by Haley Jenner
Using a soft suction, I pull his still erect cock from my mouth, flicking his tip one last time with a smile. His head falls back on a satisfied laugh. "Shit, baby."
No allowing myself a moment to second guess myself, I stand over him, dragging my panties down my legs. I feel his eyes on my body; inching their way up from my ankles, taking in my legs, pausing on the soft curls between my legs before moving higher to my breasts and scanning up my neck to my lips, finishing at my eyes. His eyes burn with an intense hunger I’ve spent so long missing. He used to devour my body with his eyes, his need for me insatiable, he was greedy with it. I loved it. Desired it. Needed it. Now I only see it in scattered moments, flashes when he thinks I’m not watching.
Kicking my panties to the side I drop back to my knees, straddling his waist. "That turn you on, baby?" he cuts out, his voice hoarse. A pointless question. Archer is completely aware of what watching him lose control does to me and my body. Even if he’d lost that memory, he’d easily read it of my face.
Ghosting my hand down my stomach to my sex, I drag a finger through my wetness, removing it from my body to stroke it along his bottom lip. The action makes his eyes close involuntarily around a deep groan as his tongue peaks out to taste me on his lips. Unsatisfied with only the hint of me coating his lips, Archer grabs hold of my wrist, pulling my finger into his mouth, sucking deeply. I should be embarrassed at the needy whimper that bursts from my throat, but I’m not.
Grabbing my ass in his hands, Archer pulls me forward, edging me towards his mouth. "Sit on my face, baby," he whispers.
I move fast, my eagerness earning me a full blown, wicked, Archer Dean grin. The expression halts my movements as I’m thrown back months to a time where this was our normal. I’m given just a glimpse of the man I fell in love with. The wide smile, causing the ache in my chest I’d let myself forget, for just a moment, to manifest. But I refuse to ruin this moment, to throw it away, so I rid the thought as fast as it comes in. Because, he’s in there. He smiled, big and wide and there was nothing in that moment but pure happiness. In that fleeting second he loved me completely. It was just him and I, alone, finally having succeeded in pushing his demons far enough away to find ourselves in our love.
I want this moment. Need this moment. Maybe I’m taking advantage of Archer in a vulnerable state. Maybe it’s wrong, but in all honestly, I don’t care. Right now, all that matters is that Archer is touching me, wanting to make me feel good and even if it’s just for a few hours, I’ll take it. Even if tomorrow he regrets this, even if tomorrow he reverts back to resenting me, I’ll take it. Because I need it. I need a few hours of Archer loving me, even if it’s only physically.
Settling above his face, I can feel his breath brush across my exposed flesh and my back arches reactively. Moistening his lips, I feel ready to explode looking down my naked body at his face. Intense green eyes take in my position as his tongue flicks out to glide along my clit. I grab hold of the headboard to steady myself as the touch of his mouth overwhelms me. The feeling over-powering and tormenting, causing an agonizing level of pain with the need for him to do it again. For him to release the tightly bound tension in my body with the torturous flick of his talented tongue.
Archer is relentless in his touch; alternating between sucking, licking and fucking me with his tongue. I grind shamelessly against his face and he groans in appraisal, the sounds vibrating against me, causing a delicious sensation against my most sensitive area. Coating a strong finger with my juices he returns his hold on my ass, his finger gliding along my backside, before he pushes it deep into the tight entrance. My eyes roll back in my head, my body buckling at the sensation. It doesn't take me long to come, and his strong arms keep me upright when my legs collapse as I climax against his mouth. His tongue continues to glide along my hypersensitive flesh, lightly, slowly, pulling the last shudders of my orgasm from me.
Slowly Archer pulls his mouth and hands from my body as I roll to the side, completely sated. A satisfied laugh escapes my lips. "Holy shit, Arch."
His big body leans over me, his mouth glistening in the moonlight from my release. "Need to fuck you, baby," he states and I nod in agreement. As satisfied as my body is, I need him inside me. Need to feel his heaviness stretching me.
