Wounded (20 page)

I feel him moving slowly, adjusting his position, but my eyes are glued shut as the lightning from his fingers, moving slow and then fast and then slow, fills me. I feel his shoulders brush my knees, and I know he is going to mount me now, and I am not even afraid, especially if it means relief from this boiling pressure within me.

But he does not mount me. His lips touch my breasts, his shirt-clad chest brushing my stomach. Then, impossibly, terrifyingly, he moves
downward
. Toward my privates. No. No. I tense, freeze, but his fingers on my clitoris take over for me and I move once again, yet my fear does not abate.
 

When he licked the fingers that had been inside me, I nearly died of shame. The smell is embarrassing enough, but when he licked the wetness off, the moisture that I could see glinting on his fingers, that was mortifying. And now…and now he is moving as if to put his
mouth
on my vagina. I have heard of this, of course. Soldiers are vulgar beasts, and they tell vulgar jokes, suggest vulgar things. They suggest this very thing, but when they visit me with their greasy, folded
dinars
, they do not follow through. Not that I would have let them. I have to retain some sense of power if I am to survive. I dictate what they may do, and to let a man do what Hunter is about to do, that would be giving up the little vestige of power I actually have. That would be vulnerability.
 

Except I am letting it happen. His mouth leaves my breast and I feel his breath on my stomach, and now it is hot on my privates, burning me. I know I am panicking, truly panicking now. My breath is ragged gasps, and my heart is thundering like the hooves of a thousand horses. His fingers continue to move, and the diversion of pleasure centered powerfully on my core is enough distraction that I do not go completely mad.

And then his tongue laps at my core, and I am undone.

HUNTER

My god, she tastes so good. Her strong soft thighs rest on my shoulders, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and I can’t believe she would let me do this, but she is. Her whole body is shaking, quivering. Her breathing is panicked, each inbreath a whimper, each outbreath a moan.
 

This position, on my stomach, is excruciating. It’s too much weight on my healing ribs, and I can barely breathe for the agony, but nothing—
nothing
—matters except Rania in this moment.
 

 
She’s closer now. I swipe my tongue up her slit and she groans low in her throat, shaking her head, denying I don’t know what, and her hips lift, fall. I lap my tongue against her clit, an upward thrust with the tip of my tongue, and she gasps a shriek. I do it again and again, and each time she makes a sound so impossibly erotic that my cock jerks and I nearly lose it again. I have to clamp down with every muscle in my body to keep from exploding right there, as if I was fourteen and a virgin again.
 

I lick her clit in a rhythm, and now her hips go wild, and yes, god, yes, her fingers clutch my hair. She doesn’t seem to know whether to push me against her pussy or push me away. She settles for just tangling her fingers in my hair tightly enough that it hurts, but that pain is a mere drop in the bucket compared to the fire in my ribs, the burning in my lungs. I mean,
fuck
it hurts. I don’t stop, though. I’ll stop when she comes. She’s close, so close.

I want to feel her shatter around me. Her legs are clenched so hard I’m almost worried she’ll pop my head like a grape, but then she remembers on her own and lessens the pressure.
 

I slip my fingers beneath my chin into her pussy, focusing my tongue on her clit in ever-faster circles, and I rub her G-spot with my fingers to match the rhythm. I take her clit into my mouth and suck on it, flicking it with my tongue like La—
no
, not going there, not even thinking her name—
she
liked it like this.
 

Rania screams past gritted teeth, her body arched off the ground, fingers tangled in my hair.
 

Yes, now…

RANIA

Oh, God, oh, Allah, oh, sweet Heaven…

I call on the Christian god, on my parent’s god. Words are ripped from my lips, actual screams. I am past feeling shame at the noises I am making. His mouth does things to my body that I cannot fathom, cannot understand, cannot bear. It is too much, too intense.
 

I want to shove his face away from my privates, but I cannot make myself do it, because it is too much to stop. His tongue flicks my clitoris and I nearly sob, but gasp instead. His fingers slide into me just as I begin to think it cannot feel any more impossibly intense, and I could die from the storm of fire in my belly.
 

How can this keep going? How can he do this? I can hear the grunt in his chest, the stubborn refusal to capitulate to the pain, and I cannot believe he is able to move at all, let alone give me such incredible pleasure.
 

