Soak (A Navy SEAL Mormon Taboo Romance) (7 page)

If there was a God up there to thank, Ryder realized, now
would be the time. He moved one hand to the surface of his jeans, rubbing
himself lightly. Fuck, she was hot. Chloe continued to moan as he sucked and
kneaded the surface of her breast. When her joy seemed to approach an apex, she
took a palm and buried him further into her chest, so for seconds he could only
breathe her.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she said, through gritted teeth.
Sweat was now falling in elegant rivulets down the pale, freckled valley of her
collarbone. Ryder let himself live in her freckles. The cool, untasted patches
all across her front. He prodded and squeezed at all the flesh he could reach,
until his lips and left knee were so sore he couldn’t imagine using either
again. And still, he kissed her body.

They weren’t keeping track of how much time was passing. But
at one point, once Ryder felt he’d fully explored the first of Chloe
Christiansen’s secret spaces, his attention turned to the inner sanctum. He
removed one hand from her tit and moved South, toward the clenched, guarded
space between her thighs. Once again, he moved slowly, checking his movements
against Chloe’s nods of assent.

She seemed to brace herself for his next touch, shutting her
eyes tight against the world. Ryder’s own heart was racing, but his fingers
were eager. First one digit, then another, slipped past the barrier of her
jean’s zipper. He could feel her heat immediately.

Chloe’s nails dug into the unyielding leather. Ryder’s
fingers brushed against her plain cotton panties, but then they nudged the
elastic aside. He grazed her silk-spun pubic hair, soft and downy as feathers.
Then his fingers approached her entrance. They both had to bite their lips
against cries of satisfaction, when he tickled the slick mound of her entrance.
For she was so, so wet against his palm. Wetter, more wanting, than any woman
he’d ever felt.

“Oh, fuck,” Ryder said. God, he wanted to taste her. One of
his preferred dream scenarios involved an evening spent feasting on the slick,
spotless pussy of his best friend’s sister, and the idea of this moment
becoming real made his own shorts go sticky again. His mouth raced to her entrance,
his fingers scrambled to peel down her jeans. Chloe’s eyes stayed shut tight,
as if she could only submit to such pleasure if part of her believed it was all
happening in her head. Ryder smiled at his ballerina before flicking her jeans
to the floor. He ran his palms up and down the shapely expanse of her legs.
There was this fine figure she spent so much effort hiding, or condemning at
her mother’s encouragement.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Ryder said. He would have
hollered the words, under any other circumstances. Chloe grinned, and her pale
skin went rouge again. This felt like an invitation. Ryder drew himself closer
to the couch, and brought his mouth down to her entrance. He nosed her thighs
apart, then opened his mouth. He inhaled her rich, particular scent.

His tongue lapped slowly from the dripping folds of her
pussy lips to the round, bright bean of her clit. Her whole body spasmed under
his hands. “Oh, Lord. Keep doing that,” she said again, in the husky, new alien
voice. Once again, Ryder was putty to her command.

He brought his lips, framed by stubble, to her mound, and
began to move his tongue in tiny, pressing circles. She writhed and writhed.
Her confident hand returned to the back of his skull, applying pressure,
pushing him further and deeper into her folds. Ryder would have been content to
stay there all night, but he knew she wanted it fast and bad. And try as he
might want to, Ryder couldn’t deprive his ballerina of anything she wanted.

So his licks came faster, harder. She remained glossy and
damp in his mouth. He dug his nails into the fleshy pads of her ass, drawing
her pussy closer. In return, Chloe clutched his shoulder so hard he knew she’d
leave white marks. Finally, her breath began to arrive in short, almost
angry-seeming bursts. “Oh God,” she kept saying. Like a prayer. “Oh God, oh
God, oh-God-oh-God-oh-God.”

He could feel her will to remain quiet failing against the
goodness of his touch, so once again he moved to cover her mouth with one hand.
But Chloe didn’t tolerate that this time—or perhaps the timing was simply too
good. No sooner had he clamped his palm over her chapped lips than he felt her
teeth on his skin. Just as she bit down, his mouth flooded with her juices, and
her whole body seemed to lift out of it self and then return to earth with a
crash. He had made her come. Hard.

