Chapter 23
Forever And A Day, Please
I wake up to darkness, to starshine silvering the sand beyond the door, to the warm weight of Story's perfect body passed out on mine.
Her cheek is on my sternum, her breath huffing out softly and pulling in with a tiny, almost undetectably little snore—that snore, for some reason, fills me with such heart-cracking love that my eyes burn.
I've loved this woman since I was a kid.
Through every phase of my life, I've loved her.
I gave up on ever having it returned, and now here we are.
Together.
I try to fall back asleep, but it's not happening. For one, I have to piss like a demon.
I fight it for a while, but it quickly becomes a necessity, so as much as I hate having to move her and lose the heat and comfort and security of her soft body on mine, I roll and very gently lay her on her side, back to the wall.
She snorts, nuzzles into the pillow, but doesn't wake.
The incinerator toilet isn't exactly quiet, so once I'm sure she's still asleep, I creep off the bed and tiptoe outside.
I step away into the treeline a few yards from the hut and let loose the single longest and most satisfying piss of my life.
Bladder relieved, I stride to the water. The moon is high and full, a bright round yellow-white disc hanging in the sky, shining a path of light on the rippling, ceaseless sea. The stars are infinite and glittering, and the water is bathtub warm as I wade in.
For a while, I just stand there in the ocean, the water at my waist, searching myself.
Despite hours and hours of therapy, I still struggle with the darkness.
What helped more than anything, honestly, was my conversation with General Webber—Steely, as he insists I call him.
That man was a POW for years, and a good portion of that was in pitch-black isolation, as he kept trying to escape.
He and I talked for hours—all night, around the fire on the beach, sipping whiskey and letting our shared trauma bleed all over the sand.
Dr. Ripley, the PTSD specialist, made it clear that it would be a long process—and I was only imprisoned for a couple of weeks.
I simply can’t imagine what it must be like trying to recover from being a legit POW for years.
My respect for General Webber, for this alone, is second to none.
It doesn't go away, Steely told me, his eyes vacant and distant. Never. You never forget. Time, therapy, and love, however…they help. They heal. They brick over the broken places. But that brokenness? It never totally goes away.
I feel like an imposter, a little bit. I wasn't a soldier.
It wasn't war. There was no name-rank-serial-number, no brothers to hold out for or secrets to keep. I wasn’t even actually tortured.
It was just greedy, evil, power-hungry assholes doing horrible, vile, terrible, violent things to innocent people for sadistic, depraved reasons.
But then, that does describe a lot of wars throughout history, I suppose.
Story, though.
Through the recovery process, she showed me so much love and understanding and tenderness that I still have trouble fathoming it; I did my best to give back as good as I received, and I like to think I mostly succeeded. I know she’d say I did, but then I’m always my own worst critic.
We talked things through—shit, for the months that we were healing, all we did was talk.
It's all we could do. We talked more about her childhood, the mall shooting, and the process of healing from that, especially as it concerns my own healing process.
We talked more about her exes, and mine.
We talked about nothing in particular and everything in general, and all things in between.
I thought I loved her before. But now? After what we just shared? English needs a word more powerful than "love."
I turn and look over my shoulder at the hut; I felt her, I think. She's standing naked in the doorway, one hand in her hair, squinting at me sleepily.
I gesture for her to join me.
She shuffles off the porch and scuffs through the sand, splashes without hesitation into the water, arms reaching for me when she's still several feet away.
And again, the adorableness of the whole thing squeezes my heart until I think I’m gonna explode.
Not like that, though.
I'm laughing as she hurls herself into my arms.
"Woke up and you weren't there," she grumbles, sounding peeved.
"Had to pee."
"Why are you laughing?"
"Because you're just so goddamn cute."
“Oh." A pause. "I gotta pee, too."
I wade deeper into the water, holding her like I’m carrying her across the threshold, until she's submerged to her shoulders.
"Cut loose, baby girl."
She frowns at me. “You'll feel it."
"So? We're in the water. The current will take it away. And do you honestly think I'm gonna be bothered by a little pee? After the container?”
She wrinkles her nose. "I dunno if I can." She nuzzles into my neck. "Don't look at me."
I snicker a laugh and look up at the moon, and just hold her as she concentrates. And then she huffs a sound of relief, and I feel warmth spreading around us, quickly replaced by cooler water as the gentle currents here in the shallows pull it away.