Sitting up against the headboard, he edges his chin up in a small lift, a silent invitation for me to climb on. Straddling his lap, we look at one another for countless beats, taking in our positioning, our closeness.
It's pathetic that I'm allowing this, Archer has treated me poorly for months, but I take what I can. We haven't felt this connected, been so intimate since he left for Iraq on this last contract. Maybe this is what we need, using this strength to move us past the damage.
"Lift up," he instructs quietly and I do as he says. We both watch as he guides himself into my body, my climax allowing him to slide in easily. He glides in slowly, and I feel every inch of him fill me, stretch me open and I tip my head back on a moan of pleasure when his length is rooted inside.
"Eyes. Give me your eyes," he commands, keeping his voice low.
Coasting his palms across my entire body, one stops its movement when it reaches the side of my neck, allowing him to hold my head in place, to keep my face on his. His free hand skims my side, resting on my maple leaf lightly. "Slow, Belle," he orders.
Lifting leisurely, I feel his length pull slowly from my body, tantalizing my inner walls on his exit. The feeling is just as powerful as I slip back down, burying him deep within my body.
Our eyes stay connected throughout. Our mouths, almost touching, so close I can taste his breath. My hands stay rooted on his shoulders as I use his body as leverage to fuck him slowly. I can feel every inch of him as he slides in and out lazily. Our bodies, so close that my clit drags along his pubic bone with each movement, only adding to the feeling building inside of me.
I almost tell him I love him when I come, biting the corner of my lip to stop the words from spilling out when I see the sadness in his eyes. He wants it, I can see it clearly on his face, but he doesn't ask for it either. Archer explodes inside me shortly after I reach it, almost silently, his heavy breathing and tightening hands the only indication.
After, we settle into our bed and he arranges my body like always, with no space between his chest and my back, one of his strong thighs bent between my legs. Burying his nose in my hair he breathes in deeply before planting a soft kiss to the base of my neck.
I hear his breathing even out quickly; the emotion of the day having exhausted him into sleep fast.
I scream out in pain, startling awake. I attempt to sit up but my movement is halted due to the weight on my arm. Tears burn my eyes as they follow the source of pain and I see Archer's hand, wrapped around my upper arm in a vice like grip, his knuckles white with pressure.
He’s covered in sweat, mumbling incoherently in restless sleep. His big body is shifting, his back arching in pain on a strangled sob. I haven't seen one of his nightmares in months, granted he sleeps in a separate room nowadays, but this is one of the worst I've seen. My heart feels the heaviness of his pain, far outweighing the agony of my arm.
"Archer, wake up," I whisper, hesitate to startle him. Another sob breaks from his lips as his hold on my arm tightens, causing me to cry out in pain. Tears wet my cheeks, not only from the pain inflicted on my arm, but for Archer's agony. His suffering more damaging to my heart than anything. I love this man and I hate that he has accepted the anguish he now lives in.
"Arch, baby, please wake up," I cry, shaking him softly. It takes several attempts to break into his nightmare, but eventually he wakes, completely terrorized. Dubious of his surroundings he throws away my touch with an immense amount of force, causing me to fall from our bed, and I land on my naked ass. I stifle the grunt of pain waiting to cross my lips as I stand slowly, unwilling to startle him further. His breathing is heavy as his body tries to regulate his heartbeat. Uncertainty radiates from his panicked stare as his eyes flick around t
he room, bringing him back to reality. When his eyes fall on me, I can see the exact moment his heart cracks. I think it’s a memory that will live with me forever. A memory that will haunt me incessantly. He swallows deeply around the bile working his Adam's apple as his lungs attempt to gulp in air at the same time, causing him to choke on his own breath.
"Belle, baby, did I hurt you?" his voice reaches my ears, strained and panicked around a heart-wrenching sob. Jumping from our bed he rushes towards me, checking me over, and taking inventory of my entire body. Noticing the redness of my arm, he lifts it to look closer and I wince in pain. I want to kick myself for reacting in anyway, I’m furious that my body choose to betray me, giving him more reason to disconnect, to push me further away. "Baby, what did I do? What have I done?" his words are almost inaudible but the haunting crack in his tone hits me as though he’s shouted it.
