To Have and to Hold (15 page)

He’d never wanted anyone this much.

He wanted more of what he already had—the softness of her lips, the plumpness of that bottom one and the way she squeaked and whimpered when he licked it, then bit it. More of her taste, familiar and delicious, something elemental and personal under the wine and chocolate. More of the way her skin smelled, this close, nothing he could put words to, but so essentially
her
that it made him grabby, his fingers rucked into her hair, into her clothes, ready to clutch and tear and
take
. More of her tongue, the slide of it against his own, the way she challenged him for control of the kiss. He grabbed the back of her head and asserted himself, and he heard her moan, felt her soften.
Fuck yes
.
More
.

But he wanted other things, too. What he didn’t have yet, the soft, hot, slick center of her. Her skin bare and satiny, the yielding curves and the strength underneath.

He’d never wanted anyone this much, but he was aware that he had, in fact.
Before
.

And he was aware that unlike him, she held all of their history in her head and her heart, and this must be fucking weird for her. So he took care with her. Went slow. Tried to think about how this was the same and different for her. To feel around in his own lost memory, groping for purchase, to see if he could follow instinct to make it old and new, familiar and mind-blowing.

That was what he wanted to do for her. He wanted to give her exactly what she craved in a way she’d never imagined before.

So he kissed her every way he could think of. Soft and slow and sweet, nibbling and stroking, drawing her out to meet him. And then so hard it was like fucking, his tongue aggressive, almost mean, on the tenderest parts of her mouth.

She liked it. She liked it all. He could feel her open up and spread out, like something unfurling in sunlight. Her body giving itself up to him.

He was so hard it hurt, his cock sandwiched between his own body and hers, restricted by too many layers of clothes, straining at its own skin. She was rocking now, her hips tipping and tilting, the pressure increasing as she went after what she needed, and all the while the kisses got hotter and wetter and wilder, her moans longer and less restrained.

He wanted to know, though. He had to know.

“Is it like you remember?”

“Stop. It doesn’t matter.” She was breathless. Her mouth so red it was hard for him not to dive back in, kiss it again.

“It matters to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t remember. And I wish I did.”

“I do remember. And I wish I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be here. Just here. Don’t you? Not
before
or in the future or anything. In this very moment. Kiss me again.”

So he did.
I want to be here. Kiss me again
. He could do that.

He slid a hand under her shirt, felt the smooth, hot skin of her belly, spread his fingers wide to touch as much of her at once as he could. His thumb brushed the waistband of her jeans, his pinky the lace of her bra, and it suddenly seemed imperative that he be able to see her, touch her, taste more, all, of her.

He peeled her T-shirt over her head and leaned back to see, which pushed him tighter against the seam of her jeans. He growled at the feel of that and the sight of her, soft and abundant, cupped in lace, her nipples dark points he could see through the weave of the thread.

He unhooked her bra, and she stretched luxuriously and arched her back to push herself toward his face, and suddenly he found himself with her more-than-a-handful breasts, one in each hand, not sure what the hell to do with so much awesomeness at once other than to bury his face.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He wasn’t clean shaven, not this late in the day.

“It feels good.”

She was red where he’d rubbed and he really fucking liked that—marking her that way. He liked anything and everything she liked.

And now, suddenly, moved by generosity edged hard with greed, he had to make her squirm, had to make her whimper and moan and flail and rub against him. He wanted desperately to make her feel good because it made him feel
so fucking good
.

The instant his lips closed on her nipple, she gave him exactly what he was looking for. A low, dark moan in the back of her throat. The plummet of her hips against his straining cock. And the thrust of her breast, all soft, warm, Trina-scented bare skin, into his mouth—her voice breaking on “More, Hunter, please.”

He worked that nipple with his lips, his tongue, easing her up from flicks to light suckling to full pulls, feeling how her hips changed to match him, how her moans and words rose and tightened. The motion of her body against his had found a steadier rhythm now, a mounting pressure and tension, as she guided them both toward her goal.

