Hell Bent (7 page)

S
usie is not a fool
; however, she is a target. Her reactions are entirely predictable, and that makes it easy to anticipate what she will do next. Women like the senator recognize this; it’s in their predator blood. I’m going to make sure it’s her undoing.

I don’t fully understand the nature of the hold that Milly has over Susie, and although I don’t think it’s calculated, Susie is protecting her friend ferociously. There has to be a reason for this, and I need to get to the bottom of it. I can’t protect her if I don’t have all the facts. The senator appears to know more about this than I do. I remember her words about Milly’s disease, whatever it is, so this is where I will begin.

Susie is making dinner, and the smell of the beef broiling in her small apartment oven is making my mouth water. Who could imagine I would feel such desire over the image of a perky cream-puff simply going through the motions of preparing food? Just watching her move feeds me—the way her hips shift when she moves from the sink to the stove, the way she leans forward to check on the steaks, making her breasts fall against the fabric of that soft pink shirt she is wearing.

This is the first time I am seeing her in anything pastel, and it emphasizes the brown of her beautiful eyes. They are eyes of compassion, of empathy, and they reveal something in her past that is haunting her.

I fight the impulse to come up behind her and cup those beautiful breasts, pulling her against me, but I’m fairly sure it will be my undoing. No matter how I touch her, she seems to fit like a puzzle piece against me.

I don’t want to curb her spirit—it is her essence and one of the things I love most. What? What did I just say? I suck in my breath, and the wonderment of the phrase I’ve just used sticks in my brain. I don’t use the word “love” with regard to women other than my mother—and that’s a different sort of love, anyway. What the hell is causing me to think of that word?

Just then, she turns toward me, holding out a serving dish. “Come and fill your plate,” she says simply, but beaming with pride at cooking for me.

This is a stirring image and only reinforces the word I used in my mind.

W
hy is
he watching me so closely? It’s not really making me feel ‘nervous,’ but more like excited. So this is what it feels like to have a man to look after? I sort of like this…no…not ‘sort of’…I like this a lot!

Luckily, this is probably the first time in my life that I am not burning the steaks. Is this some kind of omen? Why am I thinking like this? I feel all mushy and feminine…

I am still holding the plate out to him, and he is coming toward me, smiling and looking directly into my eyes. He is supposed to be looking at the food, isn’t he? Why do I feel so awkward?

He takes the plate, letting his fingers linger on the palm of my hand, and I feel a chill down my spine. The kind of chill that makes you want to huddle into warm, strong arms.

We settle to eat, and it seems like everything we say has a double entendre.
“The meat is cooked perfectly”, “How do you take yours?”, “Would you like some dessert?”
I suddenly realize that food is part of the mating ritual, the part that goes right over the head of the kids, but sparks an exchange of looks and nods that forge a path for the nighttime assignation. They say food is the language of love, and they don’t mean Grandma’s cinnamon rolls.

We are now full, and I am lingering as long as possible over the dishes. I’m wiping the top of the stove when I feel a warmth and energy behind me. I freeze. The feeling is unfamiliar, and I am like a doe that believes the hunter spots her.

Bryce’s hands are positioned one upon each of my hips. His fingers splay slowly open, covering the cheeks of my behind with their span. I instantly feel the flood between my legs, and my eyes want to roll backward in my head. There surely cannot be any better feeling than what I am experiencing this very moment.

I am wrong.

The fingers slowly massage me, the web pressing into my flesh with regular rhythm. I drop the dishcloth where it lies and lean back against him, but he pushes me upright so his hands can continue to move.

“Not until I say,” he whispers in my ear even though there is no one to hear him but me.

I close my eyes and wait, feeling the fingers move over my sensitive skin. I want to lay my hands over his, to move them, but I know I must be patient.

I finally feel the reward, and I recognize that he is in control. For some reason, this not only doesn’t bother me—I crave it. His fingers have risen a bit to slide beneath my waistband. I freeze with longing, with anticipation. With one smooth move of his hand, he unbuttons my waistband and I feel my shorts drop to the floor and pool around my ankles. The sensation of cool air only heightens the heat I am feeling within.

The fingers are back, sliding downward, pushing my panties in their grasp. I feel his foot between mine, and he gently pries my stance open. The fingers have returned, but this time they are petting the front of me, lacing their tips through my shaven pubis…and downward. I want to collapse, but he has one arm in position to hold me back against him, pressing my bare bottom into his crotch.

