Captured(42)

“I dreamed about you the other night.” I’m not sure why I’m saying this, or what I hope to accomplish. My mouth seems to be working independent of my brain. “About your ass.”

She laughs, leans her head against my shoulder. “You dreamed about my butt?”

“Maybe. Yes. It’s so perfect. I’ve been wanting to feel it. I dreamed about…well, this, basically. Kissing you. Making out with you, and getting my hands on this.” I squeeze, lifting the bubble of muscle and flesh.

“Well, you’ve got it now. Is it…does it live up to your expectations?” She sounds hesitant. Unsure.

“It shatters my expectations,” I say, truthfully. “It’s beyond perfect. I don’t want to let go.”

“Really?”

I glance at her. “Why do you sound surprised?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about my stupid insecurities right now. It’ll ruin the moment. I just want to kiss you again.”

Stupid insecurities? What is she talking about? I don’t get it. But I let it go, slide my lips over hers, teasing her mouth with mine, pulling away when she leans in to deepen the kiss, darting close to nip at her lower lip. She unclenches her fists, slips her hands around my back, tugs up the hem of my shirt and connects with my skin. Skims her palms up my back, mashing her lips to mine and demanding more of my mouth, my tongue. She rakes her nails along my spine, then flattens her palms and wedges her hands under my jeans, against bare skin.

She sucks my tongue into her mouth, clutches my ass with clawed fingers, moans into my mouth. I need more. I lift her light frame, sliding her up my body. She clings to me, her legs encircling my waist, her arms around my neck. One arm holds onto me for balance; the other palm goes to my cheek. My hands have ideas of their own, one palming her butt, the other going up under her shirt, grazing her flat stomach, cupping her breast over her bra. Tongues tangle, we break for breath, mouths merge once again. I’ve got the tail of her T-shirt in my fist, dragging it up. She tugs her head free, presses her body against mine, hands roaming my shoulders and chest. She rips off my shirt.

I release the hooks on her bra, a breath, two, and she’s topless in my arms, her hot flesh sliding across mine.

Holding her, I walk into the den, then set her on the couch. I crawl over the arm to kneel with my knee between her thighs, one foot on the floor. With my palm on her side, I slide my hand up her ribs. Her tit fills my hand, just barely more than a handful. Softer than anything I’ve ever felt.

I taste the salt of her skin behind her ear, on her throat, down the slope of her breast. Her nipple slides between my teeth, and she’s moaning, arching her back. Clutching the back of my head with one hand, roaming my back with the other. Reaching between our bodies, she finds my zipper. Buttons are unsnapped. God, god, her hand is warm and small around my achingly hard dick. Sliding so slow and deliberate, making me crazy. So hard I’m leaking, moments from coming already—just like a damned teenager. Her perfect tit is in my mouth, and her hand is caressing my cock, her breath moaning in my ear.

A floorboard creaks above our heads. Reagan stills. “Wait. Wait.” She places both palms to my chest.

Silence.

But then she looks at me. “We keep getting carried away.”

I lean back, and she sits up, but doesn’t cover herself. “Yeah, we do,” I say. “One taste of you, and I just…can’t stop.”

“Me, too.” She’s wearing jeans with a hole above one knee and she picks at the frayed white threads. “I like getting carried away with you. I do. But I’m not—I’m not on birth control. And I don’t have any protection. So we can’t let it go too far. No accidents.”

I run my hand through my hair. “God, you’re right. I haven’t even been thinking of that.” I touch her knee through the hole in the denim. “Is this what you want? With me? I don’t want to just get carried away. I don’t want it to be an accident. I don’t want you to feel guilty. Or to regret it.”

I can’t help letting my eyes roam from her face down to her boobs. She follows my gaze, looks down at her own chest and cringes. She covers herself. Stands up, rounds the end of the couch, and finds her clothes, faces away, pulls a shirt on braless. I fasten my pants, move up behind her.

“Did I say something wrong?”

She shakes her head. “It was dark before. We were caught up in the moment. Sometimes I feel okay about myself. But now, with the lights on, you looking at me? All I can think about is that my tits aren’t as high or firm as they used to be. They sag. I’ve got stretch marks on them, and on my belly from carrying Tommy.”

“I just see you.” I’m behind her, holding onto her arms. “You’re beautiful, Reagan. In the light, in the darkness. All the time.”

She shrugs. “Thanks. You’re sweet.” She turns, looking up into my eyes. “I hate feeling like I have to make a decision about this. I want to be able to just…let what happens, happen. I want to give in and not think about it. But I can’t. I have Tommy to think about. I want you, Derek. I—I need this with you. It’s been so long since I felt the way you make me feel. You make me forget the stretch marks and the stress and the loneliness. But…what about Tommy? What if he gets attached to you? How long will you stay? What will I tell him? You can’t just live in my barn. If we did this, if we…I don’t even know how to say it. If we f*ck…if we make love, whatever phrase you want to use, if we do that—I’ll get attached. I’ll want you in here. With me. In my bed. And what if you don’t stay? I can’t take another heartbreak. Not yet. Maybe someday I’ll be strong enough to risk getting hurt again. But I’m scared. Because you’re…you’re a soldier. What if you change your mind about going back? What if they make you? I couldn’t send another soldier off to war. I couldn’t. I won’t. And what if—what if we do this and I’m not good enough? What if I don’t satisfy you? What if a woman with a kid isn’t what you want? I’ve been thinking about this nonstop. Over and over and over. What if, what if, what if….”