him I felt like a child, especially when he was standing right next to me. He was in his fifties, with greying hair at the temples, broad shoulders, a stomach that I'm sure used to be smaller when he was younger, and hands that were easily twice as big as mine.
His name was Joe. I couldn't help but think he looked like a made-up fictional character from a computer game. The kind of character who would play the part of a strong soldier, a tank, someone who can take a lot of damage but deal out quite a lot himself with just one heavy punch.
"Well, you see," he said when I asked him to explain what he meant, "when
a soldier gets wounded in combat, it's pretty obvious to everyone around him. He gets his leg blown off, loses a thumb or an eye, gets shot – whatever. You see the damage, so you know what to do to fix it."
Joe paused, clearing his throat before continuing.
"But you can't see what's going up in here, or in here," he said, pointing at his head first and then at his chest. "There's no blood, no holes, no apparent damage. Nothing anyone can see or know about, unless you tell them. And sometimes you don't even understand it yourself. You just know something is broken in there, but how can you explain something to someone else if you don't know what's broken? It's damn hard to find the words for that – and the courage to try to verbalize it, that’s impossible. That's why we don't ask them about it when they first come here. We don't ask them what's wrong, because we know that they don’t know. We just give them a place to start figuring shit out."
I asked him about the facility's measures and if they showe any success. I want my article to be positive, so I'm especially interested in gathering stories from those who have been able to overcome their invisible wounds because of help from local facilities such as this one.
"Interviews would be great," I told Joe. "Anonymous, of course. Unless they want their names published."
Joe looked at me discerningly through eyes that have seen things I don't even want to imagine. He took a few moments to think about my request before answering.
"Well, to be honest, I don't wanna do it," he said.
My heart sank. I didn't have the heart to tell him, but his story wasn’t really the one that I wanted to tell.
"That's all right," I told him. "But do you know of anyone else? Anyone who's been here recently as a patient? Someone who'd be willing to talk to me?"
His face changed when I tossed out that idea to him. He observed me for a few moments, his stare so intense that it almost made me uncomfortable. There was something mischievous about his look, as if he was up to something naughty.