I try to reach backward, to lower his zipper, but his hand clamps down upon mine quickly, halting progress. He is completely in control. The rough fabric of his pants is grazing the tender skin of my bottom, and the effect is unbelievably erotic. This is nothing compared to what is to come.

Without warning, his hands are opening my pussy, an he is massaging it gently, as if pulling back the petals of a flower that is about to blossom. One long index finger is entering me while the other hand is rubbing against the swollen, electric nub of my clit. I groan, and my legs give way, but his knee comes up between my thighs and holds me steady. I am moaning, trying to turn and bury myself against him, but he still holds me in position.

I think I will lose my mind with the sensations blossoming throughout my body. I am unable to control them. I cannot move, and I cannot intensify them so that I could release. He is stopping me just at the crest and then backing me off again. Each cycle of this increases the longing.

He is kissing the back of my neck now, his lips nibbling at my ear lobes, and his breath streaming into my ear canal. I am squirming, trying to rotate my head to find his lips, but again, he will not let me.

I moan again, and I can hear his breath quickening. There is no release in the near future, and this is torture and heaven at once.

When I think I will pass out, his hand suddenly plunges beneath my crotch, and he rotates me. I am pressed now against his chest. Opening my legs, I wrap one around his hip, holding on while his hand continues to work my pussy. He picks me up and slowly takes a few steps in the direction of my bedroom. At some point, I feel the soft fabric of my quilted comforter beneath my tender bottom.

Before me, Bryce stands and slowly disrobes. As he pulls his shirt over his head, I see that his entire torso is a mosaic of tattoos, symbols, and scenes from imagination to history. There are uneven patches of skin where the ink illustrations appear interrupted, and I recognize the signs of recent skin graft surgeries. They must be from the injuries he’d sustained in Iraq. I want to touch him and kiss his wounds, but his eyes tell me to lay still.

As soon as his shirt clears his head, his hand comes down upon my pussy again, rekindling the tantalizing massage that takes me to the crest and then drops me before I can succumb.

His pants finally drop to the floor, and like his torso, his hips and buttocks continue the panoramic display of magnificent tattoo art, and some more skin graft patches. In the center of it all, his penis is enormous and erect—an inviting monument.

“Do you have a condom?” His voice comes out like a croak.

I shake my head, mentally cursing myself for being so unprepared. This isn’t something I do on a regular basis, and even though I had a feeling this was going to happen between us eventually, I didn’t realize it would happen tonight.

He sits back, running his hands through his hair. “I didn’t bring any either. Didn’t want to seem presumptuous.” He leans over me and kisses me roughly. “We don’t have to take it all the way tonight, right?”

“Right,” I breathe into his mouth.

His body is on top of mine, we’re completely naked, and when our eyes meet, we know there’s no turning back. No stopping us.

I draw in my breath, almost feeling fear, and before I know it, he has spread my legs with his hands and is moving down to enter me. I roll my head backward as his size fills me. There is the most exquisite sense of being lovingly dominated as he pins me to the covers beneath.

He looks into my eyes and whispers, “Kiss me, Susie,” and I gladly raise my head and put my lips onto his. I hear him expel a breath of satisfaction, and at the same moment, he begins to move in and out of me. Gently at first, but the speed and depth increase gradually until I feel impaled upon him, unable to pull away.

His hands are under my bottom, lifting me against him. I relax into an abandon of sensation…complete submission, and he senses this, taking responsibility for our pleasures.

As I approach that crest once more, he does not pull back this time, but increases the frequency of his loving attack. At the exact same moment that stars explode behind my closed eyes, I hear him call out, his body spasming and holding still, deep inside my cavern. My fleshy, moist walls pulse around him, and the sensation is indescribable for each of us.

Eventually he collapses onto the bed next to me and takes me into his grasp, his head bending to suckle upon my swollen nipples. It’s the perfect completion, the ideal contrast to the throbbing I feel between my legs.

I recognize that this is unlike anything I will ever know again, unless it is…with him.

I
lie there
and adorn her perspiring body with kisses. I cannot seem to get enough of her. Her flesh is sweet, her breath the scent of a new baby, and the texture of her hair is like swirling my fingers through silk. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, and I know she is asleep—something that makes me swell with pride because I know this means she trusts me.

The senator will not trouble this cream-puff again, I make a vow.

“What’s wrong?” comes her sleepy voice. My playing with her hair must’ve awakened her.

“Nothing, why?” I answer, puzzled.

“You’re frowning,” she observes, her hand coming up to smooth my cheek.

I don’t want to reveal the source of my thoughts, so I improvise. “There is something you have yet to see,” I casually mention.

“Not possible. I’ve seen all of you,” she smiles.

