Page 65 of Hero Hair

Chapter Nineteen

Teala

This is the last time. Women can sense these things. Call it intuition, if you will. When I slept with men before, the sex always had a non-permanent quality. I could feel it all over my body. It’s harried and vicious hands because tomorrow doesn’t matter. Two hours into the future doesn’t even matter, because I’d be left alone wondering what the hell was wrong with me and the things I desired. Macs brings me back into the moment.

“Teala. Focus on me,” he says, his hands on the sides of my stomach, caressing softly. He tossed his camo jacket off, but he still has on a white T-shirt, his pants around his ankles, and his boots with his feet inside, are on the floor. If anything signals a man leaving, it’s when we have to fuck with our clothes on like we’re in high school.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

I’m straddling his hips. He’s hard and waiting, and I want it to last forever. Maybe if I can live in this moment for as long as possible, everything else will vanish. Leaning over, I place my lips on his. The salty taste of my tears mixes in our kiss and I can’t help but cry a little at the bittersweet reminder. Macs shushes me and rubs my back, and I think maybe I can’t have sex with him. The part of Teala who only wants sex and fucking and orgasms isn’t anywhere to be found right now.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” I whisper.

People don’t know if their loved ones are alive and I’m crying because the person I care about has to leave my side. I feel as guilty as the terrorists who stole so much from so many. Before he can respond I deepen the kiss, placing one hand on the side of his head. I thread my fingers through his hair and open my mouth to allow his tongue to mingle with mine. The sweetness of the moment goes away when I reach between our warm bodies and adjust his shaft so he can enter me. He jerks as soon as we make connection and moans out a small plea of pleasure. It feels good—right. He fills me in the next thrust, and his large hands tighten around my hips as he guides me at a pace he wants. Eyes closed, and lips parted slightly, he continues his assault with controlled, manipulated thrusts. I can’t even focus on coming because I’m too wrapped up in his pleasure. This isn’t a face I’ve seen all day. It’s been scowls and frowns, stoic reserve, and grimaces.

“You feel so good,” he whispers.

Instead of responding, I kiss him and sniffle. He must have a face full of my snot, but he hasn’t said anything yet.

“I want you to come,” Macs says. “Please.”

His voice is pleading and strained. His fingers are stroking my clit in a frenzied pace I know will get me off in no time if I can concentrate on nothing else. I slide my hands up his shirt to expose his abs and chest and let my fingers grip the mountains of muscle that reside there. I close my eyes and let the sensations take over. He’s filling me, stroking me, and all my senses are overtaken by one entity—him. No sounds but skin slapping, and I smell his sweat and shampoo. My hands are worshipping him, and my heart—it’s loving him.

Macs picks up the pace with his thrusts, and I come in a slow cycle of rapid fire waves. I don’t scream or call out his name. I merely concentrate on my breathing. As soon as the very last flutter of orgasm leaves, Macs slides me off his shaft and pumps his hand around the base of his slick cock and comes on his stomach. His face is chiseled from perfection even when he has no control over it. My core clenches in response. More. I want him to live inside me. I have a tissue box sitting on the bed because my mom shoved it into my hands when I came tearfully blasting in her front door. I take one and wipe his stomach when I see he’s not making any fast movements to rid himself of the sticky substance.

“You don’t want to leave,” I say.

He keeps his eyes closed as he shakes his head to confirm my assumption.

“And I’m afraid that makes me unpatriotic, or less honorable in some way,” he says, using a hoarse voice. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for, but it’s a blanket apology, and I know all about those. My father tried them on me for the first several years after the divorce. It came to a point where an apology from anyone meant very little without action. Macs doesn’t have anything to apologize for, and maybe that’s why it means more than those in my past. I force him to look at me, leaning over his body. My breasts graze his chest and that stirs him to life. His gaze flicks up to meet mine.

“You’re going to leave and you will be honorable and patriotic and do the hard things others can’t. You’re a good man.”

He scoffs. “I don’t know about that. I mean, I’m awesome, sure. The adjective you used is a little loose,” he explains, a grin gliding over his face. “Unlike you,” he says, his hand winding its way in between my legs. He plays with the wetness for a moment or two, just long enough for my eyes to flutter closed in expectation. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” What he means to say is,this isn’t normal.“I don’t know what happens next and I have no clue how long something like this could keep me away. There aren’t rules anymore, Teala. This is war.”

I probably look like a deer caught in headlights. He’s giving it to me straight, which is all I could hope from him. This is a little much to take in, but I nod.

He goes on, “And I don’t want to ask you to wait for me, but I’m going to do it anyways.”

I swallow down the terrifying words and brush the side of his face with my hand. “You don’t have to ask.”

He nods. “I do. You just called me a good guy.” He smiles widely.

I laugh, in spite of the tears forming in my eyes and my pounding pulse. “It was a loose adjective. Remember?”

He sits up, his pants still around his ankles. It looks ridiculous now that I’m not riding him, and he’s talking about his feelings. He pulls his pants up in one, goddamn hot swoop and eyes me down so fiercely now I’m scared for another reason. He wills my attention by looking at me, a feat I never would have known was possible.

Taking my hands in his, he says, “No one is going to fuck you like me. Make you wet like me.”

He’s right. I’m sitting here sopping wet and ready even though it’s been less than five minutes since he filled me. I smile at his statement. He doesn’t return the gesture.

“No one is going to love you while doing it. Not like I will.”

I choke on spit and cough—a most ungodly noise. He told me he loves me. Sure, it was in the same sentence as fucking, but that’s been our way from the second we laid eyes on each other.

“You don’t have a lot of confidence in me, do you?” I ask, finally relenting to the laughter that bubbles its way from the depths of my stomach. Which I think resides in my feet, at the moment.

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