Captured(38)

“Me, neither,” I admit.

He removes his hand from between my legs, and I let him go as well. A little reluctantly Derek pulls me toward the water pump, gets a jet of water going. We weave our fingers together, my essence coating his hand, and his mine, smearing on our palms, merging. The well water is bitterly cold as he moves our joined hands under the stream, scrubbing us clean. I untangle my hand from his, get a palm full of water and splash it on his crotch, washing away the mess.

“God, that’s cold,” he laughs.

We’re both sort of clean, although his jeans are damp where the water splashed onto them. My boxers are wet from the well water, too, and there’s come on my shirt, and on his belly. I work the pump handle, get my hand wet, and wipe the streak of semen off his stomach.

A good few minutes after orgasm, and his cock is still semi-rigid and thick.

Derek backs away from me, tries to button his jeans, but they won’t close around his still-fading erection. He abandons the effort, leaving them open. I honestly don’t mind.

I dry my hands on my shirt, and look up to see him stalking toward me. I back away from him, unblinking, putting my hands on his chest. I don’t push him away, though. God, no. My back to the wall, I stare into his eyes. He presses against me. Shameless in my need for contact, I lift my shirt so I can feel the warmth of his stomach and the still-thick but softening ridge of his penis against my belly. His hands brace against the wall on either side of my face.

His mouth descends, his lips slant across mine. I lift my palms to his jaw, hold him close and kiss him. Caress the back of his neck with one hand, tangling my fingers in the short, soft hair there. God, his kiss is drunk-making. Slow and tender and sweet and hesitant.

I feel him thickening. Already? Jesus. His kiss deepens, his tongue demands mine. I give it, willingly. Taste his tongue, his mouth. Scrape palms against the beard growing on his jaw. And then he breaks the kiss, breath shuddering, hands clenching into fists against the barn wall, pushing. But he can’t seem to actually move away.

He’s panting, chest heaving. Eyes shut. “You’d better go.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t….” His eyes open, and those deep, mossy pools drill into mine, piercing, rife with need and intensity and sincerity. “If you don’t, I’m gonna take you up against this wall, right here, right now.”

Not good. Not good. That should have me turning tail and going inside. But instead, it only makes my thighs quake and my core tighten and grow damp. I want that. Damn me, I want it.

“I came out here looking for you, Derek. I didn’t expect…this…to happen, but like you said at the pond earlier, I’m not sorry it did.”

“But Reagan, we shouldn’t—” he begins.

I interrupt him, two fingers against his lips. “Derek, shush. I thought that, too. I think it still, in some ways. But I had some other thoughts, too, while trying and failing to sleep. I thought, ‘why not?’. Why can’t we, why shouldn’t we? God, there are so many reasons, I know.”

He smacks his fist against the wall, making me flinch, and rolls away, puts his back to the wall next to me. “What are your reasons?”

“I’m a widow. I’m—I’m still grieving. I still miss Tom. I still think about him. I still wish he were here. I’m sorry, Derek, I know that’s not what you—”

“No, it’s exactly what I think, too. I wish he were here, too. Every—every f*cking day, I think that. I wish he were here instead of me. He didn’t deserve to die. He should’ve—f*ck—it should’ve been me.” He shoves his fists into his eye sockets. “I miss him, too. Damn it—” He slides down the wall, shoulders shaking.

I pivot and kneel in front of him, taking his wrists in my hands, and pull. He resists. I pull harder.

“Look at me.” I can’t overpower him; I’m not trying.

He lets me tug his hands away from his face, but turns his head away to hide the fact that tears are slipping down his cheeks.

“Derek, no. No. Look at me, goddamn it!” He slowly, grudgingly turns to look at me, blinks, scrubs at his face angrily, embarrassed. I hold his wrists and lock eyes with him. His are bloodshot, tortured. “I don’t wish that. I don’t. Yes, I miss him. Every f*cking day I miss him. I loved him. I still love him. I’ll always love him. I wish he were here. But I don’t wish that you’d died instead of him. Yes, I want him back. I’d give anything—anything—to have him back. But he’s not—he’s not coming back. You’re here, and he’s not.”

“And I’m sorry for that.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. But it’s true. I’m sorry I lived and he died. I’m sorry I’m not him.”

“Damn it, Derek! Stop it! You lived! You don’t have to feel guilty about that!” I shout.

“But I do!” he shouts back. “Okay? I do. I feel really f*cking guilty because I lived and Tom didn’t. His last request was that I tell you he loved you, to give you that letter.” He blinks, and another tear falls, brushed away. “And I did. I should’ve left. But I didn’t, and look what’s just happened? Look what I just did.”

“We, Derek. Look what we just did. It wasn’t just you. I came out here, and I touched you first. And, yeah, part of me feels guilty.” He winces, but I keep going. “I’m so torn, so confused. Because I—I want this. I want you. I can’t help it. Part of me says I shouldn’t, part of me says this is…wrong. I feel like I’m betraying Tom. Like what we just did together is a betrayal of his memory. It’s as if wanting you now that he’s dead is cheating, or…god, I don’t know…like it’s making less of what I had with Tom. And I feel guilty, too, for not feeling guilty enough. Because I’m still not sorry. I enjoyed it. You said it earlier: just now, I felt more alive than I have in so, so long. And I want it again. I want more. I want to touch you again. I want you to touch me again. I want to kiss you and—f*ck it, I’ll say it—I want to have sex with you. When you said you were about to take me up against the wall? I wouldn’t have stopped you. Because the other part of me says that Tom is gone. He’s gone. And don’t I—don’t I deserve happiness? Am I supposed to mourn him forever? I’m lonely, Derek! I’ve been lonely for eleven f*cking years! I married a Marine, and he was gone more than he was home for the eight years we were married, and I’ve been even more lonely since he went missing and died, because I knew he wasn’t coming home this time. I was faithful to him, Derek. Every day he was gone, I loved him, and I was faithful. I stayed true to him, and welcomed him home and never made him feel guilty for always having to leave. I loved him with all that I had for eight years, even though he was gone all the time, and then he was f*cking taken from me!”