Page 48 of Issued

“Jim?” I stroke his face again and again, fascinated by the stubble and the way it drags across my palm.

His body presses tightly against mine, encasing me in his warmth. He leans forward until our foreheads touch. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. He’s a ship without a harbor, and I hold him steady when the tears break free and stain my face as well as his. He’s always been a rock, something to lean against that never breaks down. For the first time, I’m seeing just how deep his cracks run.

I lay a hand against his breastbone and stay with him in silence, not pressing him but offering my support. I need to show him that I can be his rock too.

Jim walks forward, backing me up toward the sink. “I’ve known Lux since we were fifteen years old. I kept his ass alive in Afghanistan, put my job on the line to save his neck, only to find out an hour ago that he got taken out by an IED. Ain’t that some shit? Asshole wanted to stay back instead of coming home with the rest of us to spite me.” He throws back his head and laughs, but it reminds me of broken glass. Painful and jagged, like the pieces that I know are broken inside of him. Just like the pieces that are broken inside of me.

His pain brings tears to my own eyes and this time, the urge to hold him is too strong to resist. I cradle his head into my neck and press my cheek tightly against his, while my other arm wraps around his waist and pulls him close. He goes rigid at first but then, with a shudder, relaxes into me. His strong arms pulse against my back. The wetness from his tears makes the knot in my throat grow bigger, but I can’t. I can’t lose it. Not when he needs me.

So I stroke his hair and remain silent while he shudders in my arms. How long has it been since someone held him like this and comforted him for once? I’m betting way too long, but I’m determined to change that.

He swallows and looks me in the eyes again. He’s a lost little boy, and all I want to do is help him find his way. “Do you think I could have saved him? If I were there, do you think I could have saved him?”

“I don’t know.” The words come out scratchy and my voice cracks. If Jim had been there and he had saved his friend, would it be Bear knocking on my door this time to tell me my husband wasn’t coming home? I push the question from my mind. Jim needs me. He’s hurting.

His gaze traces my lips, and for a breathless moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Then, he whirls away, presenting me with his broad back. His posture is rigid as he swipes at his eyes, probably embarrassed by his tears.

He needs something. A distraction. I clench my jaw as I brace my hand on the counter and take a deep breath. I’d rather allow him to ridicule me like my stepmother used to than allow him to suffer. “I’m a search and rescue volunteer. That’s how I broke my arm.”

Jim straightens to his full height. Then, slowly, he turns to face me. And waits.

“We were training. The rigging snapped, and I fell.” Shame twists my stomach into knots as I wait for the laughter to come. But there’s only silence where the mockery should have been. I shift, biting my lip.

“You should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

The lack of accusation in his voice, or mockery, or anything negative at all unleashes a torrent of warmth through my veins. Suddenly, all I can think about is how close he’s standing. How great he smells. How much I want his mouth on me. Anywhere. Everywhere.

“Can we talk about that later?”

He nods and reaches out, his hand hovering just above the side of my face. I lick my dry lips. He tracks the motion with his eyes. A current crackles between us, filling my body with a desperate need. That almost touch is a plea, a question, a silent testament to the need reflected in his eyes.

I lean in and kiss him. He tastes of salt and grief.

He opens his lips to my explorations, and I wrap my arm around the back of his neck, drawing him close while he devours my mouth in a clash of tongue and teeth. Every suckle and every swallowed groan leaves me hungry for more. I’ve craved his touch, his mouth, his hands ever since our drunken soiree, and when he bites my lower lip, the explosion of hunger is a result of weeks of wanting.

His erection is thick and heavy against my hip, and I step back long enough to reach for it. I massage his massive length through his boxers, arching back against the counter so I can stare at his face while I touch him. His teeth clench, the muscles in his jaw bulging.

I drop to my knees, sliding his boxers down as I go. I admire him for a moment, proud and throbbing, before I open my mouth and take him inside.

His hand fists in my hair, and the other slaps against the stainless-steel door of the refrigerator for balance. I swallow as much of him as I can take, lathering him with my tongue until he’s slick against my lips and hand. My fingers wrap around his base while my tongue traces the veins dancing along the underside of his shaft. I bob my head downward while the circle of my fingers rises up to meet my lips. I move faster and faster, pushing farther until the head of his dick brushes the back of my throat. I hold him there, lips, tongue, mouth and throat all wrapping around him until he convulses against me. I hold him within the wet cavern of my mouth until my throat threatens to reject him.

His shaft glistens, and even in my hand, it exudes power and purpose. I drag my tongue across the head, playing with the slit at the top with the tip of my tongue until he gifts me with a salty droplet of precum. My groan matches his when I swallow it. I want him inside of me. I want to touch my own aching slit, but I only have one hand at my disposal, and I need it to hold his dick steady while I bathe it with attention.

The taste of his skin tightens things low in my body, and my mouth waters. His fingers are lost in my hair, his body shuddering and shaking above me. I feel powerful, and I grip his ass, urging him to thrust into my mouth while I writhe before him, hungry for contact of my own.

My hand cups his balls briefly before traveling beyond them. I love playing with a man’s prostate. It makes them come so much harder. One partner described it as a deeper kind of release, and that’s what I want for Jim tonight. I want the pleasure to take control and overpower everything, even the grief. I want it not just for him, but for myself.

When my wet fingers tease his ass, he stops thrusting. My nails trail along his muscular cheeks, and I suck him deeper. He resumes thrusting, and I explore him again. When just the tip of my finger enters him, I pull free and duck my head, lapping his shaft and balls.

“Taya. Oh, fuck.”

He stumbles a little. When I suckle at the delicate skin of his sac, a fine tremor works along his body. I wrap my mouth around his balls and paint them with my tongue. His legs shake, and he rests his forearm against the ledge of the granite for balance.

I duck lower and let the tip of my tongue lap at the tight rose between his ass cheeks, my neck arching with the need to reach. My finger moves in small circles while I work him with my tongue. A deep, rumbling, growl of pleasure explodes from his chest, but the sound breaks the spell, and he pulls me to my feet. His chest rises and falls as if he’s been running and he looks... scared.

I relax in his grip, allowing emotion to guide my lips to his chest. I kiss him above the heart and rest there until its wild beat morphs from a hummingbird midflight to that of a butterfly. His shoulders relax, and with my chin resting against his breastbone, I look up at him through my lashes. “I’m sorry. I was moving too fast.”

He shakes his head. “No. I—” Jim blows out a breath and tries again. “I like it.” He trembles with the admission, his eyes wide and vulnerable, as if he expects my ridicule.

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