18. Jet #2
Once he leaves and closes the door behind him, I look at Amal. “Okay, let’s get this done,” I say.
She nods.
“Get me the suturing needle. It’s already threaded.”
She does, tearing the packaging away, her face losing a little color when she sees the curved needle.
“Give it to me.”
She looks at me, the pulse at her neck drumming too fast.
“You’re pale,” she says.
“Nowhere near as pale as you. Give it to me.”
She hands it over, her hand shaking.
“Now press here,” I tell her, setting her hands beside the wound, pushing the skin together.
Her eyes grow wide and when I push the needle into my skin, she groans like it’s her own skin.
“You can look away, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
“I thought you were going to die. I thought he was going to kill you.”
“It was amateur hour back there,” I lie, wincing, tugging at skin. The room grows quiet, the only sound that of our breathing and thread moving through skin. “Tell me a story. Distract me.”
“You want a story? Now?” she asks.
I nod, pulling the first stitch tight. I’m going to need just shy of a dozen, but she doesn’t need to know that yet. “Tell me a story about when you were little.”
She nods. “I don’t… Okay, okay. I’ll tell you about the day Daniel was born. We were at the hospital, the three of us. He took twenty-four hours to come. I don’t know how she did it. Even so, she still looked so beautiful. Did you ever see a picture of my mom?”
I shake my head, forcing my lips into a smile. “Do you look like her?”
“Exactly like her.”
“Then I am guessing she was a stunner.”
Amal smiles, blushing, distracted. Good, that’s what I want.
“It was just the three of us. She couldn’t stop looking at him and I sat on the bed with her under the blankets. We were all cuddled up like that, and we just counted Daniel’s fingers and toes and kept smelling the top of his head. Babies smell so good.”
“Yeah, until they shit their diapers or puke all over you.”
She smiles. “Every time he’d open his eyes it was like a magical moment. Just unreal. He was so little.”
“That’s a great story.”
“She loved us very much. Both of us.”
I glance at her because her voice goes strange at the end. She won’t meet my eyes though and although her gaze is glued to what I’m doing she seems far away.
“Well, maybe she loved Daniel a little more than me,” she adds.
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It’s okay, it’s fine.” She draws in a breath and sits up taller. “I’d love him more too.”
“What kind of thing is that to say?”
“Besides, Daniel didn’t have her for as long as I did so I’m glad all he ever felt was her love, you know?”
“I do.”
“Your mom seems nice,” she says and when I meet her eyes after drawing the tenth suture tight, I see the irony in them.
“She’s a real gem. Warm and loving. Exactly how I’d describe her.” She snorts. “Nah, she’s fine. Just dealing with her own shit like we all are.”
“What about your brother? What’s he like?”
I groan as I knot the final stitch. “Sev’s kind of an asshole but I know he’s just trying to make up for shit that happened that he had no control over, you know? Big brother guilt, I suppose.” I glance at her. “Can you cut it?”
“You’re good at this,” she says, using the small suturing scissors to cut the thread.
“Lots of experience. Now whiskey please.”
She hands me the bottle and stands, watching me as I drink. I set the bottle aside and sit up, wincing when I swing my legs off the bed to stand.
“What are you doing? You should rest.”
“Your turn.”
“No way. I don’t need any stitches.”
I chuckle. “Don’t like needles?” I take hold of her hips and pull her to stand between my knees.
“Don’t like the idea of stitches without some sort of numbing first.”
“That’s what the whiskey is for.” Reaching up, I push a hand into her hair and draw her face to mine to kiss her, tasting the coppery tang of blood on her mouth.
I slide my hand down and unzip her dress.
Amal watches me as I push it off her shoulders and let it pool around her ankles. Her bra and panties are next.
I look her over, taking in each bruise, each cut. Touching each one before sliding my hand back into her hair and pulling her to me to breathe her in. To send up a little gratitude to whatever entity that spared her.
To feel her. Hold her. To know she’s safe.
And finally, to kiss her.
My other hand goes to her waist, the curve of her hip as the kiss deepens. I pull her closer, lifting one of her knees onto the bed.
“Come here,” I tell her.
“You’re hurt.”
“Not so hurt I don’t want this.”
She sets her hands on my shoulders then brushes the fingers of one beneath my chin to lift it up. With the other she pushes my hair off my face and for the longest moment, she studies me, taking in all my bruises, maybe. All the cuts. All the damage, old and new. The ink layered over it.
I watch her watch me and there’s a part of me that wants her to ask. That wants to tell her my story. One day. Not now though. Now, we need this. Us. Together.
She kisses me, a soft, sensual kiss that leaves me breathless when she draws back to slide to her knees between my legs.
She drags her gaze down, fingers on my thighs as she peels away what’s left of my briefs and licks her lips.
I watch her, cupping her head. She takes my cock into her hands, tentative at first, her inexperience showing, making me that much harder, and when she kisses the tip, I suck in a breath, the feel of her soft lips on me too much.
“I’ve never,” she starts, meeting my eyes, her cheeks flushed with arousal or embarrassment or both. “I’ve never done this.”
“You really can’t go wrong,” I encourage and she smiles, kisses my cock again before tilting her head and running her tongue from the base to the tip and back.
“Fuuuuck. Do that again,” I groan, fingers weaving into her hair when she does, gaining confidence as she sees what it’s doing to me.
But when I feel her warm, wet mouth close over my cock, my fingers tighten into her hair, tangling into her curls and it takes all I have to go slow, to let her do it her way.
It’s shallow at first, barely the tip and an inch, then two disappearing into her pretty little mouth.
She kneels up higher, places one hand on my thigh as she brings the other to my balls and when she swallows more of me and looks up through those thick black lashes, I can’t help but moan, moving her deeper now, feeling the back of her throat, her panic when fingernails dig into my thighs just before I pull back.
I do it again, slowly, watching her swallow my cock.
“I like you looking at me,” I tell her, my cock touching the back of her throat, pulling back only once she gags. “Relax your jaw. Your throat.”
She nods, her breathing coming in gasps as I move her faster over me, push deeper.
“Christ,” I groan out, forcing myself to pull her off. I draw her up to her feet and bring her face to mine, mouth to my mouth. I kiss her hard, tasting myself on her. “I’m going to finish down your throat one day, but right now, I need something else,” I tell her, lifting her to straddle me.
She kisses me, her tongue teasing mine, pussy hovering over my cock, dripping onto it.
“Fuck, Amal.” My fingers dig into her hips, but she resists, teasing me, her wet cunt playing over the tip of my cock.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she pants.
I chuckle. “Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea,” I tell her and thrust into her from below.
She cries out, fingernails digging into my shoulders.
I do it again, drawing her up then thrusting in as I pull her to me, the friction of her clit against my stomach making her pant, her kisses growing distracted.
My fingers dig into the soft mounds of her ass as I drop back onto my elbows and she rides me hard, crying out when she comes, when her cunt pulses around my shaft and with one final thrust I hold her tight to me and call out her name as I empty into her, my cock throbbing in time with her pussy, the wound on my side opening a little, pain and pleasure mingling as I take her.
Amal. My wife. The only person who has ever felt like home.