"Arch, baby, I'm fine. You had a nightmare. It's fine. I'm fine," I cry, trying to reassure him, furious at my body’s continual betrayal; so much so, I want to punch myself in the face. Tears? Really, Annabelle? Right fucking now?!
Archer misreads my emotions. Mistakes my tears as a consequence of my physical pain and not what they really are; tears of pain, for his vulnerability, for his hurt. But he’s blinded by my bruising, the tears falling from my eyes, by his own insecurities. Dropping my arm softly to my side, he takes his first step away from me, making me cry harder.
"No," I start, but he shakes his head. It's slight but poignant and I know in this moment that nothing I say or do will fix this. Turning in a rush he searches for his clothes in frenzy, glancing at me like a startled animal as he dresses.
Years ago, at Josh’s funeral, I thought Archer was at a point of such immeasurable pain that he’d never fight his way through.
I was wrong.
I thought that I’d never seen and would never again see that level of hurt in someone’s eyes.
I was wrong.
I thought that I would never again see someone, who was very much alive, look like they wished they were dead.
I was wrong.
Because standing in front of me, dressing as fast as his body will allow, while I stand completely naked – both physically and figuratively, watching on – I see it all. I watch a level of pain no one person should endure, while still breathing, radiate from Archer’s eyes. I watch as the final spark of life I was clinging to inside of him, die right in front of me. Disappear from his emerald eyes as I watch on, not being able to do a single fucking thing to stop it.
"Arch," I try again, but he stops me with a strangled "Don't.”
Full clothed he almost steps towards me, hand outstretched, but he stops his advance, pulling a fist to his mouth, biting his knuckle. Our eyes meet briefly before he flees our bedroom, running down the stairs. Throwing the front door open, he rushes to put as much distance between us as possible. I follow his path, stopping at our front door as I watch him kick the tire of my Jeep over and over again. Letting out an agonized scream that cuts into the stillness of the night, he clears the tears from his eyes. Defeated, he walks away, putting greater distance between us as he crosses the lawn to Janie’s, arms braced at the back of his head.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Archer
Where the fuck is she?
I pace the lounge room of our house, a home we built together, a place I now resent. It reminds me of all the things I’ve lost, of what could’ve been. I hate it here. No matter where I look I see memories that I used to savor, that meant everything to me. The same memories that now taunt me. They’re tainted. How could they be real? I’ve built them into something they weren’t; I had to, because if they were as happy as my brain tells me they were, why can’t they pull me through? Why can’t the promise of moments like those help me past the darkness?
I check my watch; Belle should have been home an hour ago. What the fuck?! Like I need to prolong this shit. I’m sober, for the first time in a really fuckin’ long time and it has me on edge. It’s making me think clearly, bringing me into a state of awareness that I don’t care to enter. Letting me remember and worse, care about the way I’ve treated Belle. I didn’t think it was possible, but sober, my self-loathing multiplies at a rate too fast to count.
I need a drink. Maybe just a shot of something, just to take the edge off. Anxiously, I tear open the cupboards of the kitchen, living, lounge; searching for anything. It’s futile; I know she would never keep booze in the house these days, like it makes a fucking difference.
I sink to the floor in our sitting room and bang my head against the wall in frustration. The wall shakes with the force, causing a frame to drop to the floor, the sound of breaking glass, even on the carpet, cutting to my ears. Picking up the broken frame, I shake the shards of glass from the photo. When I see our faces framed by cracked glass, the wind leaves my breath and constricting pressure cuts off my airways. I stare at Belle’s face, her thick dark hair mostly hidden by her beanie and big chocolate colored eyes staring into my own. Her smile bright, looking up at me like I’m the key to her happiness. Her love for me so open and my features, while so much harsher than hers, reflecting the exact level of emotion.
These are the memories that do more harm than good now. I thought coming home, seeing how happy we were, how much we meant to one another would help push the emptiness away. But it doesn’t, and if Belle can’t pull me back, what fucking hope do I have?