She lifts her face and looks at me. "That wasn't weird for you?"
I shrug, shake my head. "Nope."
"Question."
"Shoot."
"Your parents. Do they pee in front of each other?"
I laugh. "God, yes. Mom walks in while Dad is taking a shit if she needs something."
"Both Mom and Dad are very private about that stuff."
"And you?"
She shrugs. "I've never felt comfortable enough with anyone to behave like that." She looks at me, a small smile on her lips. "But now that I've peed on you, I think it's safe to say I'm comfortable."
"Good. I'm glad.”
I twist to my back and kick away until the bottom is just deep enough that I have to do a moon-jump to touch bottom and keep my face above the water, and then I roll onto my back and kick away with her on my chest like a baby otter.
Story clings to me, all arms and legs, head on my shoulder, eyes glittering in the starlight as she gazes at me while paddling us aimlessly this way and that.
"Kill?"
"Mm."
"Thank you."
I frown. "For?"
"Accepting me." I see her blush in the silver light. "Loving me. Making me feel safe." A deeper blush. "For earlier."
"Shy now, huh?"
She nods. "Once I'm turned on, I'm bold as brass and have no filter. But otherwise, not so much."
"Story, tonight will be imprinted on my soul for the rest of my life."
I dance us along the shoreline a ways, and then back the other way—there are stronger currents in both directions—the beach is the ending, a sandbar that extends almost a mile straight out, reaching toward another island now long sunk, representing a former isthmus.
To either side of the sandbar, the water is much deeper and much swifter—which is why the sailboat is anchored just off the sandbar.
“You’re thanking me for accepting you taking control,” I say, making my guess a statement.
She nuzzles into my throat. “Yeah.” She's shy, sleepy. It's so cute it's killing me.
"I love it. And I love that it can be a dynamic thing. I can be in control, and so can you. I'm not threatened by it—just the opposite, actually. It's fucking hot. But I also love it when you beg me to get rough with you."
She burrows closer. "Killy!” It's a scold.
"What?" I laugh.
"Don't tease me."
"I'm not!" I say, laughing. "God, you're so fucking adorable when you're sleepy."
She just snarls, soft and small and cute. "I’m not cute."
"The fucking cutest."
"Do I need to get on my knees and show you how uncute I am?"
I nibble her earlobe. "Yes, I believe you do."
"Then take us to shore."
I wade toward the shore, and once the water is swirling and sucking in and out between my knees, she puts her feet down. Reaches up and pulls me down for a hot kiss, demanding and hungry. I palm a breast and give her my tongue, and she reaches between us, caresses me to life.
When she drops to her knees, I go with her. She frowns at me, and I just pull her in for another kiss, slip my hand between her thighs and find her wet and eager for me, dripping for me—still dripping me, too. I kiss us breathless, finger her to the cusp of orgasm and then stop.
I show her what I want: twist her in place so she's facing away from me, spend a moment with my stomach against her back, caressing her tits and her belly and her thighs, finger her clit until she's panting and mewling—I tease her like that for long minutes, bringing her to the edge of climax and then away, again and again.
"Killy, what are you doing to me?" she whispers, as I let her fall away from the edge one more time.
"Whatever I want."
“Okay," she breathes. "Just give me you. Please."
"I planned on it." I turn her face to mine, kiss her until she breaks, gasping. And then I push her forward until she splashes down to her hands and knees. "When I said I wanted you on your knees, this is what I had in mind.”
"Oh." She cranes her head to look at me over her shoulder, hair falling in a golden cascade, pale, fierce blue eyes hot with need and rife with desperation. For me. “Yes, please.” She lifts her ass, wiggles it at me in invitation.
How do you not feel ten feet tall when a woman like Story Binyamin is looking at you like that?
I line myself up against her slit, one hand sliding over her back, the other guiding my cock to her entrance.
The second I'm there, she rears back into me, eagerly taking me with a soft cry, head hanging; it’s a marvel how she can go from sleepy and shy and adorable to a sex-crazed goddess in no time flat.
I push into her slowly and gently, filling her and filling her until my hips tap the soft, plump give of her ass cheeks, and when I bottom out inside her, we both groan in unison.
I gather her hair in my fist, and wrap the silky golden tresses around my fist.
"Oh god, fuck yes, Killy," she hisses.