Duty: A Secret Baby Romance

* * *

“
H
ey
, sexy,” a soft, familiar voice purrs behind me. “Looking for some action?”

I turn from the tree that I'm leaning against to see Lindsey walking up to our secret spot here by Round Pond, her fantastic ass swaying with each step. She's let her hair out, and it hangs long and free, just how I like, glimmering in the early spring sunset.

I’m a lucky man,
I think to myself.
Lucky and cursed, but I can't help it
. My mouth waters just looking at her.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” I breathe, pulling her into me. I’m immediately enveloped in her natural clean, heady fragrance that makes my cock stiffen in my pants. “I've been thinking of you all day.”

Lindsey grins up at me. “You’re just saying that.”

“Oh yeah?” I pull her in for a hard, lingering kiss. Since coming clean with each other, I can't get enough of her, and as I swirl my tongue around in her mouth, I press into her, letting her feel my throbbing cock in my pants. She gasps when I pull away, panting for breath. “Does that feel like I’m bullshitting you?”

Her hand pressed to her breasts, she gulps, shaking her head.

“Good. ’Cause there’s more where that came from,” I say lustfully. I know I shouldn’t. It's too early in the evening, and there's too much of a chance of us being discovered, but I move in closer.

Lindsey places a hand on my chest, stopping me in my tracks. She casts a furtive glance back at Central Area, just a little over a half-mile away and visible down the hill. “You know we shouldn’t,” she murmurs, her voice heavy. “We're pushing our luck as it is. You're still in your PT uniform.” 

She’s right. We shouldn’t be doing this. She’s an enlisted, and I’m a cadet in training to be an Officer. But it’s gotten addicting, getting together here at West Point. I can tell she wants this as much as I do. I don’t know if I can resist and wait until the next time I get to take leave, or even until this weekend, when I can sign out a bike and the two of us can ride away on a 'training ride' for an hour. I don't know if I can resist her, even if it gets me in trouble.

We know that what we’re doing is against all the rules. If we get caught, there will be hell to pay. But fuck, I can’t turn back now. I wouldn’t forgive myself for what would happen to Lindsey if we were caught, but I’m too invested now.

“Fuck the uniform. I can’t stop,” I growl, my body throbbing with need. “Besides, you can’t leave me hanging like this.”

She gives me a mischievous smile that makes my cock throb in my shorts. Damn, she’s being a real tease tonight. She must have really gotten worked up when we played phone date last night. “Who said I’m going to leave you hanging?” She nods toward the trees. “I just want to make you work for it. You know, triathlete and all.”

This is a challenge. A challenge I can’t refuse. A challenge I’m looking forward to.

“You know I like challenges,” I say eagerly.

She begins to move away. “Thirty second head start.”

I hold in my grin. This will be easy. There’s no way she’s getting away from me. She might give me a run for my money on our bikes, but not on foot. “You're on.”

She takes off running, bounding like a deer down the dirt trail that leads away from the pond and toward the hills. I wait thirty seconds before going after her. Up ahead, I see a blur of color as she weaves in and out of trees. Not for long. I pump my legs as fast as they will go, leaping a dead log to cut the distance some more.

It only takes a few more large strides of my legs until I can reach out and take her body in my arms. I fall to the ground with her in my embrace, and she squeals with the excitement of being caught as if we were teenagers. My shoulder slams onto the ground, but I’ve got her on my chest so that she won't be hurt at all. 

She looks down, pushing her body up and off me with both of her hands on my chest. Her breasts rise and fall with deep breaths, and she stares into my eyes, a small smile playing on her face. My arms are wrapped around her waist, and as I move a hand to cup her ass, her eyes widen. Lust clouds her eyes, and I let the beast that’s been clawing to get to her out. I crush my lips against hers and love the feeling as she moans into my mouth.

I roll over and pin her under me, caging her in, never breaking our kiss.

“We can’t,” she breathes into the hot air between us, but I’m not listening. I kiss along her jaw and then down her neck as my fingers work to unbutton her pants. I’ve wanted her for so long. “The sun's still up, Aaron.”

Don’t do it, man. You’ll regret it.
 I pause as the words run through my mind. I peer down into her eyes, and guilt threatens to overcome my lust. Such sweet innocence. I shouldn’t be doing this. If we get caught, I could ruin her. I could ruin myself. I should get up and leave.

