Fisher's Light(8)

Chapter 3




Lucy

February 25, 2014


Pulling the pan of lasagna out of the oven, I turn to walk it over to the counter and stop in the middle of the room. The pan slips from my hands and crashes to the floor as my eyes cloud with tears while I stare at the open kitchen door.

“You’re home,” I choke through my tears.

He was gone for sixteen months, five days and twelve hours this time. He was able to call every couple of weeks, but sometimes hearing his voice made things harder, driving home the fact that I would have to go to bed alone and wake up without him beside me.

Fisher doesn’t move from the doorway. He’s still wearing his Marine BDU’s and his camouflage backpack is slung over one shoulder. I’m not used to seeing him like this. He never lets me see him off, always saying good-bye the night before in civilian clothes and stopping at a hotel halfway home to change, clean up and shave before he sees me again. He jokes that he likes to get the “stink of war” off of him before he touches me again, even though I’ve assured him that I don’t care about any of that, just as long as he comes home.

I take in every inch of his six-foot-four frame, from the new muscles he seemed to have developed while he was gone to the beard that covers his cheeks and chin. Between the letters that I write to him when he’s away and the news about the war I have to constantly see on TV, not a day goes by that I’m not reminded of the fact that I’m a military wife and my man is a Marine. I’m so very proud to call myself his, but fear and worry are my constant companions. Every time the phone rings or I hear a knock at the door, there’s that niggle of uncertainty, but nothing hits home harder than seeing Fisher standing here in front of me, fresh from a flight from Kuwait with desert sand still clinging to his black hiking boots. The sight of the man I love looking like he just stepped off of the battlefield in the middle of this bright, cheery, yellow kitchen makes me want to drop to my knees and sob, knowing that I could have lost him. This could have been the time that military personnel stood in my kitchen doorway instead of him.

I need to touch him and reassure myself that he’s real, he’s here and he made it back to me in one piece. As my feet start to move in his direction, he drops his pack from his shoulder and charges across the room to me. He steps over the lasagna mess, wraps his hands around my upper arms and walks me backwards until my ass hits the wall next to the fridge. I try to shake my arms out of his grasp so I can run my hands over his face, slide my fingers through his hair and kiss the lips I’ve missed for far too long, but he quickly spins me around, pressing his body against my back and pushing me more firmly into the cold wall.

I should be afraid of the manic look I saw in his eyes when he charged across the room or worried that he hasn’t spoken a single word. Something about this is extremely different than all of his other homecomings, and I should probably be a little wary of this man who’s not behaving at all like my Fisher.

But I’m not.

“I missed you so much,” I whisper as his hands roughly yank my yoga pants and underwear down my thighs.

I’m not afraid, I’m turned on, more than I ever have been in my entire life. Aside from the sixteen months without sex, there’s something about this that excites me and makes me wet. I want whatever he’s going to give me and I want it now.

I hear the rustle of his pants being pushed down and I know I should try to speak again, try to make my voice louder so he’ll hear me, slow down, let me touch him and calm whatever storm I feel is brewing in this kitchen right now, but I don’t want to. I want the thunder and lightning, I want the crash of the storm and I want whatever destruction it will leave behind.

I don’t have time to prepare or even think of something else to say before the shock of him slamming inside of me steals the breath from my lungs. He clutches onto my hips and I brace my hands against the wall as he pounds into me without a word or a sound. I was wet for him as soon as he stalked across the room to me, but I still feel a sting of pain after having gone so long without him inside of me. It’s delicious and perfect. The pain reminds me that he’s here, he’s alive and he’s home. He’s inside of me where I’ve needed him for sixteen long months and I never want him to stop.

He thrusts into me roughly and his hips slam against my ass each time. My body smacks into the wall with each hard drive of his cock inside of me, and I can already feel bruises forming on my hips from how hard he’s holding onto me so he can move faster, go deeper, fill me completely.