“Certainly. Anything, anything at all, for one of Clint’s comrades,” she said with an engaging smile.
He watched her ass as she walked across the room and through the doorway that lead to the kitchen. Clint hadn’t lied. She was stunning. Tall and willowy, dressed in black slacks and a gray button-up cashmere sweater, she looked elegant. And the way she wore her hair, loose and long, curling over her shoulders was sexy as hell. But it was her eyes that really grabbed him. A beautiful jade green shot through with silver and black flecks. When she returned, he admired her breasts, high and full, outlined by one of those “put-me-on-the-shelf-and-show-me-off” bras if he wasn’t mistaken. A scant half-inch lower and he’d be able to delineate her nipples. Sadly, it was not.
She handed him his drink and he watched as she went over to a carved oriental cabinet and lifted a carafe from the center circle of six wine glasses. She poured a deep burgundy liquid into one of the glasses, stopping when it was barely half full. It appeared the lady was a connoisseur of red wine. He smiled and held his glass high in a toast, “To this bloody war being bloody well over!”
“Amen to that,” she breathed and took a seat on the side of an armchair. He placed his hat on an end table and moved to the sofa. Thoughtfully, he took a coaster from a small wooden rack, placed his drink on it, and pulling at the crease just above the knees to keep his dress pants from grabbing at his muscular thighs, he sat gingerly as if the sofa belonged to a child.
“Are you in pain?” she asked with concern.
“No ma’am, just came from a damn medal ceremony where I had to stand for two hours in these new shoes.”
She looked down; the black dress shoes were spit shined and clearly brand new. At over six feet tall he had to have big feet. These shoes were probably too small. “Did you get a medal,” she asked with a teasing smile.
He grinned back at her, “Of course. That’s one thing the new army knows how to do, pin medals on the injured in a very timely fashion. I was just released from Walter Reed two days ago.”
“So where are you staying?”
“I’m billeted on post, in the officer’s quarters. Not too bad, especially when you consider where I’ve been sleeping for the past few months—The Flintstones’ Hilton—caves on the sides of mountains.”
“Well you must stay and have dinner with me.”
“You will get no argument from me. I’m already sick of mess hall chow.”
“So Chicken Parmesan would work for you?”
“A bowl of Life cereal would work for me, so don’t put yourself out.”
“It won’t be any trouble. I love to cook and I miss cooking for a man,” she said wistfully.
“Uh, that reminds me . . . I have something from Clint for you.” He dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “He wrote it in a hurry while we were waiting for the chopper and all he could find to write on was the graph paper from the medic’s field kit EKG, but here it is. Before you read it, you should know that I know what it says. He told me what he was going to write before he wrote it.” His eyes met hers and held.
She thought he was trying to tell her something, but from his sheepish grin, the only message that conveyed was that everything was all right. She took the folded, creased, and sweat-stained paper from him as if it was a treasured piece of Sanskrit and then she took her time unfolding it.
“I can wait outside while you read it if you’d like.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll take it to the bedroom. You just relax, and enjoy your drink. Help yourself to more scotch, it’s on the counter in the kitchen.”
She took the paper, and reading it as she walked, she made her way down the hallway to the bedroom.
My Darling Caliente,
How do I say all I want to say to you? I miss you so much and love you so completely. I wish more than anything that we could be together right now. I dream of you nightly, kiss you everywhere, and fuck you tirelessly in both my daydreams and my night dreams. I miss us, I miss our lovemaking, and I miss seeing the pleasure in your eyes as you come for me. Callie, you are what I am
living for.
By now you know it could be several more months before I can come home to you and feel your wonderful quivers of delight while you lie under me. During our short marriage I have learned how your body responds to every touch, every lick, every caress, every kiss. And I have learned that you cannot go without sex indefinitely. Since you’ve never been very proficient at self-pleasuring (and believe me, if I wasn’t an expert before, I surely am now), I have a proposition for you. I want you to allow Rand to be my proxy. I know this is a strange request but please hear me out. I want you to allow him to be your substitute husband while I’m away. He is the only man I would ever trust to take my place in your bed, the only man I know worthy enough to fill your body. The only man capable of doing to you the things you need done to you, while being both tender and loving, and reverently respectful of you and your body.
As men in the field do, we’ve talked about our sex lives and our women extensively. Rand is currently single, having broken ties with his girlfriend before shipping out, but I know how much he cared for her. And after comparing notes, he and I agree that we are both aggressively bent and like to do some of the same things to our women. He has assured me that he will do everything in his power to please you. So . . . please take my best friend to our bed and allow him to ease your lusts. Let him be your surrogate husband. I know by now that you must be strung so high that you’re crawling out of your skin. Please know that there will never be any recriminations from this. I sanction this with my whole heart. I give you to him gladly in hopes that you two, my most favorite people in the world, can make some sense of this madness we call war, and satisfy each other’s needs. Of course, when I come home, I will expect you to prefer me to him. So, sate yourself for a while, but when you hear that I am on my way back to you, send him away. Now . . .go play.