But the look in her eyes says it all. She wants me. All of me. Right fucking now.

I groan. I can’t take it anymore. Sometimes, the best things come with risk. “I fucking want you, Lindsey.” I tear at her clothes until she’s bared to me. My breathing comes in shallow pants as I look down at her flushed skin and her beautiful, curvy body.

“I want you too,” she whispers. Her eyes are full of vulnerability.

This is forbidden. We’re not supposed to be doing this. We're not supposed to be seeing each other, we're not supposed to be having sex, and we sure as fuck aren't supposed to be feeling for each other the way we do right now.

But as I gaze into her eyes and see nothing but desire back, I’ve already made up my mind.

Her needs are not only mine to fulfill. They’re my duty.

I
'm sweating
, even though it's cool and clear outside the classroom. Stress can do that to you, and for me, physics is stress-inducing to the extreme. I just can't quite wrap my head around some of the equations, and I'm the type of guy who needs to understand
why
before I can really get a good grasp on
how
to do something.

It's got nothing to do with the weather. Summer this year was hot as fuck, and most of us sweated our asses off out at Camp Buckner, but fall has finally started to come to the Hudson River valley. Thank God. Another long ride in the blistering afternoon sun wasn’t something I was looking forward to. Maybe that's why I spent most of my training time working on swimming the first half of the semester. Now though, the fall has finally come, and I can get some damn work in on the weak points of my game.

Up front, Major Thompson, our Physics instructor, is tapping at the board, trying to get us to understand the slope problem that he's got up there. Of course, to try and make it seem 'interesting', the vehicle isn't just any car, but it’s a Stryker armored vehicle. Leave it to the United States Military Academy. They'll jam something military-based into every little nook and cranny they can.

One thing I've learned so far from my semester of physics . . . when it comes time to pick my mandatory engineering track, I sure as hell am not choosing something physics-based. I don't care how cool the catapults and little robots the mech engineers make are, or how impressive the juice guys are, getting to play around with real electrical generators. I'm staying as far away from this shit as I can.

Thankfully, before the Major can ask any of us twenty-four slightly stupefied and totally wasted-out cadets what the answers are to the problem he's jamming on the board, class time is up. “Okay, everyone, if you want more explanation, check on page eighty-seven of your textbooks. Remember, you have a test on this next week, and I guarantee you, there will be something like this problem on the quiz. Section leader.”

Classes at West Point are run military-fashion, which means at the beginning of each class, everyone stands at attention and the so-called 'section leader' reports to the instructor the status of everyone. All I can say is, thank God I'm not in the Old Corps. They had to march together from class to class sometimes.

Fuck that.

Leaving the classroom, I hurry out of Bartlett Hall, ignoring the few folks who give me a wave. If I'm going to catch the best of the weather, I've got to rush, although I've been rushing for a year and a half now. Firmly into the thick of my yuk year, the year most regular people at regular colleges call sophomore year, I'm just used to hauling ass from place to place.

The main problem is that my barracks is far from where I need to go next. I hurry up to the third floor, where I find my roomie, Matt Cho, already changing for intramurals. He's got on the ugly yellow pants that DPE issues for those crazy enough to play intramural football along with his pads and helmet, which are sitting at the foot of his bed. “Yo, Cho.”

“How was Phys-yuks?” he asks, fiddling with the retention strap on his glasses. It slips off the right bow again, and he slams his hand down on his desk in frustration.
“Fucking hate these things. Strap keeps getting fucked up.”

“Why not just buy a decent strap instead of fucking with that 550 cord that you keep insisting on using? Or better yet, you're playing football. Just go hit the motherfucker not wearing a black jersey,” I say, yanking my tie loose. Gotta hand it to West Point. The rest of the Army might be catching on to the fact that people have modernized and that the military is now a ninety-nine-percent field uniform service, but West Point keeps its traditions. Whether it's the twenty-seven pound, all-wool long overcoat we wear for the Army-Navy game, the parade uniforms that date back to the 1800s, or the 'as for class' uniform that I'm pulling off now with its black nylon shirt, black tie for fall and winter, polyester blend gray pants that come straight from the seventies, and black dress shoes, we keep our damn traditions.

Unfortunately for me, I keep another one of my personal
traditions as I yank my tie off. My name tag, the same black plastic that officers use, catches on my tie and rips away from the metal pin backing, flying across my desk to bounce off my bookshelf. “Goddammit! That's four times this semester!”