This is a gift, I realize. I will treasure this all my life, whatever may happen once this is over.

My body is writhing like a serpent, my back undulating, my hips lifting and falling. My hands are on his head, my fingers in his hair. I am still torn between conflicting instincts to push him away and pull him closer.

When his fingers go inside me again and find that spot unerringly, I lose the fight. I clutch him, pull him wantonly, selfishly against my womanhood. Then his mouth forms a suction around my button and I scream.

The fires in my belly, the pressure, the storm, it is about to break.

He slows, just at that moment, and I moan in protest.
 

“Hunter…” His name comes out of my mouth, torn from me.
 

I tighten my fingers in his hair until I know it must hurt him, but I am past the ability to care about anything. I pull him against me, push his face deeper into me, my legs around his shoulders. It takes all my power to not crush him with my legs.
 

And then…

And then it happens.

“
HUNTER
!” I scream his name as I explode, coming apart at the seams.
 

Every fiber of my body is on fire and I am helpless, caught by the lightning, every muscle clenching and releasing, lights bursting behind my eyes, my hips thrusting against his mouth crazily as he sucks and licks and flicks with his tongue, driving the detonation inside me into ever more furious waves of orgasm.
 

I cannot sustain this and go limp, unable to move, wrung into exhaustion. Hunter stops then, when I collapse. He rests his face against my hip, and I can feel the sweat smearing on his forehead. His body trembles.

I lean forward and pull at his arms. He crawls slowly back up next to me and then crashes to his back. He is gasping; sweat is pouring from his face, and his eyes are shut tight. His hands are fisted into the blankets.
 

I touch his chest. “Hunter? Are you okay?”

He nods. “Fine. Just…need a minute,” he answers in English.
 

I can barely breathe, and I feel my eyes burning. I am still trembling, and even as I lie worrying about Hunter, an aftershock hits me, a mini-explosion rocking through me, and I curl against Hunter’s side until it abates. His arm wraps around me, pulling against him. We shake and tremble together for long minutes.

My gaze roams his body, his thick muscles slack as the pain recedes, his stomach no longer heaving with every breath. My eyes catch on his groin. I can see his manhood outlined behind the buttons of his pants. He is huge and hard. He adjusts himself with his hand, pushing at his manhood through his pants, shoving it aside, one way and then the other, as if seeking comfort that will not come.

It is time to repay him. I touch his stomach, let my hand drift down, but he catches my wrist yet again. I meet his gaze.
 

“Why?” I ask, in English.

He responds in Arabic. “Not for me. Not this night. Another. Maybe.” He kisses me softly. “This was for you. Only you.”

His eyes betray the fact that he is still in agony, the lines of his forehead deep, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in focus. He twines our fingers together on his stomach, as if to assure himself that I will not try to touch him.

This really was a gift to me. He expects nothing in return. He put himself through unimaginable pain to give me pleasure, the greatest pleasure I have ever known, and will not let me do anything for him in return.

I cannot stop the sobs then. He is too much for me to bear. What will I do when he is gone?
 

Another thought strikes me, and this one is worrisome, making me sob uncontrollably: How will I work now? I have tasted heaven, and I cannot forget it. I have known the pleasure that is possible. It will be difficult.

No, it will be impossible.

I glance at Hunter. He is asleep, his handsome features relaxed. His forehead is still wrinkled with pain. I cannot stop my hand from touching his brow, smoothing the lines. I touch his cheek and marvel that one man can contain such fury as I saw when he fought Abdul, along with the tenderness with which he kisses me, the strength and stubbornness to refuse pain its paralytic hold over him. So many contradictions. I know he wants me. I see the way he looks at me. I sensed it when he touched me, when he kissed my breasts, when he moved over me to begin his journey downward. He denied himself pleasure, taking instead pain.
 

I let myself cry, pressing my cheek to his chest, away from the tender area where he was wounded, and eventually fall asleep, held close by Hunter’s arms, contented, confused, awash with physical pleasure and emotional pain.

One last thought pierces the fog of impending sleep:

Is this love?

