Captured(36)

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. I make myself walk away, heart hammering. My body wants me to drop the garments from my arms, race back, crush myself to Derek and take his tongue into my mouth, taste the salt on his jaw and feel the rasp of his stubble, demand his hands everywhere. My soul aches, swells. Confused, emotionally fraught, full of things I never thought I’d feel again: wonder, need, desire, passion, tenderness. Things I thought had died with Tom. Things my heart and mind keep telling me did die with Tom. And, as I cross through the grass and enter the kitchen through the back door, I recognize the conflict within myself. Those things truly did die with my husband. I buried them when I took the folded flag. Each cracking report of the twenty-one-gun salute buried them deeper and deeper. And my conscience tells me they should stay buried with him. Yet my body and heart and mind tell me other things, feed me conflicting reports. This is new, right? I’m not pretending like my love for Tom is the same thing as I’m feeling for Derek.

I’m allowed to move on, right?

Or is that a betrayal of my love for Tom, my husband, the father of my sweet, perfect son?

I vowed to love and remain faithful to Tom in sickness and in health, till death do us part.

Well, death parted us.

Now what?





CHAPTER 10





DEREK





I don’t sleep that night. Not a wink. Every time I close my eyes, I see Reagan, stripping. I feel her body sliding wet and soft and warm against mine. I taste the sweetness of her lips. Feel the silk of her breast in my hand. Even silk isn’t so soft, so delicate, so lush and lovely as her skin.

I close my eyes, and I hear her sobbing, broken and miserable and confused.

I close my eyes, and I feel her core throbbing against me, feel the dampness of her opening and the strength of her thighs as they wrap around my waist.

I close my eyes, and my heart thuds crazily. My body aches. My cock throbs, pulses, hurts.

Hours before dawn, I find myself stumbling out of the barn into the dew-damp cool, jeans pulled on but not zipped or buttoned. I’m gasping for breath, chest aching, heart pounding. Visions of Reagan in my head. My body is on fire. I round the back of the barn, plant my hands against the wood wall of the barn, head dangling between my shoulders. Trying to banish the thoughts of Reagan, the image of her trim waist and full tits, the warm heat of her mouth on mine, the sound of her breath.

I can’t.

The images coruscate in my mind, and I’m a raging ball of need, of pent-up desire.

I lick my lips and taste her skin. Close my eyes and see the need in her expression. I tug my dick free of my pants and clutch the painfully hard length in my fist. Stroke slowly, eyes closed, forehead to the barn. I picture Reagan standing on the dock, back arched, tits thrust out as she stretches. Picture her as she walked away, taut, round ass swinging. Feel again her legs around my waist, hands circling my back and fingernails scratching my ass.

Heat builds in my groin, urgency.

I’m a few short seconds from letting go when I hear a footstep behind me.

“Derek?” Her voice is timid, hesitant.





REAGAN





I can’t sleep. Guilt and need war within me. I ache. Derek’s body is all I can think of. His muscles. His firm skin. His mouth on my chest, his palm cupping my breast. His cock, so big, so thick and hard and pressing against me. I can’t sleep for thinking of him.

I pull on a pair of boxer shorts—Tom’s, claimed as comfy lounge wear years and years ago—and a T-shirt. I check on Tommy, who’s lying sideways across his bed and snoring, Buzz on the floor. Tiptoe outside, barefoot in the dew-damp grass, to the barn. I find Derek’s spot empty, blankets rumpled as if lain in and abandoned. Check the rest of the barn, but I don’t find him. Exit, circle around to the back, wondering where he could’ve gone. Rounding the back of the barn, I call his name quietly. I don’t know what I’m looking for, what I think I’ll say or do when I find him, I just know I’m driven by something deep inside me.

I stop dead in my tracks when I see him. He’s leaning against the barn, jeans open, cock in his hand. His posture is tortured, hunched, tense. His fist is moving on his length, and he’s growling under his breath. He halts when he hears my voice.

His eyes meet mine. Neither of us moves. My gaze travels, against my conscious will, down to the open “V” of his jeans, to his thick, straining cock. Fluid is beaded on the tip. He was about to come. My body is somehow moving toward him. I don’t know what I’m doing. What’s happening. He straightens, hands reaching for the button of his pants.

“Reagan, I—”

What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?

I’m reaching for him, that’s what. Not taking my eyes off his, my fingers close around his cock. He gasps, his eyelids flutter. He groans.

“Jesus Christ, Reagan.” His words are pitched so low I can barely hear him.

I slide my fist down his length, and he shudders all over.

“I was thinking of you,” he admits. “I was jerking off, thinking of you. You’re so f*cking beautiful, so f*cking perfect, I can’t handle it. Can’t — oh Jesus, oh, f*cking hell, that feels good — I can’t stop thinking about you. I haven’t slept at all, because I keep feeling you, thinking of you. Fuck…I keep wanting you.”