Soak (A Navy SEAL Mormon Taboo Romance) (8 page)

“I want to eat your pussy so bad,” he murmured into her
flesh. The language began to shock the Other Chloe—the upright, do-gooding one
from the day before the skating trip—but this new, 2.0 version of herself began
to buck at these words. She let her hips thrust against the air, sending a cool
stream of air between the sticky, hot passage her thighs made.

“Oh my God,” she groaned. Ryder’s hands found her hips. His
mouth found her hot center, over her underwear.

“You’re not wearing the thing today,” he murmured.

“What?”

“That...garment thing. You let me take your clothes off.”
When she glanced down her body, she saw his grinning little-boy face smiling at
her. She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

“You make me sound like such a freak!” she cried, wiping
joyful tears from the corners of her eyes. “‘
That garment thing.
..’”

“I don’t think you’re a freak!”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Chloe shook her head, still rocking with laughter. Ryder’s
eyes narrowed. He lifted himself off her lower body and straddled her knees
once more. She stared up at the rising plinth of his torso, drinking in his
perfect, manly frame. Lust returned.

“I want you to believe me,” he said then, his voice low and
serious. As he spoke, Ryder moved his fingers to the damp surface of her
panties. He didn’t break eye contact as he began to press up against the small,
sensitive pad in her folds that had provoked such gasps the night before. Her
clit.
Chloe gripped his wrist.

“You still don’t believe me?” he repeated, raising his
eyebrows. But Chloe couldn’t summon the energy to nod. Ryder’s fingers pressed
up, hard and fast. She felt the twinge of attending pleasure in her stomach,
before it spread out to cover the whole map of her limbs.

“Naughty girl,” he said, pressing harder, faster. One finger
slipped past the elastic of her panties, and began probing her damp folds.
Chloe cried out, and this time her yell was so loud she was sure it could be
heard three floors up.

“Do you believe me yet?” His own breath was coming faster.
She looked down and saw the thickness gathering in his dark jeans. The want
took on fresh form, and she felt she suddenly understood all the rock n’ roll
songs she’d listened to illicitly at college. She wanted his massiveness inside
of her. She wanted nothing to separate her from Ryder Strong. She wanted to be
fucked back to life.

“Yeah, come for me, baby,” Ryder growled, flicking and
pressing harder and faster. Chloe’s thighs were clenching, throbbing. She felt
like her whole skin was blushing.

“Do it. Come for me.” This was not a request, it was a
command. Her breasts quivering, Chloe tightened her grip on her lover’s moving
wrist. He continued to stare daggers into her eyes. Her lips parted to make
sound, but then, suddenly and sweetly, her body clenched. She felt a jet of
cool moisture press out of her secret folds, and then the residual throbbing
waves, receding like the tide. Gasping, she opened her eyes. Ryder was smiling,
and looking satisfied.

“Good girl,” he said. He folded his body over hers once
more, leaning in to whisper in her ear: “I love making you come like that. So
hard. So wet.”

He began pressing himself against her damp, exhausted
center. Their lips found one another in a sweet kiss. Chloe was sweaty all over
and she ached with evaporated pleasure, but she still found herself returning
Ryder’s humping. The breath felt pulled from her throat.

“My turn,” she heard herself say, just as Ryder’s moans in
her ear had begun to come hard and fast. Dry humping was the extent of her own
sexual experience. (There’d been one hot night with a sophomore named Neil, at
BYU. A big group had gone to a Train concert in Salt Lake City, and
gotten...riled up.) But Chloe wanted to abandon the amateur with Ryder. She
wanted to give him something she’d given no other man.

“What’s going on?” he asked, as she, grinning, pressed him
back to a kneeling position. First, she scooted his black t-shirt over the
narrow cage of his stomach. To her delight, his six pack was dusted over with a
fine train of dark hair, pointing like an arrow to his manly center. Ryder
helped her ease the rest of the shirt over his head, and Chloe pawed at his
perfect frame. He looked just like the hero he was.

“Ms.
Christian
sen...” Ryder began, catching on to her
plan. She wiggled her eyebrows, then blushed in the direction of his crotch.
The hidden, heavy member was still shielded by fabric, but Chloe was tired of
playing coy. She fixed her attention to Ryder’s zipper, easing it down slow.
She slipped her hand into the dark beyond.

“Oh sweet Lord,” Ryder called above her, immediately arcing
his back so his muscular chest was bared. Chloe secured her grip on the
surprisingly smooth, long, rigid shaft. With her free hand, she peeled at the
remaining fabric that separated their skins. Ryder helped her, humping lightly
so her hand began to move up and down on his cock.

