by Reiss, CD
Caden’s body leaned against the doorframe. Captain St. John didn’t lean. He stood straight. Even near collapse after eight days in the combat hospital OR, he’d shouldered a confidence bordering on arrogance. I’d carried him through tragedy in Fallujah, but standing in his family home in Manhattan, he seemed weak and beaten. Still beautiful. Still perfect. But altered, like the same sentence spoken in a different language.
“I’m sleeping in the guest room.”
“I love you,” he said.
I saw it for what it was. Manipulation. He wanted to tie me tightly to him with his words. He wanted to use my response to relieve his sense that I was untwisting the knot.
There was no reason not to soothe him, but I wasn’t feeling predictable or pliable.
“Yeah. I hear you.”
Without another word, I crossed the hall into the guest room.
* * *
I didn’t sleep. I kept staring at the blinking red dots of the clock, wondering what the fuck I was doing.
Myth number one about therapists was that we were any better at managing our personal lives than our patients. I had tons of words and advice. I could listen to people for hours. I could hear underlying motivations and detect falsehoods even when the patient believed them. I could see a situation from all sides unless I was one of the sides.
Detaching myself from the situation, I could deconstruct the factors driving Caden’s affliction.
An abusive father…
…who had lived in the house he now occupied….
…after a traumatic stint in the military…
…exacerbated by an experimental therapy…
…and a new wife.
Did the last two help or hurt?
And where did his father end and his mother begin?
And was I making it worse?
I couldn’t complete a thought without a stab in my chest where I missed the egotistical jerk who’d shocked me with his vulnerability. That surprise was the location of his split.
The light in the room went from blue to gray as the sun lightened the sky.
There was an insistent double rap at the door. I turned around, but before I could grant permission, it opened.
Caden stood in the frame, bare-chested, feet set apart, his shape crossing the corners of the rectangle. “Why are you in here?”
I bolted upright at the sound of his voice. “Caden?”
He entered with an erection growing in the morning light. “Did we fight?”
He didn’t remember. Whatever happened with Damon was hidden from Caden while he was in the bag. The correct therapy for a dissociative disorder was transparency between personalities, but this wasn’t a normal break.
“I had a cough, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
He stood at the edge of the bed, pressing his right thumb into his left palm as if massaging it. “You looked beautiful last night,” he stated matter-of-factly, slipping the sheet off me. “I can’t believe I didn’t come home and destroy you.”
Liquid pooled between my legs. In an army tee and underpants, I was already throbbing for him. “It’s early. We have a few hours.”
He looked my body over, as if deciding where to fuck me first. Leaning on the bed with one hand, he used the other to pull off my underpants. I closed my legs so they came off easily, and he opened them.
“You have the most fuckable cunt I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you.”
He smirked in a weirdly honest yet callous way. “No talking unless you say stop. Understand?”
“Ye—” I snapped my mouth shut and nodded. There was no disobeying that voice.
“Get up on your knees. Legs apart.”
I got up to a kneeling position, and Caden came around behind me.
“Relax your arms.” He bent them behind me, wrist to wrist. “Now hold there.” I held on by wrapping my fingers around the opposite arm. “This will protect your wrist. I’m interested in hurting you. Not damaging you.”
Oh, Lord.
He was here—inside this not-Damon half Caden.
This wasn’t safe, but I wanted it so badly I could taste the sweet sting of danger.
Lifting my shirt over my breasts, he ran his fingers over my hard nipples, then along the silver scar over my heart.
“We never did finish trying control.” Fingers sliding down casually, dispassionately, he lodged them between my legs and took my clit. “You’re wet. I could fuck you now, and you’d come.” Lightening his touch, he brought my longing astride my arousal. “But where’s the fun in that?”
He slapped my hard nub with his four fingers. I gasped with pain and blossoming pleasure. He did it again, but there was no pain, even when he did it a third time. The fourth was harder than the others, and I exhaled through my teeth.
“That’s good.”
He did it again, and I squeaked, holding back a cry. His smirk was calculated to make me unsure of his intentions. He went around the bed, pulling me onto my back and toward him until my head dropped off the edge of the bed. Unleashing his cock, he tapped my lips with it.
I opened my mouth, but he didn’t fill it. He spread my legs and opened me with his fingertips before meeting my gaze.
“Don’t come until I tell you to.”
I nodded. He guided his dick into my mouth. I opened my throat, and he pushed down it easily with my head at that angle. He fucked my mouth evenly, pulling out completely every time so I could breathe. Slowly, methodically, then with his tongue on my clit, he sped up slightly.
My breathing fell inside the beat of his cock and the pull of his lips against my clit.
The build between my legs grew, spinning and dissolving like sugar in coffee, sweetening the bitterness in a constant crystalline stream.
Faster. Everything faster.
My whole body tingled, expanded to the corners of the room, anchored to earth where our mouths and genitals met.
He stopped fucking my mouth to suck my clit between his teeth, and I came so hard my skin vibrated; my soul expanded into the sky above and earth below. My body ceased to exist outside the pleasure, melting from physical mass into a moment in time.
