Rough Edge (The Edge #1)(36)

“Let it out. Just let it go,” she growled, pushing me again.

She could hit much harder. For all her bravado, she was holding back.

That insight came from a cold place, and the cold place was colder than ever while the warm place where the Thing lived ran hotter.

And there we were.

Half a step toward her, and she didn’t move.

“You think I’m crazy?” I said.

“I never said that.”

“I’m not the crazy one.” Another step. She took half a step away, then shoved my shoulder. “You’re the crazy one.”

“Stop running away. Face it, Caden. Face me.”

She vibrated with frustration, rippling like a flag in a hurricane. She raised her fist to hit my shoulder again, but I grabbed her wrist before it hit home.

She wanted me to face her? She was getting faced.

I twisted her arm behind her back and threw her over the couch, holding her wrist against the small of her back. She looked back at me with utter defiance, daring me to finish or not. I put my hand on her cheek and pushed her head into the cushions.

Leaning over, I spoke firmly into her ear. “This is me facing you.”

I let her face go and pulled down her pants. Her eggshell ass glowed in the lamplight. Eye to eye, she watched over her shoulder as I pulled my cock out of my pants.

“Tell me if it hurts and let’s see if I give a shit.”

Without preamble or a courtesy stretch, I shoved inside her as far as I could. I was balls deep in two thrusts and she bit back a scream, writhing. I yanked her arm back and grabbed her hair, fucking her through her cries. With every slap of my body against her ass, the whirlwind intensified. The thick, hot liquid of the unknown force watching me, and the brittle ice of who I was spun in a blinding cone of light and dark.

When I came, all the air left my body. My heat entered her and I was awake again.

“Please,” she wept. “Let go.”

She was really crying, and I had her right wrist twisted behind her back.

“Shit.” I let go and lifted her.

Inside the sound of my wife’s sobs, where wet hitch met breathy exhale, where true guilt met broken sorrow, the Thing spoke. For the third time, the whisper between whispers made verbal sense.

It had a name.

Damon.





Chapter Seventeen





GREYSON - JANUARY, 2007





Caden was a star, so the Mt. Sinai ER took me right through triage. They gave me painkillers, took a scan, and put my arm in a sling. It wasn’t broken, but the nerve damage I’d sustained in basic training had been aggravated. Twenty minutes ice. Twenty of heat. Ice. Heat. Ice. Heat.

It was almost midnight when we drove back from the hospital in silence. He’d wanted to tell them in fine detail how my wrist got fucked up, but I jumped in and told them I tripped on the edge of the rug and fell on it.

He tried to carry me up the stairs.

“I hurt my wrist, not my ankle.”

“I hurt your wrist, Greyson. I don’t care what you told them.”

“I can walk.”

At the door, he stopped before opening it. “I don’t want to go in the house and act like this is normal.”

“We won’t.”

He opened the door. We took off our coats and shoes. Observing a reverent silence, he helped me with both. I went into the kitchen before he could signal where he wanted to go. He wasn’t doing this shit. Not on my time. No gently laying me on the couch or tucking me into bed. If we came at this as if he had something to make up for, we weren’t going to get anywhere.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“I want to set something straight,” I said.

“Okay.” His pride was held together with spit and chewing gum.

“You’re not yourself.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s not. But it’s also part of the equation. Whatever’s going on, it’s not going to be fixed today, tomorrow, next week… maybe ever. So we either go through this cycle over and over, or we get control of it.”

“Or we break up.”

“Not an option.”

“You’re really going to take this as far as you can, aren’t you?” he said with a rueful smile, challenging me. I didn’t know how to walk away from a challenge.

“They don’t call me Major One More for nothing.”

I took the gel pack off my arm. It had gone lukewarm. I flung it into the microwave and powered it up.

“Has it occurred to you that I can really hurt you? I wanted to choke you.”

“Was it erotic asphyxiation, or did you really want to kill me?”

“You’re pretty blithe about it.”

“Did you want to engage in risky but pleasurable actions, or did you want to commit murder but stopped?”

“The former, but that’s not the point.”

“What’s the point then? Even when you’re deep in it, you don’t want to hurt me any more than is enjoyable. You’re a doctor. You’ll know when to stop.”

“That’s a shitty rationalization. You’re better than that.”

He rubbed his eyes for longer than a person usually rubs away tiredness. I pulled his arms down. He looked beaten.