“Hunter?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

He didn’t let her nipple go. He had the other one in his fingers, now, flicking, pinching, twisting, trying to figure out exactly what drove her crazy, lingering whenever she made that tight lost sound in her chest, when her thrusts deepened.

“I want you—inside me.”

It was his turn to moan. He freed both her nipples and she made a small sound of protest, but then he yanked his T-shirt over his head and she spread both her hands over his chest and the feeling was so unexpectedly amazing, the warmth of her palms all over his skin, her thumbs teasing his nipples like he’d teased hers a moment earlier, and then her hands were on the button of his jeans, the zipper—

She hesitated a moment, then said, “Holy fuck, Hunter, you’re so big.”

He bucked against the shockingly cool touch of the palm of her hand, and a deep moan broke from his lips.

She surprised him by laughing.

“What?”

“I didn’t want to deprive you. Of hearing it again.”

“Oh, God.
Right
.” She’d done this all before, and remembered well.

“Mmm-hmm. So fucking hot. The way you act like I’m the hottest thing ever.”

“Not acting,” he corrected. “You are the hottest thing ever. You blow my mind.”

She eased his jeans and briefs down enough that she could grasp him in her fist, then dipped her head to take him in her mouth. Clutched him tight in the heat and wet, her lips rounding him, stretched and red, her shiny blond hair shimmering in the flickering light as she moved up and down in his lap, as if she knew
exactly
what she was doing, as if—

As if she’d done it tens of times before.

Right
.

“You’re—so—good—at—that—”

She paused, her breath hot and silky against the wetness she’d left on his throbbing cock. “I love giving you head. Always have.”

She ran her tongue across the super-sensitive base of the head and he couldn’t help himself, he thrust. Instead of drawing back, she moved farther down on him so he was buried almost to the hilt.

It jacked him up so fast that for a split second he was sure he was going to come in her mouth. Then, with a superhuman effort, he reasserted control over himself and gently drew her up.

“You said you wanted me inside you. Did you mean it?”

“Fuck yeah.”

He loved that word on her lips. “Take your shorts off.”

He shed his jeans and briefs while she slid out of her shorts. She wore only a black lace thong. She lay back, thighs together, and there was something so hot about that juxtaposition, the plump ivory of thighs and the black vee of lace.

“Look at you. All demure.”

“God, no. Just so turned on I can’t help rubbing my thighs together.”

He saw the subtle press of muscle now as she crossed and squeezed. “Fuck.”

“That’s the idea.”

He wanted to tease her open and lick the wet, sloppy center of her. Or pry her open. That would work, too. Whatever it took to get to the black lace truth of her.

“Should I take them off?”

“Leave them on. God. I can’t decide. If I want you to spread your legs for me or if I want to make you want to spread them or if I want to make you spread them whether you want to or not.”

She made an incoherent sound.

“Sorry? Didn’t understand you. Could you say that again more clearly?”

“Hunter.”

He knelt over her and licked the seam of her thighs where they met, from knee to vee. When his tongue touched black lace she cried out and he withdrew his touch. He did it again, her thighs slowly drifting apart so his tongue found the space between them. This time, when he licked her through her panties and she whimpered, he didn’t stop. With one finger he drew them aside. Wet. Ruined. And he ruined them worse with his tongue, with his whole face buried against her. God, she was sweet.

“Hunter!”

He lifted his face and smirked at her. “Is that ‘yes, Hunter, please’? Or ‘no, Hunter, please, stop’?”

“Oh. Ohhhhh—”

That was the sound of the tip of his tongue finding her clit. Slipping back and forth over it while she arched up to try to get more contact.

The way he’d pictured her in bed, after that first night she’d climbed in with him? Apparently, that had been memory, not fantasy. But now it felt like fantasy come true.

He gave her his finger, deep inside her.

“You want more?”

Her response wasn’t quite an actual word.

He drew back, knelt beside her. Reached for a condom and rolled it down.

She grabbed him. Squeezed, ran a thumb up the length along the ridge, over the head, that
look
in her eyes. Like she liked what she saw and felt, a lot.

