by Pandora Snow
Drake
M.E.D.I.C.S.
Book 3
Pandora Snow
Copyright @ 2020
Exclusive Amazon Release
Ian– M.E.D.I.C.S. Book 4
Sweet sexy fiancé. Check. Career helping soldiers. Check. Overprotective mother. Check. Cancer? Hell to the no. Not on my watch.
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CHAPTER ONE
The bursting barrage of shells sends us ducking for cover, my right hand holding an IV pole steady as I drop to the ground. This is the second midnight ambush in two weeks, my mind racing through the list of supplies and available beds as we wait out the attack. The Commander yells all clear as I check to ensure the private's IV connection is still secure. I rush to the supply cabinet, grabbing gloves, medicine, and needles. Soldiers are setting up beds as Sergeant Hayes ducks in. It's going to be a long, exhausting couple of hours for the medic team.
Six Months Later
"Help me, Doc!"
Soldiers are screaming in pain, shattered limbs and bloody skulls filling the infirmary after a midnight artillery strike.
"Scott!" Sergeant Hayes commands. "Start an IV, Propofol, 40mg. Private Hampton needs immediate surgery."
The controlled chaos is taxing my skills as a soldier, too many lives in critical need of urgent medical care.
"We're losing him!" Sergeant Hayes shouts. My brain is failing to function clearly and my vision is narrowing.
"Nooooo!" I scream, bolting up in bed, covered in dripping wet sheets.
"Drake, you're alright."
A soft sweet voice quietly flows into my pulsating ears. My hands rub roughly across my damp face to wipe away the after-effects of another haunting nightmare.
"I'm here for you, baby. Hold me." Rebecca's kind patient face momentarily chases away the ghosts. I embrace her warm, relaxed body, pulling her torso tightly against me.
Feeling her energy of comfort and safety is all that keeps me from going insane. These recurring nightmares have plagued my sleep since returning home from Iraq. I expected them to stop after a few weeks. Six months later, I'm no better off. Except, I have Rebecca in my arms.
We were high school sweethearts before I deployed to war. I stared longingly at her gorgeous face every single night I was away. Knowing she would be faithfully waiting for me when I returned kept me steady and grounded.
She deserves so much more than I can give her. I'm struggling in every aspect of my life, the PTSD symptoms slowly claiming my soul. Despite the well-meaning people around me, retreat feels like my only option. I've yet to contact anyone from the squad, ashamed to let on how far I've fallen.
"What do you need, Drake? How can I bring you peace and reassure your mind how much I love you?" God bless this woman. I'm not worthy of the love she gives but taking from her will bring me relief.
My unsteady hands cup her smooth cheeks, laying my damp lips on her open, willing mouth. The pads of her delicate fingers brush along my eyelids and temples, calming me. I tenderly move down along her shoulders, stroking her back. I relish in the soothing feel of her flawless naked skin, inhaling her faint lavender scent.
"Your loving body is everything I need," I whisper in her ear, my tongue gliding along the outline of her lobe. "Let me love you."
My legs kick the heavy comforter off the bed as I reposition her onto her back. The wanton gaze in her eyes resurfaces my physical desires with a roar. No one can give her intimate pleasures except me, and I'm suddenly in an extremely generous mood. It's not what my body wants; it's what my body will die without.
I kiss a hot blazing trail from her parted lips to her swelling breasts, flicking my wet tongue across her hardened right nipple. She moans with delight, the left nipple twisting between my fingers. Her fingernails are scratching the back of my neck with increasing pressure, signaling me to pull her peaks more tightly.
I smirk as she jerks her hips against mine and arches off the bed, so responsive. "More?" I ask, traveling my hands south.
"Please," she groans, spreading her lean legs wide for what's to come.
My hands caress her supple inner thighs while my mouth breathes along her tempting mound. I flick her clitoris with my tongue to gauge her level of anticipation.
"Drake!" she cries, sending my lips fully around her swollen skin.
My greedy mouth presses firmly against her. I slowly close my lips until the tip of her clit falls free.
"Please!" she shouts, the taste of her dripping juices driving me wild to make her come.
My index and forefingers press gingerly against her opening. I spear her suddenly, my tongue urgently circling her bundle of nerves in perfect synchronicity.
"Yes," she breathes out, the rocking of her hips now uncontrollable as I finish what I started.
"Come," I order, the deep voice vibrations exploding her body into a spectacular convulsing orgasm. I lick her through the waves of pleasure before realigning my straining body over a sexy, satiated Rebecca.
My saturated mouth is pressed deeply into hers as I engulf her frame, the erotic kiss eliminating all boundaries. My constricting cock is buried in seconds, hard and deep.
Her cherishing lips kiss a pattern around my mouth while her fingers spur me inside. The force of her complete surrender brings me to climax with three ferocious strokes. The euphoric release of hot cum inside her loving body sends me crashing down on top of her.