I hold up my foot—the toe absent, the mangled flesh framing the empty space. “This is why I came home,” I say conversationally. “Not much to look at, is it?”

She tilts her head, looking at it for a few moments and says, “Well, you’ll look like shit in strappy heels, but I think I can take it.”

“I knew you wouldn’t care,” I smile, tugging at her bare nipple with my lips.

“Oh, I care, but not about the toe,” she smiles. “Seriously, does it hurt?”

“The toe? Sometimes, a bit, especially if I exercise. My pride? Absolutely. I should still be in the field.”

“That’s wasted regret. You held up your end of the deal and believe me, you aren’t feeling the end of the toe pain. It will always be with you, and you’ll never walk like you would have. You’re a hero.”

“No. The marines who aren’t home are the heroes.”

She nods. “I see the survivors all the time,” she muses. “Sometimes, the injuries aren’t things we can bandage or repair with surgery—in fact, most of them aren’t. That doesn’t even include the families. Sometimes they suffer almost as much.”

“Yes, you’re right,” I say. “It’s something they will never forget.”

We are thoughtful for a few minutes, each of us remembering someone, each of us breathing a sigh and feeling very fortunate. She breaks the reverie.

“That’s the reason for the tats, isn’t it?”

There is a pause before I can answer, and then it comes with an expelled breath. She knows. “Yes…”

“Tell me.”

I roll away and lie flat on my back. This conversation should not be mixed with the act we are sharing. I allow a few minutes to pass, to let the original images that are now on my body to flash through my mind.

“I left before I did my part,” I choke out. “The others—they are still there and some have come home in pieces. The only thing I can do is to honor that. It’s all that’s left for me to do.”

She says nothing—she knows there is nothing to say. She doesn’t even move, and we lie quietly for quite a while. Is she asleep? No. She is thinking.

Finally she says, “Sometimes the tattoos are scars that are on the inside.”

I know there is real pain behind these words and I wait for her to explain, to elaborate, but there are no more words coming.

“Tell me,” I say simply, just as she did.

She draws up a pillow to cover herself, hugging it as a small child clings to a favorite stuffed animal.

“It was a house of lies,” she begins. “My father was an alcoholic…” she chokes this off as though it’s the first time she has said it aloud. I don’t want to reach and comfort her because I fear she will stop telling me. “My mother…an insecure woman who chose to play the fool. He drank and would come home, his paycheck gone and his manner unapologetic.” She pauses here, and I wait for her to go on. “He couldn’t keep a job, so she worked at a grocery store, standing on her feet for twelve to fourteen hours a day at the cash register. She refused to think he was not the hero she envisioned when they got married. So, she pretended. She was smart…inside…but played like she was stupid. It made it easier for her to deal with her reality, I guess. I was their only kid; they never slept together after I was born because when she was in the bed, he was in the bar. I had to take care of her, to help her keep her illusion…or she would have given up. I had to take care of him, to keep her illusion… It was a lot for a kid to do. But I did it, and I’m proud that I did.”

I sense this is all she will say, and now I reach out and pull her against my chest, in a way that is comforting. I nod so that she feels my chin at the top of her head. I pull the afghan at the foot of the bed over us, and we both close our eyes. Sometimes, it’s the only way to make the memories go away, if even for just a little while.

Before she dozes off I ask, “You’re looking out for Milly, aren’t you?”

She nods gently.

“Why?”

“She was sick when we were younger…” she whispers.

“How sick?”

“The worst kind of sick.”

I draw in my breath at the realization of what she is saying. “Does Cam know?”

She hesitates, and I realize this is at the crux of something much bigger. Her head shakes.

“Shit!”

“You can’t say anything!” she bursts.

“Is this why the senator…?” I leave the sentence unfinished.

She nods.

“That bitch!”

“Bryce, please, you can’t say anything!”

I close my eyes, contemplating the ramifications of what I’ve just learned. “What is it?”

“Lymphoma,” she says simply. “I wasn’t sure until Sabrina came here. She knows what Milly’s chances are for recurrence, and she knows whether or not Milly can have kids, and she wants it kept quiet.”

Shit! I realize then the degree of complication involved.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

There are times when you have to consider that although right and wrong are well defined, you may not always be able to see the difference. This is one of those times.

“As long as that bitch senator stays away from you, I will say nothing.”

She exhales with a whoosh, and I realize she is tense.

“Bryce?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

I hug her tightly and pull up the afghan, tucking it around the curves of her soft body. “It’s okay,” I murmur, and I mean it in many ways.