Last night, fuck, she looked so scared. Of me. The thought of hurting her makes me physically ill, last night I couldn't keep the bile down, knowing that I had put my hands to her. I know emotionally I’ve been destroying her for months, but seeing the angry red marks on her arm, knowing there’ll be bruises. Fuck.
I throw the broken picture back to the ground and rub my hand down my face. My eyes sting, a lump forms in my throat and my chest hurts. I thought I’d hit rock bottom after Josh died but the emptiness in my soul then was nothing in comparison to now. I’m freefalling past the depths of rock bottom with no traction to catch myself.
Finally, after what feels like hours, I hear her footsteps jog up the porch and I swallow deeply, standing when the front door clicks open. She doesn’t expect to see me; I see it in her eyes; the shock, the hope. It’s like a fucking knife, the hope. Why does she have to look at me like that? Why can’t she just give up, move on?
“Arch, babe, I didn’t realize you were home. I would’ve come home straight from work,” she says, her voice unsure. Another knife.
My Belle never used to be unsure; she was strong and feisty, but these last few months have broken her down. She doesn’t know how to be around me anymore, which is a stark difference from before. Even as kids, our interactions were effortless. Now she wrestles with her emotions daily; sometimes anger pulls through, other times it’s the sadness, but mostly she lives in denial. I assume it would be easier for her that way. Does she live in denial for herself? Selfishly pretending this isn’t our life anymore. Does she go through each day living in a false bubble, convincing herself that I’m the better version of me? But then how could that be selfish? Really, when I think about it, which I try not to allow, how could I accuse her of self-preservation? If that’s the reality, surely it would cause her heart and mind more damage. Surely not accepting our fate is more harmful for her in the long run. Will it hit her harder in the end? Is her denial easier for me, or for her? I’d say me. Once again my girl is selfless to a fault, loving me to her own detriment. Saving me from the agony of watching her heart break by pretending everything is okay. Giving herself an inflated sense of hope, only to have me continually pull it from underneath her cloak of denial, making the fall a whole lot higher down. A lot more painful.
“Where you been?” I question. I know I have no right to ask and I don’t want to care but my need to know where she goes, who she’s with is all consuming.
“I…. I uh go for walks now when I finish work. I explore some of the lakes and mountains around here……Kills the time y
ou know,” she answers and I see the heartbreak in her words.
Belle hates this house as much as I do. Hates being surrounded by memories of what used to be. Massaging her hands in a nervous gesture, her eyes fall to the fallen frame and back to me in question.
“Fell off the wall,” I give in a half-assed explanation.
Nodding slowly, she makes her way over to where the broken frame lies, keeping her eyes downcast, shunning me from the emotions her face would give away. Glass cracks under her boots and I grimace at the sound. Her finger glides over the image of us in happier times as her bottom lip worries between her teeth. She’s deliberate in her touch, careful not to catch her skin on the jagged glass.
Her arms are encased in long sleeves, hiding the marks I put on her. Bile rises in my throat as my eyes fixate on the fabric. Ashamed that she chose to protect me with her choice of wardrobe. I want to push the shirt up, see what I did to her. Show her that I'm not good for her. Make her see reason and show her what I am capable of.
Moving my focus back to her face, I know she’s somewhere else, reminiscing. I hate that too. Living in the past only gives her false hope.
“Different life, Annabelle,” I cut her thoughts off. I hate using her full name. Annabelle. It doesn’t sound right on my tongue, but it helps me build the distance I convince myself I need. Using Belle only gives her hope, and hope only adds to the knife wounds she inflicts into my chest.
“Huh?’ she raises her head to look at me, having not heard my words.
“The photo. A different life,” I explain and her head gives a slight nod in acknowledgement.
Her head drops back to the picture and she looks at it for what feels like hours, yet, only a minute or so passes. She places the broken frame on the table before meeting my eyes. “We’ll get there, Arch,” she starts, but I cut her off, “No we won’t. That life is done Annabelle. Why can’t you fucking see that?” I snap.