They sat panting in silence for a moment, after Ryder jerked
his bitten hand away. (She hadn’t broken the skin.) Chloe’s eyes remained
closed, but her body was blooming like a flower. She didn’t move to cover
herself after the orgasm, but preferred to bask in it. When he tried to touch
her ripe-looking skin, she swatted him gently away. A beatific, lovely smile
danced over her pretty face.

He wouldn’t be the first one to speak.

“Well, well, well,” he said. (Like a fucking idiot.)

Above him, Chloe laughed. Then—to his minor dismay—she
coiled onto her side, blocking his view of her naked form.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” she said. Her voice
sounded rapturous.

The silence reinserted itself, and Ryder took these moments
to recalibrate. He watched Chloe’s chest rise and fall. Was she planning to
fall asleep on the leather couch? Because
that
would be a hard thing to
explain to the Christiansens, when they came down for breakfast in the morning.

Above their heads, something creaked. Possibly an errant
floor board, but possibly a human, tiptoeing out of bed to get some water in
the middle of the night. All the warmth drained out of Ryder’s body, beginning
with his penis. He felt Chloe seize up, too. The shadow of dread fell over them
both.

They sat stock still for a few unnecessary minutes,
verifying that the noise had no source—and then Chloe’s eyes popped open. No
sooner had she surveyed the scene of the crime than Ryder felt the room temperature
shift. The smile fell off her face, and she hastily began to put her clothes
on. Out of decency, Ryder turned around again. He suspected he’d never crack
the mystery of the maybe-mythical Mormon undergarment.

Instead of dwelling on the change in the air, he focused on
peeling himself off the ground. His knee blazed with protest as he moved to
stand. He’d sure been hard on himself today.

“That was really special,” Ryder whispered, once they were
both fully dressed and Chloe had begun the project of making the couch pillows
look undisturbed. His lover said nothing, but he watched the blush return to
the nape of her neck.

“Maybe we can talk, tomorrow. Grab a bite to eat or
something.”

“Oh, like at the breakfast my mother cooks every day? Or
family dinner?” Her tone strained to communicate a joke, but Ryder couldn’t
help it: his feelings were hurt. He felt the door that was usually between
them, swinging back into place.

“I don’t get it. Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Chloe turned to him, and gathered his hands in her
own. She looked into his eyes, though it seemed like this took effort. “No. I
just think...well, maybe we should just lay low. Keep this between us until we
figure things out.”

It didn’t exactly make sense. Experience had taught him that
when women got clingy after sex, he tended to run for the hills, emotionally.
But Chloe’s sudden coolness left Ryder feeling like a pitiful loser. He wanted
her to be the one falling against him, begging for further contact. He wanted
her to be the one who wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.

“Sure,” he heard himself say, coolly. “Mellow works for me.”

Chloe turned quickly away, satisfied with his answer. She
took one final sweep of the room, then turned her gaze to the stairs. Her
movements had become guarded and awkward again. It was like the earth-shaking
orgasm he’d given her moments before had never even taken place.

“Well. Good night,” she said, professionally, from the
landing. He wouldn’t meet her steely gaze.

“Good night,” he muttered. She snapped off the light, and he
was left alone in the living room with the callow gaze of the moon.

Chapter Ten

“You WHAT?” Gwen actually did a spit-take with her
strawberry milkshake. The other patrons at Nelly’s Diner, likewise fresh from
church, shot scowls in the direction of the two noisy twentysomethings.

“Will you please lower your voice?”

“Umm, I’m sorry. Will you please lower your panties? JK
betch—you already did!”

“Gwen! I am serious!” Chloe thumped her hand against today’s
paperback, which sat on the table between them like a challenge. Appropriately
enough, today’s novel was E.M. Forster’s
A Room with a View,
about the
dangerous love affair blooming between a straitlaced Englishwoman and a rogue
weirdo in Italy.
As if she didn’t already have one
rogue
too many
in her life.

“What do you want me to say, babe? ‘Congratulations?’”

“I’m not convinced this is something we’re happy about.”

