Return to Glory (Hqn) (8 page)

“Then I guess we should go to bed, if you’re still staying.”

She followed him inside silently. Betsy didn’t trust her voice. She focused on the broad planes of his back, the contours of his biceps and what it felt like to be in his arms. Would he hold her while they slept, or would he—

“There’s a guest room upstairs.”

“Really?” Betsy asked, arching an eyebrow. She’d sooner sleep naked in Haymarket Square than sleep in the guest room.

He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. “Look, when I made that demand about you spending the night, I was trying to push you away. I had every intention of bringing you here and being a special kind of bastard so you’d see how hopeless this is.”

Rather than be angry, she was curious. She wanted to know what brought about the change in his thinking. “What changed your mind?”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Betsy.”

“So don’t. You invited me to sleep over. Let’s have a sleepover. Remember that week you spent at our house when Caleb was at camp and we watched bad horror movies all night? We could watch scary flicks and eat popcorn.”

She was doing her best to link their interactions to good memories of things he could still do. Betsy purposefully avoided mentioning those nights after football games when he’d been the star quarterback. Or the ski trip to Snow Creek.

He sighed. “I can’t sleep without the whiskey.”

“I bet you can.” Betsy used the zipper on her dress as a way to bring contact between them, but she didn’t actually need him to unzip her. She had to dress herself in the morning, after all. So she reached behind her, tugged the zipper down and stepped out of her dress. “If you exhaust yourself.”

She’d expected he might demur, might make another excuse, but she’d found the one thing he wanted, the one thing worth all of the risks.

He reached out and ghosted the back of his knuckles down her arm and she shivered at the light caress. Jack pulled her against his chest and she hooked her arms around his back.

“You feel so good.” She kneaded lightly, enjoying the feel of his muscles bunching beneath her hand, reassuring her that he was real.

He was really home.

This was different between them. In her room, it had been homage to a dream whose time had passed, to say everything with her body that she’d never been able to give voice to. Now, standing in his house, pressing herself against him, this was about the present. This was for the woman she’d become who still wanted the man in front of her.

He lifted her easily and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Betsy feared he’d tell her no. She’d pushed him so hard she was starting to doubt herself. This was the validation she needed that she was on the right track. Nothing was more life-affirming than sex.

Betsy buried her face in his neck; she couldn’t get close enough. The scent of him was intoxicating, something strictly Jack that always made her think of home. She inhaled deeply, clinging to him as she brushed her lips over his neck and the hard razor of his jaw.

“To bed, then?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

“Oh yes.”

He carried her with ease, making her feel utterly delicate. Something that was a completely new sensation for her. The fact that she trusted him to carry her, didn’t ask him if he was sure he could lift her or balance their bodies together, seemed to spur his confidence.

Or maybe it was just that he was so hard for her he didn’t have time to battle his insecurities? She didn’t know, but he moved with more surety toward the downstairs library he’d turned into his bedroom.

He bent slowly, his muscles straining as he balanced them and carefully deposited her on the bed.

She noticed that even with the duvet, it had hospital corners. Neat and tight. More hope. He hadn’t given up on daily tasks—the things her mother’s doctors told her to watch for as signs of depression.

Jack wasn’t as far gone as he thought, or as he wanted others to think.

“You’re so strong,” she praised.

“You’re lucky I didn’t drop you.”

You’re not a small woman, Betsy.
Marcel had said that to her when she was in his lap. She knew that was not what Jack meant, but it didn’t stop the words from replaying over in her head on a stupid loop.

Jack was right. She needed to take his picture down. Maybe that would silence his voice.

“Bets?”

She realized she’d pulled the pillow in front of her. How stupid was that after her brazen display, stripping for him twice, and he’d already been inside her? She couldn’t hide, but she wanted to.

Betsy suddenly understood that about Jack, too. Why he wanted to hide things from her in the dark, why he didn’t want her to see.

For the millionth time, she realized that she was in way over her head.

“You know that I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know,” she said, unable to look at him.

“Then why are you hiding from me?” He tilted her chin up gently.

Her eyes were heavy, and she didn’t want to meet his eyes, but just as she wouldn’t let him turn away, he wouldn’t grant her that mercy, either.

“You stripped for me in the daylight and now you want to hide in the shadows?”