When it was over, I opened my eyes to a close-up of him fisting his spurting cock. He gave a last grunt and twisted to sit on the bed next to me, catching his breath.
I reached for him, and he stroked my face.
“You weren’t supposed to come.”
“I know.”
“You had plenty of opportunity to say stop.”
I had. My hands had come free when he’d pulled me to my back, and yes, I could have spoken up. “Next time.”
“This time.”
He went to the bathroom. I straightened myself on the bed, covered in sticky cum. He came out with a hot washcloth and draped it over my chest, wiping the mess off me. He folded it twice and placed it over my pussy. The rough, warm cloth felt good against me.
He kissed me, and I wrapped my legs around him. We had so much to talk about. Leaving the house. This other person he’d been. The changes between them. But not yet. Not while he was pushing inside me, fucking me all over again. Not while the hot, rough cloth was wedged between us.
He went slowly, grinding deep, rubbing the washcloth against my clit with every move.
“Caden,” I whispered.
“No coming. Not until I say.”
“Yes, okay.”
Slowly, gently, he fucked me to maximize the friction of the cloth.
“I’m close,” I gasped.
“Not yet.”
“Okay, but…”
“Hold it.”
His strokes got faster. I was going to burst open. I needed to.
“Take the washcloth away, please,” I begged.
He came inside me with a satisfied grunt. I was so close, but he was pushing too shallow now, and when I shoved my hips against him, he jerked away. He got up on his knees, dick still hard and slick.
“Caden. What—?”
“Hold it until tonight, Major. That’s your punishment for not waiting.”
“This is bullshit.”
“You wanted to try control.”
I lay there with my mouth agape and my T-shirt pulled over my breasts. He smiled as if my frustration was entertaining.
* * *
My sour mood when he got downstairs was probably exacerbated by the ten pounds of unreleased orgasm I was holding between my legs. I got him a cup out of habit, but when I heard him behind me, I wanted to shove it up his ass.
“I don’t know what you two share with each other,” I said, not looking around.
“Us two?”
Still Caden, but in the quiet kitchen, with only my annoyance to interpret his tone, he wasn’t Caden either. I looked at him, dissecting the pieces. Was this a third?
No. But the primary person was changing somehow.
Annoyance turned to fear, and fear turned into exhaustion.
“I want to get out of this house,” I said.
“Why?” He acted as if I’d lost my mind, as if he hadn’t heard the request before. He and Damon weren’t communicating the nitty-gritty.
Now I had to say everything twice. I’d probably have to describe what I wanted twice, argue twice, explain twice.
“Forget it.”
I went to leave, but he grabbed my arm. “I’m not going to forget it.”
“You should. And you should start by letting me go.”
“No.”
I jerked my arm away. “You can’t just waltz in here and start demanding my time, my attention. You can’t do what you did this morning. I’m not a fuck doll.”
“If you think this morning was me treating you like an inanimate object, you have no idea what that means.” He was calm, too calm, in the face of my simmering heat. That alone took me back a step. “If you were a toy, I wouldn’t bother with your pleasure. You wouldn’t have the option to say stop.”
He talked about rape like a sniper talking about bullets. Everyday instruments of death.
“This morning’s game?” he continued. “It was designed to push you.” He sipped his coffee black, without blowing on it. “I found your limit. You still haven’t recognized it.”
He threw back a big swallow of coffee. I knew it was scalding. He shouldn’t have been able to do more than blow and sip.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What’s your name?”
I recognized his smile. The right side stretched first, and the left caught up. I recognized the little nod of assent, as if he and I got the same joke.
“Caden Kevin St. John. Captain. First Medical Brigade. 065-43-0987.”
“You’re not the man I married.”
“You didn’t marry a man.”
“What?” The alarm in my head came out as a whisper.
He stood over me, close enough for our clothes to touch. I didn’t step away. I wouldn’t show fear.
“You married the army. Your plan was to consummate it by making a family with another soldier, but instead, you chose me. Admit it. You miss your husband.”
I got his point, but all I heard was the content of the last sentence. “I do,” I said with a quivering chin. “I miss him so much.”
He brushed away my tears. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”
I pushed his hand away and wiped my own tears. He didn’t like it when I was sad? Jesus. Caden was a passionate and protective man. Caden wouldn’t see my sadness as one of many menu options.
“I watched my mother give up control to the military,” I said. “I watched her get dragged all over the country because Daddy had to be somewhere. And when he deployed, I watched her sit there crying because no matter how you sliced it, he’d betrayed her. Every time. He betrayed her for the army every damn time. So, I decided I wasn’t marrying a man who would betray me. I would beat him to it, whoever he was, by enlisting. I was taking the mistress first. But… look at this. Look at us. The army broke you and handed me the pieces.”
He laughed. “I’m not broken.”
I crossed my arms. He was so cocky. So sure that between us, he was the healthy one. He was intolerable like this, and all I wanted was to take him down a notch. Cut him at the knees.
I should have thought about it as a therapist, not a wife, but like I said, I was sour.