“Are you kidding?” her friend’s eyes bugged out just a bit
further than normal. “A devastatingly handsome, smart, courageous war hero
wants to eat you out. Where’s the ‘not happy?’”

Chloe had come to her best girlfriend hoping for a moral
compass:
think about God
,
your brother
, etc. Now, she realized
the error of her ways. Gwen was never going to condemn a woman for disobeying
this particular slice of doctrine, no matter how much fellowship and support
the Mormon church had provided her. Or maybe Chloe was fooling herself. Maybe
she craved the encouragement, even more than the wrist-slap.

Damnit. What was it with men? They managed to complicate
otherwise tidy emotions. They ruined everything.

“What’s the matter? Was it not fun?” Gwen’s eyebrows joined
in the center of her forehead, suddenly playing the Defensive Mama Bear.

“It’s not that it wasn’t
fun.
”
It was the best
effing thing that’s ever happened to me,
she didn’t say. “But there’s so
many reasons why this is bad. Like, very, very, very bad.”

They sat in this truth for a moment. Chloe was disappointed
when Gwen didn’t immediately crack back with a comforting word, but not
entirely surprised. Her friend had certainly wormed her way around the
pre-marital sex ban in a dozen ways, but she’d never done so with a man staying
in her house, who was a friend to the community. She’d also never done it with
a man who wasn’t Mormon. And as far as Chloe knew, she’d never had a man do to
her what Ryder had done to her, orally. It was unfamiliar terrain, having a
sexual one-up on Ms. Lilly.

“It’s definitely a tricky situation,” Gwen said, finally.
“But we’re still young. Lots of things are changing in the church. People are
more progressive these days, more realistic.”

“You think
Elder Johannes
is more progressive?”

“Touche. Guess I was thinking of, like...” Gwen gestured,
vaguely—“The Romneys. They have their moments.”

“Oh, great.”

“Just trying to be helpful. Anyways. Fuck the
shoulda-woulda-couldas for a moment—do you want it to happen again?”

Chloe closed her eyes. She tried to imagine the rest of
Ryder’s open-ended visit passing as if the night before had never happened.
Could she really keep sitting across from him at the dinner table, keep griping
at him about his slights against her religion, as if nothing had happened? Even
the idea of this effort seemed to drain her. It wouldn’t work. He was a magnet,
and she was metal. Their next union wasn’t just something she wanted—it was
something that had to happen. She felt spiritually convinced.

“Oh, no,” Gwen said slowly. Chloe had forgotten her best
friend’s probing eyes on her face, and tried to snap herself back to reality.
But Gwen was ever-intuitive. “You’re totally in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Gwen, what? No! People don’t just fall in love after a
few...dangerous liaisons.” One well-placed eyebrow raise from her best friend
finished the exchange. Gwen wasn’t buying it.

“What would you do?” Chloe asked, finally. This was the
first time in memory that talking to her best friend hadn’t made her feel
better about a problem, more equipped to deal with conflict. When her uncle had
died, when her brother had been wounded, when a dozen “reedy, nametag-wearing”
Mormon boys had dented her heart, Gwen had been ready to deliver advice both
witty and consoling. But today, she seemed to have nothing that helped. It was
making Chloe even more anxious.

“I guess I would try really, really hard to figure out if
it’s love,” she said, slowly. “Listen, Chloe. I love you. I support you. So
does your family, for the most part. But I remember when my Dad was going
through hell about this stuff, and he did eventually have to make a choice. So
that’s kind of what it boils down to, right? If—when—it comes time to make a
choice between Ryder and all this”—she gestured around the soda shop, but Chloe
understood what she meant—“what would you rather have?”

Him, or the community? Him, or the childhood she’d known,
the people who cared about her, the whole worldview she’d been schooled in?
Chloe slurped at her milkshake, and brushed her blond hair behind her ears. She
thought of a favorite literary heroine, who’s advice she preferred to take this
morning, even as Gwen fixed her with a steely, serious stare.

I’ll think about it tomorrow,
she told herself.