When the fullness of his manhood was exposed to the light,
Chloe took a moment. His was the first penis she’d ever seen up close, in the
flesh. She was struck by its vulnerability, yet she also sensed Ryder’s
virility, his strength. Tentatively, she brought her lips to the surface of his
tip. She tasted salt, and smooth skin.

 “Oh my God,” he repeated, easing forward once more so Chloe
could take more of him into her mouth. She opened to him, trying to be tender.
One hand she kept fixed around the base of his shaft. She tugged him,
experimentally. When he groaned again, Chloe began to flick her tongue back and
forth across his tip as she worked his shaft.

He buried his hand in her hair. “Oh, Chloe,” he whispered,
driving farther and deeper all the while, so she had to adjust her knees to
keep from choking. He was so thick around; like a wrist. She didn’t mind the
feeling in her mouth, and she especially didn’t mind the fact that she was
giving Ryder great pleasure.

She sucked harder. Pulled harder. Attempted to swallow him
down.

“Fuck,” he cried through gritted teeth. Chloe pressed her
free hand into the taut, flexing muscles of his ass. She continued to gobble
him.

“I’m gonna come,” Ryder cautioned. “Oh, fuck, Chloe. I’m
gonna come so hard.”

She wasn’t quite prepared for what would happen next, but in
that second, it didn’t matter. Her mouth was flooded with hot juices, and above
her head, Ryder let out a tremendous, weakening sigh.

“Oh, baby,” he cried. “You send me.”

He collapsed beside her, on the ruins of their pillow fort.
After a moment’s heavy breathing, Ryder scooted toward her, gathering her
sweaty body in his own. He folded her against him, spooning, and she let
herself begin to drift against his critical mass. His breath came soft and
sweet, ruffling her damp hairline. Chloe thought she had never felt safer, nor
more satisfied.

But for a moment, the Old Chloe returned. She floundered
around for the right words to say; the
we can’ts
, the
we shouldn’ts.
With
a roll of her shoulders, New Chloe of the New World banished all questions.
There was nothing to worry about for now. Just bliss.

Chapter Twelve

“And....STRIKE!”

John Christiansen raised his hands in a victory pose before
turning to gloat at his bowling buddies. Ryder allowed his competitor a smirk.
Though these were technically duckpins, it was still a pretty big deal to see
the vet upright and athletic. It had been a a month and a half since they’d
left the rehab facility together, and a few days since John had been fitted for
his newest prothesis. He’d been chipper as ever, with that relentless positive
attitude—but it seemed to Ryder that a little of his buddy’s old personality
was returning. He was starting to joke and tease like the less-than-holy friend
Ryder’d known as a SEAL. It was all very nice to see.

“Lucky toss,” Ryder grumbled, taking up his own baby-sized
ball.

“Nah, baby. That was all skill.” John swished back into the
little bowling seat. He leaned forward and took a sip of his Coke, all
cat-that-ate-the-canary. Ryder leaned over the alley, and threw...a gutter
ball.

“What happened to that perfect aim, soldier?” John hooted.
Damn—the man was so giddy he could have been drunk. That is, he could have been
drunk if he’d ever touched alcohol in his life, which Ryder didn’t believe he
had.

“Guess I’m going soft in my old age,” Ryder snapped back,
hoping this would bury the truth. Which was something closer to:
I’m
distracted, man. Because I’ve been basically slipping it to your baby sister in
your family’s basement—and your church’s—every night for the past week plus.

It sounded so terrible in his head, or at any other point
during the light of day. He saw his sins like a headline, or the text of a
seedy marquee:
Disgraceful Former SEAL corrupts Mormon town; dishonors the
sister of his blood brother.
It was true that he’d never felt more guilty
about anything than he did when he was hanging out with John—his only real
confidant and friend in the world, besides Chloe. Then again, he was pretty new
to feeling guilty about anything, period.

“Glad to be out of the house?” John ventured, as they paused
to tally scores. The rest of “Guys’ Bowling Night” consisted of two or three of
John’s “cool Mormon friends,” one of which boys he’d done his missionary trip
with: Alexander and Todd...something. They were pretty cool, but palpably shy
around Ryder. They kept avoiding eye contact with the bigger man. He felt, as
usual in Provo, like something of a pariah.

“What makes you say that, man?”

“Nothing.” John knocked back some more pop, as Todd assumed
a power stance. “You’ve just seemed a little edgy lately. Figured it was cabin
fever.”

All Ryder could manage was a smile. Oh fuck yeah, he was
feeling edgy. But not a one of his reasons for behaving oddly would float in
this room.

The thing besides the obvious—his nightly playtime with
Sister Chloe—was to do with Elder Johannes. Though the older man had become
kinder to his guest in recent days (suspicious timing, as far as Ryder was
concerned), it hadn’t taken long to figure out Mr. Christiansen’s angle.
Lately, whenever the two men were stranded in a room together after or before a
meal, Elder Johannes would begin to talk about the tenets of the faith.
“Especially good for the troubled mind,” he’d begin, “is a commitment to
something higher, young man. Have you given serious thought to the Mormon
church?” Et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah, blah.