“At least there are only two months of classes left this semester,” Cho notes, chuckling. “You spend more money on supergluing those damn name tags of yours together than you would if you just took the extra two seconds to take your tie off right.”

Cho and I have been roomies before, back when we were plebes. We tolerate each other, so at least I don't have it as bad as the girls on the floor below. The Corps of Cadets always tries to room people together in the same year group, and a few of the women in my company just
hate
each other. Seriously, I've thought of going downstairs a few times and telling them to shut the fuck up. Sarah and Jordan go at it like an old married couple, and the only thing stopping me is that Sarah's my squad leader, a year ahead of me in rank. I don’t need her on my dick. But you try concentrating when shit's being thrown at the walls downstairs.

“Nah, I'll just put in another order online,” I say. I go over to my footlocker and pull out my clothes for sports. Being on the triathlon team has its advantages, the main one being that I don't have to dress like everyone else does. Instead of the loose jogging pants or standard shorts that everyone else wears, I pull on the full-length padded cycling tights that make sure I don't snag any fabric in a sprocket or chain. “By the way, you got any glue?”

“Yeah, you can use it when you get back,” Cho bitches before pulling on his glasses. “How do the BCGs look?”

Cho insists on calling the glasses by their nickname, BCGs, or birth control glasses, because nobody has ever, ever gotten laid wearing a pair of them. I bet you could put one of those Instagram girls in the middle of Washington Plain buck ass naked except for the glasses, and she'd get no play at all.

“You look ready to go fuck shit up. Who are you guys playing today?”

“H company today, man. We win, we go to the playoffs. We lose, season's over. We get to the playoffs, and Captain Larson said he's giving the intramural team a week of PMI. Fuck, I could use a week of relaxed room inspections,” Cho says with more passion than he normally does. He catches a lot of flak from the Tac Department about his cleanliness, which I don't think is all that bad. He just seems to have the worst luck in the world of having that one item left out or that one thing out of place when the TAC comes by. “Still, some of the smacks are bitching, saying
they're getting
too busy for football
. Except for Yeager. That guy's a goddamn psycho. God help whoever the fuck he goes against when boxing comes around.”

“Well, good luck,” I say, grabbing my clip-in riding shoes and heading out the door. I jog down the stairs and out the door, clearing the last three steps to the quad in a jump and taking off. While every member of the triathlon team has an assigned bike, I want to catch the good weather and be well on my way before five o'clock, when the cannon sounds retreat and you're supposed to stop, face the direction of the flag, and salute. I don't really have a problem with it except that it can fuck up a good training ride.

I get to the room and check in with Captain White, our Officer-in-Charge, and grab my bike. “Where you headed today, Aaron?” Captain White asks. That's a good thing about him—he's willing to treat us cadets like regular people. “Remember, you've got your race in April and that lead-up sprint tri next month.”

“I'm going to go out to Bear Mountain Bridge today, sir,” I reply. “Figure it'll be a good ride, and then on the way back in, I'll do some hill laps from Gillis around Michie and back a few times.”

Captain White nods. “Do those hills in as high a gear as you can. You need to work on your anaerobic power. All that hockey muscle hasn't transferred to the bike as well as I'd like. And if you need more time than that, I've got the static rig ready here for you, too.”

That's Captain White. He knows our times and splits like the back of his hand. I pull my running shoes off and do the Velcro on my bike shoes, borrowed this semester, but I'm hoping to get my own pair next semester. “Hooah, sir. I'm off.”

Snapping my helmet on and putting my sunglasses on top of that, I start off, doing an easy ride toward the Point gates. It finishes my warmups, and by the time I hit the gates and ride out toward the Bear Mountain Bridge, I'm leaning over my handlebars, cranking. I take the course that lets me avoid most of downtown Highland Falls, the town that exists right outside the main gates, which is just too much a pain in the ass with traffic. Instead, I stick to the less crowded route. Up ahead, I see another bike, and I wonder if another of my teammates decided to do the same route I did.

As I get closer, I see that the bike's not one of the Corps' bikes. We ride Diamondbacks, mainly because they're cheap and long-lasting, according to some of the firsties. Not a bad bike, a hell of a lot better than what I rode back home in Michigan, but then again, I took a while to get used to the racing handlebars too. This person though, they're riding a Specialized rig, a bit more expensive than what the US Army is willing to pay for its triathlete cadets.