Chapter Eleven

But she couldn’t follow even this, the easiest piece of
advice. She was thinking about it that night, once again, as her family moseyed
up the stairs post-Scrabble. John had hung around for a while after dinner and
spoken to Ryder in the corner in serious, hushed tones, but not even her
brother’s frown could banish what had happened on the couch. Against all her
better judgment, Chloe had come down for every meal that day in the skimpiest
garments her mother could tolerate: an empire-waisted hippie dress that
designated the barest outline of her actual figure, and skinny jeans. Elder
Johannes frowned at her clothing, but didn’t say a word. The twins took turns
giving Chloe a thumbs-up, which she steadfastly ignored.

“Got a hot date later?” her mother joked. Chloe pulled a
face; she knew that if her mother really suspected a gentleman caller in the
mix, she’d be chock full of her typical, double-edged “encouragements.” (Her
mother was great at the pseudo-compliment: “You’d look so much prettier in
black. It’s a slimming color, you know.”) But apparently the entire community
had given up on Chloe’s ability to find a mate without assistance, for no one connected
the dots. Except Ryder, of course. She caught him staring at her cleavage more
than once, a look of wonder on his face.

Movies, Chloe realized, had given her more useful
information than she’d realized. Gwen’s illicit treasure trove of romantic comedies
had all the superficial guidelines she needed to “keep him interested.” In the
day after Couch Night, and her best friend’s conflicting counsel in the soda
shop, Chloe pursued flirtation with resolve. That afternoon, she baked cookies.
She sang around the house, in the voice she knew Ryder loved. And she made a
point of gabbing loudly to the twins about a new member of the Church with
“nice eyes.” She felt a little fraudulent, but the results were obvious.
Especially once John had finally heaved himself up the stairs and into bed.

She stood in the kitchen this time, waiting for his arrival
as she washed dishes. Her heart pounded against the cage of her chest. She
continued to do her best to ignore Gwen’s wise, world-weary tone, saying:
when
you have to make a choice...

“What the hell, Chloe?” Ryder had strode into the room
quickly, not bothering to tiptoe. He reached around her and shut off the water
in the sink. Their faces were inches apart once more, but this time their
chemistry wasn’t so giddy. Ryder looked angry.

“What?” Chloe snapped back. She heard the cross-ness in her
voice, but it was too late to take it back.

“‘What?’” he mocked, before lowering his voice. “You left me
here last night with my goddamn dick in my hand, saying all this ‘let’s take it
slow’ crap. You come onto me in the fucking church basement, and then ignore me
for the rest of the day. Now you saunter around this morning like you’re trying
to snag the Prom King. What gives?”

She was cowed by the storm in his eyes. Without meaning to,
without even realizing she could, she had hurt Ryder Strong. She had hurt a
man’s feelings. Her skin went hot again, in that maddening way it did when she
was in his company.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. She squeezed out the sponge,
and sank into the nearest kitchen chair. Suddenly, she was very tired. “Look. I
don’t really know how to do this.”

“And you think I do?”

“I’m pretty sure you know more than me,” she tossed back.
For the first time that evening, Ryder smiled. He sank into the chair opposite.

“I was serious when I said I wanted to talk, you know,” he
said, kindly. “I know this isn’t exactly...ideal.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean we’re not—well. On paper, we’re not the best match.”

“What happened to, ‘when you realize how hot you are, you’ll
be a blablabla? Queen of the Nile?’ Whatever it was you said.”

“I wasn’t lying!”

Chloe stood up, just to make sure the blood was still
flowing through her veins. Upstairs, someone flushed a toilet. They went
silent.

She thought, for a moment, about the boys of her youth. They
seemed to pass in a parade behind her eyelids. When she expected to see Ryder
stumbling across her imagination, another, older Mormon man—knowable by his
tidy suit, his warm grin—entered the procession.

They sat in their cautious silence while Chloe considered
this man in her imagination, this strange hypothetical. She saw him meeting her
father. Their joyful clapping of hands. A wedding. A new home in Provo, just
for her—perhaps with a spare room dedicated to all her books. This figment man
was kind, and steadfast, and handsome in a whole-milk way. She saw their life
continue on the most familiar of trajectories. The babies she’d have with him,
filling up the phantom house with all their life. The nights and mornings spent
with her extended family, her sisters, her friends, the thriving, thoughtful
community that knew her better than she knew herself in some ways. Dedication
ceremonies at the temple, Christmas at the church. She saw her life pass her
by. Then, Chloe put her chin in her hands, and started to cry.