He should have figured that the conversion talks were
forthcoming, and he also knew he had no real reason to be impolite about such
conversations. He had been crashing at the Christiansens’ place for a month,
impeding on every aspect of their daily lives. The only time he was apart from
all of them was on Sunday mornings. As he became closer to the younger members
of the family—little Martin especially—it became apparent that he’d need to do
something in return for the family, and something more than “mow the lawn for
free.” They wanted his faith.

“I’m sorry about my dad,” John said, invoking some eerie
intuitive powers. “It’s not about you, remember. It’s how he gets with everyone
who’s not involved in the Church. You just have to remember that he really
thinks he’s doing good.”

“By trying to save my heathen soul?”

John twisted his mouth wryly, letting the constant smile
lapse for one precious second. “Sure. Something like that.”

The quartet continued to bowl in silence for another frame.
Ryder instantly wished he hadn’t made the Mormon jab. But just as quickly as
the weirdness had descended, it disappeared. John took another sip of his Coke
and cracked his knuckles, bouncing up for his second turn.

“You’re cocky, Strong,” he called over his shoulder,
grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You’ve gotta surrender to someone, sometime.”
With these telling words, he threw another strike, obliterating the rest of the
bowlers with his score. Ryder tried not to think of this as a sign.

Just the night before, as he’d held a quivering Chloe in his
arms, post-orgasm, guilt had entered their sacred space for the first time.
They’d created an unspoken pattern these past few nights. Each night, Chloe or
he would find some excuse to hang back downstairs after the rest of the family
went to bed. The other would tiptoe up the stairs, pretending to be tired, and
then shimmy back to the basement once it seemed like the rest of the
Christiansens had gone to sleep. The deception had evolved, but then, so had
their foreplay. He’d gotten well-acquainted with her naked body. The urge to
fuck, already deferred longer than any other time in his life, was growing hard
to ignore. He’d never wanted anyone more than Chloe Christiansen, yet no one
had ever been so forbidden.

“Ryder,” she’d cooed into their usual silence. (The worst
part of every night, in his opinion, was the moment when they peeled their
slow-breathing bodies apart and muttered the first non-dirty words of their day
to one another: “Good night.”) “What are we doing?”

“We’re fooling around.”

“Ryder...”

“Just a couple of fools.”

“Please don’t make a joke of this,” she’d said, turning to
him. And oh, her pretty face. He’d brushed the soft skin of her cheek. It had
seemed like there was nothing right to say.

“We’re getting to know one another,” he’d said, finally.
“Under...less than ideal circumstances.”

“‘Getting to know one another?’”

“Well. Yeah?”

This response had disappointed her, but he hadn’t known how
to backpedal. While he and Chloe were literary equals—and had, in fact,
recently passed many pleasant, chaste afternoons talking about their favorite
books—it had recently become clear that she was a lot smarter than he was in
her sneaky girl way. She had information he needed, wrapped tight to her heart.

He’d continued to pet her cheek, flummoxed—and Chloe had
screwed her eyes tight and put on an adorable pout. “I’m starting to feel
really strongly about you,” she blurted. “I can’t even look at you when I say
this. But. I guess I have to ask. Do you feel—?”

“Yes.” He hadn’t had to think. “Yes.” He’d kissed her soft
mouth, and pulled her close.

This maddening, crazy, Mormon woman, with her convictions,
her confusing mood swings. The furrow in her brow whenever someone said
something she didn’t understand, or deemed inappropriate. The easy, shocked way
she would laugh, around Gwen or her brother or occasionally, him. He was
growing strong feelings for her, alright. But what to do with these? How to
improve this impossible, impossible situation?

“Well, that’s nice to hear.” She’d bit her lip. “I just
don’t know what to do now.”

Something in her kiss had emboldened his next words.

“We could do anything, Chloe. We’re two consenting adults.”

“You know it’s not that simple, Ry.”

“We could leave this house. We could leave Provo.” The world
began to spin before his hazy, post-coital eyes. “I could take you back to New
York, show you where I grew up. I still haven’t seen my aunt, for godsakes.
She’d like you! We could do literally
anything
we want to.”

“Ryder.” Her voice had been a curb: sharp, halting. “Look at
me. This is who I am.”

If she’d been a different woman, this would have been the
overture to the ending. But because she looked so beautiful lying there, and
because they’d already wasted so much time arguing, Ryder let it be. He’d held
her close. The storm clouds were certainly hovering, but the rain hadn’t fallen
yet.