Your loving husband,
Clint
After carefully refolding the letter and tucking it into her underwear drawer, she walked back down the hallway. Not seeing Rand in the living room, she walked into the kitchen. He was leaning against the counter, his feet crossed at the ankles, his back to the cabinets, looking down at the drink in his hand.
“I didn’t realize you guys were quite that close,” she said.
She had been crying, he could see the tracks of tears on her cheeks and her eyeliner was smudged from wiping her eyes.
“Well, not physically. We both like women—exclusively.”
“So . . . my husband wants you to fuck me.”
“He didn’t say that. At least not to me. Not in that exact way anyway.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what did he say, exactly?” There was a tinge of anger in her voice.
“He said you might be hurting, that you might need someone. That maybe I could help.”
“Do other officers do this? Give their wives to their men? Is this a common thing in the new military?”
“I don’t know. I don’t talk to other men about these issues. Clint is the only one I can talk to about practically anything. As to officers giving their wives to their men, Clint and I are the same rank; we are equals in that regard. I am not his man, nor is he mine. We are friends—friends who help each other out, no matter the prob. . .task.”
“So, I’m a task, some chore to tackle, something to scratch off the to-do list?”
“I was going to say no matter the problem, but looking at you, I can see no problem whatsoever.” His eyes roved over her body, drinking her in from head to toe. She could see the appreciation as his eyes skimmed her, focusing and holding an intense heated gaze as his eyes lingered on her sweater-clad breasts and then lower, to the crotch of her slacks. �
�No, no problem, at least none that I can see—other than your attitude. You don’t seem very accepting of this arrangement.”
“Well why should I be? Why should I even consider you as my husband’s replacement?”
“From the many discussions he and I have had—and forgive me for being blunt—but we are of the same mind when it comes to women: we both would rather feast on a woman’s cunt than have a toe-curling blowjob; we are both very well endowed; not at all adverse to using toys; wholly into buggery, which I’m told is a favorite with you; and we both fancy ourselves to be Doms, if only in the loosest sense of the word—hence we like submissive women, which by the way, you are not turning out to be. I might add, that we both know how to treat women—diligently, with patience, respect, and finesse. And also with a firm hand when necessary,” he added with a wink. “In short, we both adore women. And we have both had years of experience giving women pleasure. There. That’s my sexual resume. I’m applying for the position of surrogate husband.”
“This is absurd!” She searched the counter tops and then mumbled, “Did you see my wine glass?”
“I believe you left it in the living room.”
She spun on her heel and left the kitchen. He followed. Then watched as she snatched up her glass and plopped down onto the sofa. Glaring up at him and sipping her wine, she snapped, “I don’t even know you.”
“I don’t know you either, but I’m willing to get to know you . . . and eager to learn all your secrets,” he said, lowering his voice while raising an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth at the same time. It was sexy as all get out.
She tilted her head and frowned at him, “Of course you are.”
“Hey, I’m a discriminating guy.”
“That’s another thing—”
“Your husband already asked me all the safe sex questions. I’ve been cleared.”
“Even thinking about this is lunacy!” She gulped down a hefty portion of wine. “No, I won’t. I can’t possibly. I love my husband.” She took another sip of wine, draining the glass. He walked over, got the carafe and refilled it.
“Love has nothing to do with what he’s proposing.”
She took another sip while she watched him move around the room as if he owned it, as graceful as a Ninja, which she supposed, he kind of was—the six-foot- five kind. Nothing about this man was short, puny, or undeveloped. God no.
Her eyes followed his movements as he fingered things, picking them up and putting them down, and she felt his touch vibrate through her with each thing he touched. How was that possible? She watched him brush his fingertips over a small stone sculpture of a naked lady reclining on a chaise being hefted by her slaves, and she shivered from his touch. He ran a finger over the statue’s smooth breasts and her own nipples stiffened. She had stroked that same piece countless times, it was marble and cold, but the sight of him idly stroking it was heating her blood, boiling it really.
She drained her glass and reached out to put it on the coffee table. She missed and bobbled it. He spun and caught it before it hit the floor. Their eyes met, inches apart, it was the closest they had been to each other and she could smell him. He smelled of spice, scotch, musk, and man. Hungry man. He placed the glass on the table and stood, never taking his eyes from hers.
“I love my husband! And I miss him terribly! I want him here with me, not you!”
Then, to her total humiliation, she started sobbing, heart wrenching sobs that came from her chest, bubbling up and causing her to gasp for breath, making her convulse and shake. He gathered her into his arms, lifting her against his chest and then he turned to sit on the sofa. He held her snug against him as she cried into his shirt. He held her for a long time; eventually lifting her higher onto his lap so he could wrap both arms around her as she alternately sobbed, cried softly, and hiccupped into his shoulder.