It was really hard to imagine Ryder, in the place of the
whole-milk man. It was really hard to imagine her world bending to accommodate
a spirit so massive, so muscular, so opinionated, so...not Mormon.

“Hey,” Ryder spoke softly. Once more, the danger of being
caught had passed. Her lover rose from his chair and moved around the table to
fold Chloe into his arms. She sank against him like he was pillows, tested him
with all of her weight—but he didn’t stumble. He stayed upright.

“I haven’t done any of this before,” she blubbered,
half-hating that he was seeing her as this pathetic damsel creature, but
feeling relief at the same time. “I’ve never been with...look, I don’t want you
to think I’m like this.”

“Umm, Chloe,” Ryder whispered into her hair. “We’ve met. I
never exactly took you for a hussy.”

This made her laugh. The laugh slowly coiled into a kiss.
The Spiderman kind she’d seen in the movies, with Ryder’s head moving above
hers upside-down. She was pleased to realize that she remembered the contours
of his mouth. The flaky terrain of his lips, the buzz of his stubble—this was
all familiar ground.

Slowly, she folded herself into a more accessible position,
spinning around on the chair so they were face to face. The hum of the
refrigerator covered the gentle smacks of their mouths meeting, but she knew in
her bones that it wouldn’t conceal all the sounds she wanted to make.

“Wait,” Chloe said, breaking away. “Come with me.” She
brought herself to standing, and gave Ryder a doe-eyed look, lifted straight
from a movie. He rolled his eyes fondly.

“Where are we headed, ballerina?”

Chloe just pursed her lips and shrugged, dragging him slowly
toward the basement door.

No one had been down in the Christiansen’s basement for
years. In fact, this area of the house held about as much family superstition
as Ryder’s designated bedroom, when Elder Johannes had used to keep his
“treasures” locked there. The basement was considered off-limits because her
uncle David had lived in the spare room down there for a while before he died,
and Chloe got the sense from her mother that her father had maintained the
space as a kind of shrine to the dead man’s memory. But the other rumor,
received from the twins, went that the basement was off limits because their
father used the space as a kind of holy man cave in the event of the visit of
high-ranking church officials. As far as she knew, the Bishop had never come to
their house (why would he?) but her father was apparently prepared, on the
off-chance.

“This is mad creepy,” Ryder said, as he descended the stairs
behind her. She tried to see things from his secular perspective. Sure, there
were a few church artifacts, and a full wall of bound scripture. Blueprints for
the old temple were framed on the walls, and their grand, castle-like facades
did look strange on the grid paper.

“You got a Mrs. Rochester down here? Waiting to pounce on
us?” Chloe felt some of her usual confidence return.

“Mrs. Rochester lives in the attic, meathead.” She grinned,
and pulled Ryder in for a kiss.

“I’m not so good with my Victorians,” he murmured into her
teeth. A blissful silence enclosed them from all sides. Away from the secret
meeting space, shoved into a spidery corner, Chloe found them a ratty old red
sofa. It might have been dusty, but it sure looked comfier than the leather
monstrosity above their heads.

She brought him down.

“I like this bossy you,” Ryder said, once again into her
teeth. Their kissing was speeding up. But Chloe realized, somewhat sadly, that
it wasn’t scratching the same itch as it had the night before. She wanted more.

“I’m just being myself,” she replied, drawing him toward
her. “Your problem is, you’re judgmental. You think you have my number, but
I’ve got a lot going on you don’t know about, Mr. Strong.”

“Whatever you say, ballerina.” In a dazzling, unexpected
move, Ryder dove toward her on the couch and picked her up in a fireman hold,
so her head dangled down his muscular back. She squealed with delight, and
proceeded to thank her lucky stars that she’d remembered about the basement’s
sound-proof insulation.

Ryder laid her out on the couch like a prince might his
betrothed, and Chloe let herself play the part. He hovered above her for a
moment to drink her in, and she tried her best not to flinch from his gaze. He
was just so...intense. He made her so giddy.

