A soft moan cut through the silence of sleep. John forced his eyelids open, yet remained still. Some nights he heard sounds—sounds that weren’t there. But it wasn’t the firm mattress of the bunkhouse beneath him, it was the slippery surface of a sofa. Another moan reached his ears.
Did the intruder return while he was asleep?
A softer moan. This time a woman’s.
Must be a movie. What the fuck is she watching? He inched his arm to his forehead to see what was on the screen. Of course. He should have known. Why did it have to be that movie? Why were people going crazy over a glorified porno with bondage? If he was lucky, Katie would be asleep and he could turn this crap off. Or at least switch over to another channel.
His eyes took a couple of seconds to adjust to the dimly lit room. He turned his body, hoping the remote would be on the coffee table. His muscles ached and he didn’t want to get off the couch. As his shoulder hit the leather of the couch, his breath caught.
She was definitely not asleep.
His eyes widened at the sight—remote in one hand, while her other hand disappeared beneath the blanket spread over her knees. Her lips parted, and her glossy eyes focused intently on the screen. His eyes traveled down to her spread legs. Even covered, he could make out the circular motion of her right hand.
Just ten feet away from him, she was touching herself.
“Oh, fuck!” He gasped.
She squealed, dropping the remote like a branding iron that had just burned her. She scrambled to find the remote on the floor, tossing the blanket around and shooing away the startled dogs, still half-asleep.
“I—I thought you were asleep!” She overreached, but with her legs tangled in the blanket couldn’t right herself in time. With another shriek, she rolled onto the floor in a tangle of blanket and dogs.
A short bark of laughter erupted from his chest. The scene was comical, but it wasn’t laughter that had his pulse racing. Beneath the blanket on his own lap, his dick stood at full attention. The knowledge that Katie—the woman who lit up his body like a Christmas tree—had gone at it all by herself, without caring one bit he was lying just a few feet away from her, spoke directly to the man in him. His muscles twitched from arousal, and he gripped the blanket on his lap tightly, fighting for control of himself.
He tried hard to smother his arousal, forcing his body to lie perfectly still, unsure about what to do. Her obvious embarrassment could send her into one of her hurricane tirades, and a fight was the last thing he wanted.
A new wave of electricity rushed through him when she stood up, finally having freed her legs from the blankets. Her shorts were missing. He stifled his groan, disguising it as a chuckle. A real chuckle followed, even louder. He couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny?” She whipped around, growling at him.
“Aren’t you too old to be wearing white cats with pink bows on your underwear?”
Red crept up her neck and cheeks. She tried to throw the blanket around herself, but Nickel, thinking this was a game, tugged at the end of it. She stumbled and sat down hard on the floor.
“You’re some kind of klutz, aren’t you, princess?” He took a deep breath, and walked over to her, extending his hand to help her up. As she reached up and grabbed his arm for support, he noticed her gaze fall. Noticed her breath hitch. And he swelled even more.
When she finally stood, she closed the distance between them and pressed her body against his. Both their breaths shook. She pressed her tongue to the seam of his lips, delving inside his mouth with a fiery, desperate passion. Holy fucking shit! This was nothing like his fantasies. His blood sizzled every time she ran her velvety tongue over his. Holy fucking shit. He groaned when her arms reached up and tangled around his neck, feeling the beating of her heart against his chest. Her own hammered as his hands rested below her ears, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as their tongues mingled.
Her eyes flew open when they pulled apart. She backed up quickly, taking shaky, shallow breaths as she smoothed her hair. “I’m going to go upstairs. I’m—I’m sorry I woke you up.” She grabbed the blanket, pushed past him, and ran for the stairs. The three dogs took off, right on her heels. They all bolted up the stairs together, as if running from something terrifying.
His head dropped down, eyes settling on the outline of his erect dick, visible through his jeans. Maybe she was terrified. But the internal joke didn’t calm his nerves. His hand ran over the nape of his neck, recalling how she’d stiffened at their first introduction, and how she startled whenever he took a sudden step in her direction. Many times he’d caught her standing with her arms wrapped around herself like a barrier.
Fear chased away his arousal, and anger made its presence known as his mind ran through all the options of what could’ve happened. The blank distant stare at the police station, and the worried looks Mitch and Linda always gave her. The way she retreated whenever he got too close.
His stomach turned sour. Her occasional limping and the faint scars and unevenness on her pretty face. The anxiousness that consumed her when they’d come home to find the door open, insisting someone had gotten into the house. The way she’d practically begged him to sleep in the same room with her, when he knew she despised him.
His fingers laced through the short strands of hair on top of his head. Someone had hurt her. Really hurt her. There was no other explanation. It all made sense. Dr. Evans had lectured him enough about how trauma survivors put up barriers to keep people away. Stop. This isn’t about me.
But tonight. What happened? Was that the real Katie—free and risk-taking? Did she like him? Maybe? He settled back on the sofa, frowning up at the ceiling. A cushion dug into his shoulder blades and he rolled onto one side to extricate it, wincing as that set off a chain reaction in his muscles. He shut his eyes, running his hands over his face. Had whoever was responsible for Katie’s injuries returned to hurt her again?
I am not going to let that happen.
He twisted his neck until he felt the bones crack and release a flood of relief to the rest of his body. God, I really am getting old. And soft.
He needed a distraction so he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He opened his email, clicking through messages he hadn’t checked for days. Some of them were from men he’d deployed with. Most of those messages simply read, “Miss ya, buddy.” Or, “Do you want to create a memorial for McDonald?” Or, “How are you handling recovery?”
The emptiness in his heart, the numbness pounding in his brain, the sheer nothingness that took hold of his soul threatened to engulf him entirely. His fingers gripped the phone so tightly the case creaked in protest. He swiped the program closed without responding to anyone. He couldn’t answer those questions. Not yet, anyway.
And maybe never.