It was killing him to see her in so much pain. When he could no longer stand it, he gently turned her, laid her with her head on the bolster of the sofa, and began to kiss her collarbone and nibble on her neck. Her smooth skin smelled of jasmine and it drove him wild. He had to taste more of her. As he kissed up her neck to her ear, lingering and listening to her soft mewling whimpers, he began to unbutton her sweater. It had a long row of tiny pearl buttons which he slowly and meticulously undid, but she didn’t stop him. He took his time, giving her every opportunity to stay his hand, to deny him the next button as his lips continued the leisurely foray up and down the side of her neck.
When her sweater was completely unbuttoned, he spread the plackets wide and caressed her soft abdomen. Then he flicked the single button on her slacks and eased her zipper down. Her eyes opened wide and she whispered, “No.”
“Yes.”
“I miss my husband.”
Taking a handkerchief from his pant’s pocket he folded it over three times and tied it over her eyes. “I am your husband,” he whispered in her ear as he blindfolded her. “Pretend I’m Clint. For tonight let me be your husband. Let me love you as he would if he were here. Call me Clint, forget his friend was ever even here.” His voice was soft and seductive, his tongue laving the whirls of her ear, masterful, practiced, and reminiscent of the man she loved.
His fingers traced the tears on her face, wiping them dry, then his palm cupped her cheek and she moved her face into the caress. She was his. For now.
Chapter II
He knew the things she liked, knew the things that would drive her wild. Clint had told him all he needed to know. Men preparing to die bared their souls; they shared an intimacy unlike at any other time in their lives. Two times in six years he and Clint had sat facing each other, surrounded by the enemy and out numbered in spades, and each time they had talked late into the night, telling all manner of secrets to keep the fear at bay. The last time, just a few weeks ago, over the course of three days, he had learned everything there was to know about Callie, her unique desires, and the ways that Clint had found to satisfy them.
Then a few days later as Clint had sat beside Rand talking to him to keep him conscious while they waited for the helicopter, he had given him this sacred mission. He sent him home to care for his young wife. Knowing it was the type of mission they were both used to—covert, dangerous, and terrifying in its on way—he gave his trust to Rand. He was confident that Rand could bring sensual pleasure to the woman he loved, as right now, he was unable to.
Rand stroked Callie’s smooth tummy, letting his fingers dip into her slacks and under the edge of her panties until he could lightly caress her soft curls. When she moaned, he backed off. His fingertips moved to trace the crests of her breasts where they delved under the lace cups of her barely-there demi-bra to press and eventually pull a nipple into view.
When the hard nub peaked over the edge of lace and felt the cool air of the air conditioner fanning it, she hissed. He shushed her as he gently flicked it back and forth with the barest tip of his index finger. This time she moaned. He abandoned that breast and did the same to the other. Looking down at her and taking her in, he had to bite his lip to keep from groaning at the sight. With her tits hiked up so that her nipples were displayed over her bra and with her panties pushed down to reveal the beginning triangle of her soft dark curls, she was lust incarnate.
He could have stared at her for hours but knew she would be expecting more from her husband, hence more from him. He reached over and deftly unsnapped the center clasp of her bra. It sprung wide and her breasts spilled out. She sobbed at the sensation and moved to cover herself. He didn’t know if she was upset due to the sensuousness of her breasts being exposed or if it was due to the fact that she was allowing a virtual stranger to view her like this, to see her displayed in such a blatant manner. He didn’t much care what the reason was, he wasn’t stopping now.
He took her hands in his and raised them over her head. Her wineglass was on the
coffee table. He lifted it and forced her palms to cup the bowl of the glass. He saw her brows arch over the top of the blindfold when she realized what he had done. There wasn’t much left in it, less than an inch, but if she moved, red wine would spill everywhere. She was a meticulous housekeeper; she knew what letting go would mean.
She gasped then blew out a long sigh that indicated either pleasure or acquiescence. He assumed the best scenario and capitalized on her pleasure. He used his fingertips to caress, stroke, and circle her full breasts, careful not to touch the now ultra sensitive tips. After many minutes spent massaging and exploring the underside of her breasts, he stopped to just admire her. He watched in amazement as her nipples puckered. He smiled, as he knew she was waiting until he’d had his fill of looking at her, drinking in the sight of her. Knowing he was examining her chest, and that he could for as long as he liked, was making her hot—ready—titillated in the truest sense of the word. He could sense it—see it in the arch of her back as she offered herself to him. He bent over her and gave her what he knew she wanted. He gripped a nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinched, tugging her nipple away from her body. Instantly she arched and keened.
“You like that, I know you do,” he whispered, keeping his voice low, no more than a whisper, so she wouldn’t place it as one other than her husband’s. With his left hand, he did the same to her other nipple, then both at the same time, over and over. Gently twisting, tugging, pulling. Soon she was sobbing and begging, “Please, please . . .”
“Please what?” he breathed into her ear.
“Please fuck me.”
Flash Drive Page 3