"Thank you, baby, thank you," I whisper in reverence, the lingering trauma banished from my system.
"I love you, Drake. I'll stay with you through anything. Promise you'll let me help you."
The tears in her eyes crack my thumping heart wide open. I know she'll support me through anything, but I don't know if I can help myself.
CHAPTER TWO
"Morning Boss," I call out, trudging through the mud from yesterday's rainstorm. Rebecca asked me again this morning if I would consider seeing a therapist who specializes in PTSD. I told her what I always do, maybe in a week or two.
"You're late," Johnson states, before hollering the day's assignments to the crew. At least I'm on interior duty today. I won't have to focus to the degree I would if I was roofing. Contracting for Shea Construction has been tolerable. Working with my hands provides an inherent level of satisfaction and accomplishment. I take pride in a job well-done, a lifelong skill ingrained in me by the US Army.
"Morning, Scott."
"Morning, Chuck." Private Charles Blake is also a veteran of the Iraq War. He's the one who vouched for my good name when I needed a full-time job. He has his shit together, engaged to a nice girl, moving on with his life.
I've been slow to adapt back to a civilian way of living. One of the casualties of war is my inability to prevent the traumatic events from consuming my every thought. As patient as Rebecca has been, she won't wait for me forever.
"Another storm is expected to hit around four this afternoon, let's get the drywall completed upstairs first."
"Sounds good," I reply, hauling my tools carefully up the framed-in stairs.
"Rough night?" Chuck asks as we pound nails into two by fours.
"Yeah, another nightmare. I'm good though, no problem." The frustration and lack of sleep catch up with me as I'm securing the top of a drywall sheet.
"Dammit!" I shout, a long carpenter nail piercing my skin about half an inch deep into my left thumb.
"You alright?" Chuck asks, blood running down the side of my rough hand.
"Fine, just need a band-aid." I set down my hammer and descend the unfinished stairs. I walk purposefully to the manager'
s trailer, surveying the faces around me. Hopefully, he's somewhere on-site and not sitting behind his desk, or I'll catch hell. It's not my lucky day.
I wash my hands with sanitizer and bandage the gash. I determine there's no need for stitches, anxious to blend back in with the team. I'm almost out the door without being noticed.
"Hell, Scott, what happened now?" I'm already on Johnson's watch list. I've been late three times the past month and suffered two minor cuts. I can't lose this job, or I won't make rent.
"Minor cut, it's handled," I reply. He doesn't let me off the hook that easy.
"You know, Scott, I only hired you because of Chuck's recommendation. I have no doubt you're an excellent soldier and medic, but this is the real world. If you can't keep your focus on your present life and commitments, I may have to let you go."
"Understood Boss," I respond respectfully, rushing quickly out the door. He sees my issues, and Chuck sees my issues. Poor Rebecca has to live with my issues. Why am I the only one who can't seem to accept them?
"Beer at O'Shays," one of the guys calls out as the raindrops halt the day's progress. I hate going home to Rebecca when I'm in a bad mood; a few beers will relax me.
"I'm in!" I shout, texting her to have dinner without me.
The loud music and flowing alcohol have dramatically improved my shitty day. Several veterans and I swap stories about the harsh desert conditions, each of us trying to outdo the other. Two beers later, I'm ready to see my woman.
A blinding bolt of lightning strikes directly outside the bar, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. My brain scrambles for order, the sudden dramatic force of nature paralyzing my body. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and my stomach is nauseous.
I attempt to stand and stumble, smacking my head against the hard wood floor. My brain is buzzing as I hear multiple voices calling my name, but I can't respond. I feel like I'm in a frightening nightmare and consciously awake at the same time. All I can do is close my eyes.
CHAPTER THREE
"Oh my God, Drake, are you alright?"
Rebecca's shaky voice is reawakening my awareness. I'm reclined on a small leather couch in the back of the bar, the smell of lager beer, musty office, and lavender fields strong in the air. The bar owner Bret and another soldier are talking quietly between themselves. I can't hear their words.
Soft sweet lips meet my grungy mouth, my arms stretching slowly to wrap around her petite waist. "What happened?" I ask, details in the room emerging, but no memories of why I blacked out.
"You had a panic attack, Drake," the soldier says. "You were triggered by the lightning and thunder that struck in the parking lot. You fell off the barstool and bumped your head."
My heavy hand reaches up to examine the back of my skull, finding a small knot. Rebecca gently strokes my arm, as if comforting a small child. My cylinders begin to fire as I flip through symptoms and treatments of panic attacks. Other than a bump on the head, there are no noticeable after-effects. I want to go home.
"I'll drive him, Bret. Thanks for calling me." She stands up, and he kindly shakes her hand.