“You’re getting along a lot better with my sister,” John
noted, once the bowling group had disbanded and the two friends were walking
back toward the borrowed family car. A dry but frigid cold suffused them,
despite the fact that it been a warm-enough spring day.

“What makes you say that?” Ryder ventured, carefully. But
John said nothing, which was the worst and weirdest thing he might have done.
John almost never said
nothing.

When they reached the van, he whipped around, unsteady on
his new foot. “Look, man. I’m not dumb. And I know you.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I’ve just been seeing the way you look at her, is all.
And... I want you to be careful.”

The wind seemed to spiral to a hush around them.

“Are you threatening me, man?”

“Ryder, you’ve got to be joking. Do I look like I’m in a
position to threaten you?” He gestured vaguely toward his prosthetic limb.
“You’re my best friend in the world. But Chloe is my sister. And I see the way
you look at her, we all see. That’s it.”

John climbed into the passenger seat, but Ryder remained in
the cold for a moment, gathering his thoughts. All this time, he’d figured
John’s suspicion had been about marijuana—but could it be possible that he knew
something about him and Chloe? Ry became awake to a familiar fury, teeming
below his skin. The irrational rage. It had been a long time since this side of
him had cause to come out.

“Does this have to do with your Dad?” Ryder asked slowly,
once he’d slipped into the front seat and secured his seat belt. “And my
heathen
soul
?”

“No. It has to do with my sister, and you, and my family’s
hospitality. I know you take risks. I know you’re the dreamy bad boy. But I’m
just nicely asking you not to cross this line.”

“Because I’m not good enough?”

“Dude, NO!” John’s face had, for the first time in ages,
completely sacrificed its giddy smile. “Because she’s my SISTER. And you need
serious help, you need to get your life back together, and I think if you
really thought hard about things you’d know it was a bad fucking idea.”

For a moment, the only sounds in the car were the rattling
breaths of the two friends. Ryder fought to stay rational, to not explode. John
didn’t disapprove of him and Chloe because he was a classist snob or a
religious extremist, Ryder reminded his angry self. His friend was perfectly
within his rights and reason to suggest that the timing was off. Still, the
whole conversation left a sour taste in the air.

Ryder turned to his friend, willing him to apologize. But
out of the corner of his eye, he spied John’s hand darting in a strange way. A
moment later, he took a hearty swig from a bottle of Diet Coke.

“What was that, Jay?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Did you just take something?”

“You’re acting crazy, Ryder. See, this is why I didn’t
want...”

“Be straight with me, John! I saw you pop a pill just now!”

The silence thickened between them. Ryder’s mind began to
race toward the worst case scenario.
But not John
, he told himself. It
wasn’t possible. His upright, eerily cheery Mormon friend? No way would he be
using. No way. He abhorred drugs in others. He’d refused painkillers in rehab.
He had even called marijuana a crutch and a weakness to his friend’s face.

John didn’t respond, but he did fold himself over, making a
sagging comma of his body. His reddish blonde hair caught light from passing
cars, so Ryder could see the fat tears worming down his face. He had his
answer.

“Let me see it, man. I would never judge you.”

Moving like molasses, John Christiansen drew a prescription
bottle from the pocket of his jeans. Ry read the label: Oxycodone. Well, this
was one mystery solved. There’d apparently been a reason, all this time, for
his buddy’s extra-giddiness in the face of extreme rehabilitation. Though he’d
made such a point to disdain drug use in others, it seemed that even conviction
could not heal all wounds.

“How long have you been taking these?” Ryder asked, kindly.
John continued to weep. His big, meaty hands covered his face, reminding Ryder
of a dozen nights they could no longer speak of. For a few terrible seconds, it
seemed like they could as easily have been in Turkey, moments away from burying
friends.

“My PT got me a prescription. She said: ‘I think you can
handle these.’ I never intended to even fill it, man. It’s just so...” John
trailed off. He sighed, with all of his body. Ryder didn’t need any more of an
explanation.

“Do you still have the dreams?” John righted his spine, and
looked at Ryder. It was hard to meet those watery blue eyes.

“Sometimes,” Ryder replied. But no sooner had he said the
words than he realized it wasn’t true; a night terror hadn’t visited him in
weeks. Now was certainly not the time to explain the reason, though. Not when
John couldn’t possibly ever benefit from the cure.

“God damn!” John punched the glove compartment, and the car
filled with a sick, crunching sound. Ryder yelped, and moved for his friend’s
hand—but John just waved him away. He tilted his shaggy head back and screamed.
It was long, high and terrible, but there was no one around in the parking lot
to hear the sound. The Utah valley seemed to bounce the noise right back to
them.

“I just want to be happy, you know? I want to be happy for
my Dad. And my Mom. And my sisters. Why aren’t we allowed to be
happy
anymore?”