He braced himself over her. Before his cock even made contact with her, he could feel her heat, and every muscle in his body strained toward it, the injured ones griping but not enough to stop him. And then he was in her, just an inch, pressing toward what he desperately wanted, not just the softness and heat of her, the sense of being surrounded, the pleasure of her tightness, but the impossible craving he still felt for connection with her, for destroying the distance that his forgetfulness had imposed.

She moaned as he buried himself. Each stroke brought another moan, his body trying harder to turn itself inside out inside her, her hips lifting, his pressing her down, her breath speeding, her eyes closing.

Then, with a cry, she was clenching around him, coming hard, her body twisting—but it was her voice, her words, cracked and wispy, that took him over: “I missed you, Hunter.”

He gave himself up, poured himself out, released what he’d lost and what he’d tried to hold onto, fell into what was left of what he hadn’t known was his.

“Oh,
God,
Trina, I missed you, too.”

And even though they both knew it was a lie, it was the whole perfect fucking truth.

He was the first one to hear the crying. At first he thought it was a child, and he ran toward the sound.

A woman. Behind a wall of rubble, but if he peeked through, he could just see her, crouched there, babbling in Pashto. Her eyes panicked in the dark.

Her pleas…

Her eyes…

He never let himself think about the way Dee had died. The violent, dirty surprise of it. The pain, the dust, the debris. She would have been buried. If the explosion hadn’t killed her, she would have been crushed or suffocated.

She might have known she was dying.

She would have looked just like this woman.

Suddenly he was digging, clawing, as if he were trying to claw at the thing that had him around the throat, around the chest, as if he were trying to rip away the thing that had stolen his breath.

He had to get her out.

He might have been calling her name.

And in the darkness he saw her, her face, her eyes—

And when the second explosion came, he had time to see the expression on her face, shocked and accusing.

Dee’s face.

The world slid away.

He was awake in the dark. For a long moment, he couldn’t remember, drowning in panic. Where he was. Why he was there.

There was a body beside his.

A woman’s body.

His heart jangled against the cage of his ribs.

Not a body. A living woman.

Not Dee.

Trina.

The clock glowing on Trina’s bedside table said it was five a.m.

He’d walked her back from the tree house last night, late, both of them stumbling and giddy. He’d tucked her into bed in the guest room, then lain down beside her, just for a second. But then she’d rolled close and kissed him and he’d had no way to resist her pull. He was armorless.

The dream felt real, and what had happened last night in the tree house felt like a dream.

“You okay?” she whispered in the dark.

“No,” he said.

She rolled toward him, wrapping her warmth around him. But where last night it had felt like such a gift, her body giving to his, this morning it felt like a threat. He couldn’t help it; he flinched.

He felt her equal and opposite reaction, the way she withdrew and stiffened, and he wanted to take it back, but he couldn’t.

“Hunter, what is it?”

“I remembered. I saw her. She was buried in there, and she couldn’t get out, and I was trying to save her.”

“To save the woman who was buried under rubble?”

“To save Dee.”

She made a small, shocked noise.

“It was Dee. I saw her in there, and—I’d never thought about it before. How she died. I’d made myself never think about it. And I couldn’t save her. It was Dee.”

“In the dream?”

“No. Not a dream. A memory.”

“You couldn’t have remembered her there, Hunter. She wasn’t there.”

His chest hurt. Where he’d been split open, but everywhere else, too. A squeezing, twisting sensation. “She was there, the day I was injured. In my head. It was her, and I couldn’t save her.”

“Hunter,” she repeated. “It wasn’t Dee. It was some other woman. It wasn’t Dee, you couldn’t—”

“I know!”

His voice was sharp in the dark. It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to her, and he felt her flinch.

He took a deep breath. “Dee did this thing. She—she’d change herself. For me. Like she cut her hair and put highlights in it, and she said, ‘I know you like Tanya Freeny’s hair.’ I’d once said that, but only because she said, ‘What do you think of Tanya Freeny’s hair?’ and I said, ‘I like it.’ She lost weight, even though she wasn’t really heavy. Just—solid. And then she said, ‘I know skinny’s more your type.’ I never said that. I know I never said that. I’d never say something like that. It’s not even true.”