The soldier grips my wrist and helps me to my feet. "Good thing I'm a medic," he smiles, patting me on the back.
"You need professional help, Drake, or this will happen again. What if you'd been driving?" His stern warning is not a request; it's an order.
"Goodnight, Maam," he says, as Rebecca takes my arm and walks us to the car. Tonight's attack is hitting me hard, realizing I could have been in danger, or worse, put Rebecca's life in danger.
The drive home is quiet, Rebecca's compassion and strength filling the night air. She leads me to bed without a word, curling up in the curve of my arm. Tonight was the wake-up call I needed to seek professional help. I breathe in her calming scent as I drift immediately off to sleep.
The bright sun blinds my eyes as I reach my sleepy arm for Rebecca. Her side of the bed is empty, but I smell freshly brewed coffee. This girl can read my mind.
My teeth are brushed clean, the taste of last night's episode washed down the drain. I tiptoe into the kitchen, sneaking up behind her for a warm squeeze and hot kiss. My desire is stoked as her silk robe reveals the beautiful shape of her taut nipples. Have mercy; she's not wearing underwear either. Maybe I'll l take her in a hot steaming shower.
"Drake," she breathes as my lips continue pursuing her beautiful mouth. "We need to talk."
Those four small words strike fear in the hearts of men everywhere. She's not going to let me glaze over my panic attack without some sort of discussion.
"Alright," I consent. The sooner we talk, the sooner we have sex.
She sets a coffee cup with heavy cream on the table, and we pull out the kitchen chairs. "I like my coffee with sugar," I say. "Sweet, just like you." Her smile is pacifying at best. She's not buying it.
"I was really scared last night when Bret called and said you bumped your head. I didn't realize you'd had a full-blown panic attack until I arrived at the bar. This is serious, Drake, you could have hurt yourself."
Her fingers are nervously squeezing my hand, the worry creating a small crease between her eyebrows. She's supported me one thousand percent. Perhaps I can open my mind to a new approach and learn to manage this lingering fear.
"I'm making you an appointment with a therapist Monday morning. I love you, and I’ll do everything I can to help you overcome your trauma. It's time for you to face this. We have an entire life ahead of us."
Her tearing eyes melt my heart as I pull her onto my lap, wiping away the sadness with my thumbs. Her lips are so soft when she cries, the vulnerable emotions honest and sincere.
"Agreed," I state simply. Her appreciative arms wrap tightly around my neck, and she kisses me with loving passion.
"Now can I make love to you?" I implore, my fingers finding their way underneath her skimpy robe and inside her tender body.
"Yes please," she breathes, surrendering to my pleasuring touch.
CHAPTER FOUR
I would have sought therapy sooner had I known how much sex Rebecca was willing to give me. We spent most of the glorious weekend basking in bed, underneath, on top, and inside one another. I think she was purposely doing everything she could to relax me for this morning's appointment. Damn, but it worked perfectly.
"Private Scott," a woman states, as I stand and walk towards the open door.
"Yes, Maam," I reply as she leads me to a smaller interior office. Rebecca handled all of the paperwork; my Army benefits covering the costs of treatment for sixteen weeks. I'm quasi curious about what protocol the doctor will prescribe for my mental stress. Rebecca takes excellent care of my physical tension.
"Private Scott, come in," an older gentleman says warmly, his firm handshake and formal demeanor putting me at ease.
"Dr. Bennett, a pleasure to meet you, soldier." He motions for me to sit on the stereotypical couch as I glance around his office. He has several formal profile shots in uniform sitting on the bookshelves and several official degrees lining the walls. I'm impressed.
"Do you have any experience with therapy?" he states as we begin the initial exploratory questioning.
"No, sir," I reply. The Army doesn't have time to teach us about mental health when we're knee-deep behind enemy lines.
"My goal is to guide you in managing your day to day tension and occasional traumatic challenges. I see on your medical form you suffered a panic attack Friday night. Can you tell me about that experience?"
I wish Rebecca had left that minor detail off the form, but that's why I'm here.
"I was having a beer with the guys after work when a red thunderstorm cell broke out above the building. The lightning and thunder triggered a mental reaction. I felt dizzy and accidentally fell off the barstool."
"How many beers did you drink?" he asks.
He's not my mother; he's my potential therapist. Why does that matter?
"Just one or two," I reply, his stoic look unwavering.
"
Miss Martin wrote on the paperwork you had four beers. She verified this count with the bartender. I'm asking so that we can understand the elements that trigger your episodes. I can teach you to reduce and eventually eliminate your negative stress events by identifying the root causes."
I don't remember having four beers. That's concerning.
"Understood, sir."
"This was my first panic attack. The initial disruption has been nightmares over the last few months."
"What's changed recently in your life? Have you moved, lost a family member, changed jobs?"