“Where were you yesterday?” I asked.
“Reserve duty.” He said it without the disdain Damon had. That was my Caden. Finishing what he started was to be done without complaint.
“How much of it do you remember?”
“Everything.” He sat back down and took his coffee as if he’d won the argument and could move on with his day. “I trained medics in an emergency trach. Came home American Airlines flight 45 into JFK. Plane was three minutes early. I came home, changed. Met you for dinner with the Mt. Sinai board. Had a few hours’ sleep. I fucked you. Anything else?”
“Before this morning, when was the last time you fucked me?”
“You doing an intake?”
“What day of the week is it?” I snapped an amber bottle from the corner of the counter and placed it in front of him with the label facing away.
“Monday. Why?” He wasn’t agitated. He seemed more thrown off course and trying to correct.
“Patient is male. Late thirties. One eighty and change. Symptoms include low-grade fever, persistent dry cough, chest pain. General fatigue.”
“Blood tests?”
“Mycoplasma.” I hoped I’d gotten it right. I was an MD but not a GP.
“Okay. Walking pneumonia. I’m really curious what you’re trying to prove.”
“What do you prescribe?”
“Any allergies?”
“None.”
“Ten-day course of doxycycline. Preferably Vibramycin.”
I’d piqued his curiosity, and I understood my risk. If he had a flawless memory of his time as Damon, he’d laugh at me. If he didn’t, his reaction could be anywhere between mild amusement and deadly rage.
Worst course of action ever.
I’d try to talk a patient out of it.
Not recommended.
Doctors make the worst patients.
“Agreed,” I said as I turned the bottle until the information faced him.
He picked it up, rolling it between his thumb and middle finger to read the label.
I waited. He read it again. Checking the date, maybe.
“I have a busy day,” I said. “You think about where your week went. Take a deep breath and tell me how you feel. You try to remember taking five of those and leaving the rest when you went to reserve duty. You, Caden St. John, MD, didn’t take a full course of Vibramycin because the pills are big and you didn’t like it. We’ll reconvene over dinner to talk about what’s broken.”
He put his arm in my way when I tried to pass him.
He wasn’t angry. He was something. But anger assumed some kind of passion. This version of Caden didn’t have passion. He had facts and realities, and this was the reaction he had when one of his realities was challenged.
Driven, maybe. Compelled. Motivated to correct the incorrect.
“Let me go.” My voice had been drained of hysteria, matching his emotionless state. The tone was the only nonimpulsive action of the morning.
“Before this morning,” he said, not moving his arm, “when was the last time?”
“Friday. I was on top.”
The effort to muzzle his reaction was betrayed by a blue fire in his eyes.
“You ate my pussy like a champ,” I continued. “Then you put your dick in me real slowly. You were gentle and sweet. We flipped. I straddled you and fucked you. You wanted me to come, but I couldn’t ask you to hurt me since it upsets you. So, I dug my fingernails into my palm until it bled. Then I cupped your balls while you came.”
“You made that up.”
“Did I?”
“I have him under control.”
&nb
sp; I slid the bottle toward him. “Count the days.”
“Greyson.” He stretched his leg out and leaned into me. Even sitting on the barstool, his posture was so straight he was close to my height. “You’re mine. Mine. I own your body. I own this cunt.” When he put his hand between my legs, his speed surprised a gasp out of me. “It’s the only thing I have that I care about.”
He pressed against the crotch of my trousers, pushing against the orgasm he’d promised but spitefully hadn’t delivered. Involuntarily, my hips shifted against his hand to increase the pressure.
“You,” he said, circling around. “I own you. Do you need me to list the ways?”
“Nobody owns me.”
“Since you retired your commission, I own you.” He stood, keeping his hand between my legs, crowding me against the kitchen bar. “I own your orgasms, your pain, your pleasure, your hunger. I’ve put my fingers on your heart and felt it beat. It’s mine. I own this body. Every inch of it. Every bone. Every organ. Every drop of blood.”
“I’m not a fuck doll.” I groaned at his touch. It was so perfect against me. Exactly enough to keep me in place.
“You mentioned that. And maybe I wasn’t clear. If you were a compliant object, you wouldn’t be worth owning.” He removed his hand and put it inside my waistband. My skin went electric with his touch, and my wet cunt ached for him. “Do you want to come?”
“No.” My body made a lie of my words, grabbing his arm and pushing it deeper into my pants.
He found his way under all the layers of clothing and ran a touch from the source of the wetness to the hard source of my pleasure. “You’ll come when I say.” He wrapped his other arm around me, holding my cheek still against his chest. “Only me. Not him. Don’t be confused, Greyson.”
“He’s you,” I said.
“He’s not me. I won’t tolerate him inside you.”
The ultimate betrayal is the self against the self.
My disloyal, perfidious body exploded at his insistent touch. He held me up when my knees buckled, pulling the treacherous orgasm from me and letting it linger until I thought I’d go blind.
Only when I stopped coming could I understand the word he was growling against the back of my neck.
Mine, mine, mine.