“It’s not just because you’re
here
, you know.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Or because you’re stunning, and somehow don’t seem to
realize that fact.”

Chloe bit her lip.

“You have a great fire, Chloe. It’s something I’ve only seen
in....” he trailed off. A shadow passed over Ryder’s face, and she knew he was
seeing something terrible, something from the war. She rose up onto her elbows
and kissed him lightly, sweetly. First on his nose. Then, on his forehead. Then
on his lips.

Then, she made a decision: she would follow this feeling.
Dangerous though it might be, she would follow Ryder Strong as long as he would
let her.

No sooner had she given herself permission than relief
flooded every vein, every cell. There was no Elder Johannes. No Mama
Christiansen. No twins, no Brigham Young, not even a Gwen. There weren’t a
dozen roads not taken, a dozen questions un-asked. Her brother had never lost a
piece of himself in someone else’s unjust war. There was no right, no wrong,
only her mammoth want for Ryder.
Here. Now.

She drew him into this new, shameless safe space, pushing
her tongue past the barrier of his straight teeth. He responded to her
intensity by cupping her chin in his massive fist. Chloe felt pressure, but she
resisted the urge to fear. It was just as her very limited sexual education had
promised: the time had come, and her body knew what to do.

And luckily, Ryder had apparently read the book of love many
times. His fingers drifted south, fluttering against the soft skin of her
throat. He tapped her on her sternum, just above her thrumming heart. Then, his
hand slipped easily past the buttons on her sweater. His fingers arrived on the
warm flesh of her breast, and he began to massage her skin. Chloe cooed. She
let her shoulders relax against the grimy couch. So this was freedom.

Ryder responded to her shift by straddling her about the
knees. She felt the pressure of his muscular weight on her legs, but decided
she enjoyed it. With one hand still working away on her tit, he began to kiss a
constellation on her pale throat. All the hairs on the back of Chloe’s neck
stood attention. She dug her fingers into his broad, meaty back.

“You like this,” Ryder murmured, into the hollow of her
collarbone. “You like it when I suck your neck.” Before she could respond, his
grip on her breast strengthened. She felt her nipples go erect, and at last
that sweet, forbidden pleasure from the night before jolted through her body
like an electric shock. This time, she didn’t need to check in with herself to
know that her panties were wet.

“I like it,” Chloe managed. Her voice surprised her once
more. It was gravelly and hoarse. Ryder was beginning to lightly press himself
against her middle, so she began to be aware of the outline of his genitals.
I’m
really doing this,
she told herself. All the air left her body.

Because their positioning on the couch was quickly becoming
awkward, Ryder pulled back for a moment. With hands both rough and tender, he
peeled Chloe off the couch. Grinning, he began to tear the pillows from the
sofa frame. She let out a laugh.

“What are you doing, Strong?”

“I’m building us a pillow fort, ballerina.” After he’d
tossed all the cushions to the ground, Ryder dove into the center of the pile
and grinned up at her. Chloe’s knees went weak. He was so sweet, so impish,
such a little boy at heart.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she repeated, half to
herself. Ryder crawled to her, on his knees. He wrapped himself around her
quivering torso, so his face was eye level with her mid-drift and his arms
clasped securely above the swell of her ass.

“Don’t believe it then,” he murmured, into her skirt. “It’s
just a dream we’re both having. Got it?”

Granted fresh permission, Chloe let herself be pulled to the
floor of her family’s basement. Ryder made sure to place the comfiest, largest
pillow beneath her head. But no sooner had he secured her comfort than an
animal look entered his stormy eyes. He kissed her more intently than before,
probing the moist cave of her mouth, as his fingers fumbled to peel off her
blouse. Her own temperature was rising, so she helped him, with shaking hands.

His breath came faster, once her bare stomach was exposed.
Accordingly, Ryder returned his mouth to her typically hidden surfaces. He
began to kiss her on the sternum, greedy fingers tearing aside the fabric of
her blouse, her bra. He planted kisses on the pale expanse of her stomach. Each
one made her spine tingle in a different place. She rested her palm against the
base of his neck.