He’d never told this to anyone. He could tell he’d never told Trina before, not only because of the surprise and pain on her face, but because of how the words felt coming out of him. Squeezed and narrow. But even though it hurt to say it, he couldn’t stop.

“One time she took cooking classes. She said, ‘I know you wish I were a better cook.’ Even though I swear I never said anything like that to her. I tried never to say the things in my head, the doubts—but she heard them anyway, somehow. She didn’t say, ‘I thought if I did this, you might fall in love with me,’ but it was so clear. It was like she was shouting it all the time. Every time she baked me cookies or came home with a six-pack of my favorite beer or—there were things she didn’t like to do in bed, and I said she shouldn’t, she didn’t have to, but she did, because—”

His voice broke, remembering. All the times she’d come home with a new look or newly gained knowledge or a gift. The way she’d gagged, trying to take him deeper, trying so hard to be the woman she was sure he wanted.

The futility of it.

“She was trying to make me love her. I couldn’t love her, Trina. I tried. And tried. And then—

“We had a fight, right before she deployed. Where she said, ‘Just tell me, Hunter. Tell me what I can do to make this marriage work.’ And I knew. I knew I had to tell her the truth. Not right then, because she was leaving, but I had to tell her I wanted a divorce. Because it was so damn unfair to her, what I’d done to her. I had to give her another chance. To find someone who would love her the way she deserved.”

Trina was very still, very quiet. “But she didn’t come home.”

He shook his head. “No. She didn’t come home.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Hunter. You did the very best you could.”

“It was,” he said. “It was my fault because I knew, even that first time I had sex with her, that I couldn’t do what she wanted me to do. But I wanted her, so I lied to myself. I told myself that I could do it, that it would just take time, that I would fall in love with her. As if all it would take was an effort of will. No one is going to—”

His voice broke, but he pressed on, because he had to, because it was penance. It was only what he deserved. “No one will ever love her the way she deserved to be loved now. I took that away from her. Maybe I didn’t kill her, but because I was selfish, she will never have that life.”

“Hunter. Those things weren’t in your control. That woman’s death. Dee’s death. How much you love some—”

“Don’t try to fix it, Trina. Okay? Don’t fucking try to fix it.”

It was so quiet in the room that he could hear the wind blowing through the trees outside.

“Do you want me to make you stop thinking about it?”

He did. Desperately. He’d remembered and forgotten all the wrong things, and he knew she could make it better, if only for a little while. But—

She slid down the length of his body, and he felt his resolve slipping. She rucked his T-shirt up and her breath swept the flat of his abs, above the waistband of his boxers. Her fingers were much surer now than they’d been earlier. “Lift up,” she instructed.

He hesitated.

“I don’t know what’s in my own head. I shouldn’t.”

“Then don’t listen to your head right now. Lift up.”

He did, and she slid his boxers down, and came back to nuzzle his cock, growing heavy now, reaching for her. She opened her mouth and let him in, but this time she kept him there only long enough to make him slick and hard, then released him and rose up over him.

She reached for the box of condoms on the nightstand, rolled one on him, and eased herself down on him, her body parting to admit him, and then lowered herself in an abrupt plunge that made his stomach sink and swirl like a roller-coaster plummet.

And it was so good, so sweet and dark and hot and wet, and she leaned down and matched her mouth to his, so they could feel each other that way, too, vulnerable parts to vulnerable parts, the intimacy so fierce and raw.

Then she eased back, taking him deep and—rather than rising and plunging—rubbing herself tight over his pubic bone. He saw the look in her eyes, that searching-for-something-just-out-of-reach expression.

“What do you need?”

She cupped her breast and he took the tight nipple in his mouth, his fingers stroking the other one, and she made a hoarse sound and her movements got more ferocious. She rode him like that, her breasts in his mouth and his hand, his other hand curved from her hip around her ass, an ache blooming hard up his spine until he came just a second ahead of her, his last fierce push to inhabit her fully pressing her over the edge until he had to stifle her cries with his mouth.