THIRTEEN

HUNTER

I’m woken by a male voice shouting Rania’s name. Rania, not Sabah. Before we can move, a familiar-looking young man appears in the doorway, heaving and sweating from extreme exertion.
 

Rania gasps, and I look at her. She’s pale and visibly shaken.
 

“Hassan?”

Shit. That’s her brother, whom we both thought was dead. Rania is still naked except for her miniskirt, and she’s sitting up, bare nipples peaking in the cold air. Her brother halts in the door, stopped short by what he sees: his sister in the arms of an American soldier.

He starts jabbering in Arabic too swift for me to follow. Rania listens, clutching the sheet to her chest.
 

My heart is pounding, and I can feel adrenaline begin to rush through my system. My skin is prickling, and my spine is shivering. I’m sweating, even though I’m cold in the early dawn.

Battle.

Rania tells me her brother is claiming that Abdul is coming to kill us. That evil fucking camel cunt who tried to rape Rania. He thinks he’s gonna get revenge.
 

Fury boils through me.
 

There are nearly fifty men coming for us, Hassan says.

I turn to Rania, who has put a shirt and shoes on. “Hide. Don’t come out for anything. No matter what you hear, stay hidden. I’ll come for you.”

She shakes her head. “Hunter, you cannot do this.” Her English is nearly unintelligible. “You are badly hurted. Please. Come with me. We run.”

I snatch the rifle from Hassan’s hands, check the clip, and then limp out the door. My leg blazes with every hitched step, but I have no time for pain. “I’m not running, Rania. I’m a fucking Marine. Marines don’t run.”

Hassan follows me, jabbering in rapid, angry Arabic. I don’t catch any of it, but I’m guessing he’s pissed I stole his rifle. I swing around and face him. “Protect your sister. Hide her. Protect her.”

“Give me my gun, American.” Slowly-enunciated Arabic.

I hand him my knife. “Use this.”

“Wait,” Rania says. She comes out dragging a bundle wrapped in a sheet. “It is your weapons, Hunter. I did not know what to do with them, so I hid them.”

I open the bundle to see my M16, spare clips, and body armor, which is battered and rust-red stained with my blood.
 

“Fuck yeah,” I say to myself. “Real gear.”
 

I toss Hassan his rifle back and strap the armor on over my wife-beater. My M16 could use some love, but there’s no time for that. I can feel shit coming. My blood runs hot, ready for battle. I’m gonna fucking finish that bastard Abdul. He’s dead—he just doesn’t know it yet.

I feel a small hand on my arm, and Rania’s breath on my neck. I wrap her close with one arm. “Hide, Rania. I’ll be fine. This is what I do.”

She gazes up at me, brown eyes liquid now, hot chocolate framed by loose blonde tendrils. “Please, Hunter. Come with me. Come away. There are too many. You are only one man. I…please.” She presses her warm, soft lips to mine. Her next words are whispered. “I need you.”

I’m rocked down to the core of my soul by her admission. She needs me?
 

I’m tempted. It would be easy to run.
 

But, tactically, I know better. They’ll catch us. I can’t run. I can ambush them, fight them door to door. Go down swinging. Give Rania a chance. I don’t expect to make it through this, but I’ll damn well give it a try. Ooh-rah.
 

I don’t know what to say to her. I’m in battle mode. Shut down. Hard. I’m not Hunter anymore. I’m Lance Corporal Lee, USMC. Semper Fi, bitches.
 

I look down at her, brush a stray wisp of hair behind her ear with my forefinger. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

She frowns and backs away from me. “Go, then.” She seems angry. “Stupid men. Always wanting to fight.”
 

She turns and runs, vanishes around the side of the mosque.

Hassan laughs. “She is afraid for you, American. She is angry at me for becoming a soldier.” His eyes are hard and challenging. “I have killed many of your kind.”

I blink. “Just keep her safe.”

He spits. “For once in my life, I will.” And then he’s gone, chasing after her.
 

Finally, I’m alone. I spin in place, looking for the best spot. There, a burned-out wreck of a car nudging into a wall on an angle, not far from an alley. Cover, and a retreat. I limp to it, hide in an agonizing crouch. I can see the road in both directions, and the alley behind me isn’t a dead end. All I have to do is wait.