I pull even and glance over, cracking an easygoing grin. “Hi.”

The other rider barely glances my way. “Hi.”

I can tell from the sticker on the seat post that it's a USMA registered bike. Whoever it is lives here, and it's a
she
. Still, we're both going a good speed, and the words are ripped from our lips nearly as soon as we speak. “Where you headed?” I say loudly.

“Don't know, just out for fun,” she yells. “You?”

“Bear Mountain Bridge,” I reply, pointing. “You down for pairing up?”

“Sure,” she shouts, taking the lead. She's got good form. That Specialized bike is a lot lighter than mine, and she pulls away quickly. Grinning, I click down a gear and pedal, letting myself get into it. The burn starts in my quads, and I'm loving the feel of it, but sadly, the Bear Mountain Bridge isn't all that far, only eight miles even if I include the long lap around the parade ground, and we're soon watching the bridge approach. In the last quarter-mile, I pull up next to her and keep pace until we reach the limits of the bridge. Since it's a toll bridge, it's a good place to turn around.

Instead of turning though, she stops and climbs off her bike. I slow and circle back, and I see that she’s checking her rear tire. I stop too and get off my bike, surprised by my concern. “Everything okay?”

“Just forgot to tighten a thumb-bolt,” she tells me softly. I can’t help but like the tone of her soft voice. It’s like music to my ears, soft and serious, yet still playful. She stands up and grabs a water bottle, pulling off her helmet and sunglasses. “Nice ride.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, a surge of desire running up from the core of my stomach. I know I've been stuck at West Point that’s eighty-seven percent men for a year and some change, and I know that I haven't had a girlfriend since breaking up with Cindy Mandrowitz during the first semester of my plebe year, but holy shit, she's hot. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, one she'd had tucked in her jacket before, and she's got clear blue eyes that rival the sky above us with their intensity. “You ride like a pro.”

“Thanks,” she replies, taking a sip of water. Her cheeks seem to redden at my compliment, but I can’t be sure. “Six miles isn't much, but I couldn't ride at all the past three days, so I didn't want to chafe on my seat.”

“Your backside looks fine to me,” I say, unable to stop the words from flying out of my mouth.

Come on, Aaron,
I think to myself
, even the cheesiest pickup line is better than telling a woman she's got a nice ass even before you know her name.

I play it off, not giving her a chance to respond. “Name's Aaron.”

“Lindsey,” she says, offering her hand. We shake, and she has a nice grip, not too hard, not too soft. It's strong but still feminine, and I can feel a twitch in my own tights that has nothing to do with the blood flooding my quads right now. “You do a lot of riding, Aaron?”

“I try,” I reply, feeling like a total idiot.
Smooth, Simpson, real smooth. Jesus, you need to get laid. This is pathetic. You did better as a sophomore in high school. “
I’m training to try and get through a half-Ironman in the spring. The run and swim are easy for me, but the bike . . . fifty-six miles is a long way.”

“I know,” Lindsey says knowingly, and I'm impressed. She doesn't say it in a cocky way, just an acknowledgement that she's an experienced rider. “What's your max distance so far?”

“I've done twenty-five quite a few times, but the farthest I've pushed is forty,” I answer. “That was rough. What about you?”

“I did a century ride a few years ago,” Lindsey says, again without bragging. “It ached, but think of it this way. If I can do that, you can do a fifty-six easy.”

I whistle, impressed. Looking down, I can't help it—I check out her legs. She's wearing tights like me, even if they are a lime green civilian model, and her thighs are impressive. “That's a heck of a ride. Are you a triathlete too?”

Lindsey laughs musically, and I decide that no matter what, I’m going to see her again. Whatever it takes. “No, just a rider. I hate to swim. So, you've done shorter triathlons before?”

I nod, taking a swig of water from my own bottle. “A sprint and an Olympic last year,” I admit. “I really should be doing shorter distance ones first, but this chance to do the half-Ironman, it's a big challenge. I'm just the sort of guy who likes big challenges.”

Lindsey smiles again, her blue eyes twinkling, and asks mischievously, “Really?”

“Really,” I answer. I get the impression that she digs me. Maybe she's flirting, maybe I'm just off my game, but I like it, and I decide to try a little bit more. “I just get motivated by the idea of a goal in front of me.”