“You want the light off, so why can’t I hide, too?” She swallowed hard.

“Because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He tugged the pillow out of her grasp slowly and pushed it to the side. “Art was meant to be displayed and admired, not hidden.”

From anyone else, it would have sounded like a line. Something whispered hurriedly to assuage her fear so he could still get a piece, but not Jack. From him, it was earnest poetry.

“Hasn’t anyone told you how perfect you are?” The incredulity in his voice gave her pause.

“No one is perfect.”

“You are.”

She didn’t know what to say, or what to do. No one had ever told her those things, and for them to come from him...

He leaned down and kissed the inside of her knee, his breath warm and his lips like a brand. “Touching you here—” he kissed her again “—makes you shiver and squirm in the best way.” Jack didn’t stop there but moved higher up her thigh. “And right here is all strength and feminine softness.” He clasped her hips. “Perfect for holding you right where I want you. Dangerous curves I could ride all night.”

She trembled at his description and when he moved to the gentle curve of her belly, she wanted to push him away, but he would have none of it. He burrowed against her, his short hair tickling her until she writhed and giggled.

“So soft and sweet,” he praised. “
This
is the embodiment of femininity. You know how I was talking about art? You see hard-bodied men on display, but not women. Women’s bodies are meant to be curvy and plush. If I wanted ripped abs, I’d be here with Caleb.”

Jack rose above her and filled his hand with her breast. “And dear sweet hell, Betsy. Your breasts have always been the stuff of fantasies. I can’t decide if I want to touch them, taste them or just look at them.”

He dipped his head and did all three. He took the bud of her nipple into his hot mouth, and every pull of his mouth tugged at something deep inside her.

“I’d keep you naked all the time. Not just for this, but so I could just watch you. The way you move, the fluid grace in every action. It’s not practical, but I’d love to watch you bake those cookies naked.”

His words caused heat to bloom everywhere. She hadn’t known he thought of her so often or in so much detail. Or the things he wanted to do with her cookies.

She found herself agreeing. “I’ll do that for you, Jack.” She’d do anything for him.

“I’ve been thinking about how you always smell like vanilla sugar. All through dinner that I couldn’t taste, I remembered your mouth, between your thighs, and I wanted it again.”

His appraisal had been so intense she’d thought it anger, but that wasn’t rage.

It had been need.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
LL THE THINGS
Jack had never thought he’d be telling her poured from him in a tidal wave. It was so foreign and wrong to him that Betsy didn’t know her own appeal.

It humbled him. All this time he’d believed she knew her own worth and how desirable she was. She’d been as afraid as he was, but she hadn’t shown it until now. Even through it all, she forged ahead.

Betsy blossomed under his praise, her stiff body relaxing into his caresses, even arching into his touch.

He never thought in a million years he’d be here with her.

When he left that night, when he said goodbye, he was sure when he saw her again she’d be over whatever it was she thought she felt for him. Then he’d come home broken and yet here she was, as lovely as ever, and she still wanted him.

He’d thought it a sense of duty, or pity, but there was none of that present on her face when he touched her or when she melted against him.

Jack wanted to tell her that she deserved better, but he realized that questioning her choices was not only high-handed, but an insult.

That didn’t mean he was ready for her to see him, or any of the other things he was avoiding, but he’d trust her to make her own choices. If that choice was him, he’d stop fighting it.

He loved how responsive she was to his every touch.

It occurred to him that if he’d had the whiskey he craved so much, he wouldn’t be able to do this to her. Wouldn’t be able to bury himself in her and be lost in all things good. Maybe, just maybe, her arms would be enough to get him through the dark.

She whispered breathlessly in his ear, “Do you have any condoms?”

He froze. “I might have one in my wallet. I honestly didn’t think I’d need one again.”

Her laugh was soft. “I might have one in my bag. Otherwise, we’re going to Walgreens.”

“I’ll get it.” Jack pulled away from her to go retrieve her tote bag.

She dug into the various pockets and pulled out a small square.

Her legs hooked around his hips and she pulled him down.

He finally tasted something different in her kiss. Something crisp, like an after-dinner mint.

It was an explosion of sensation, of stimulation, and he remembered all the good things that came with mint. Sharing Thin Mints Girl Scout Cookies with his mom on movie night. Gram’s butter mints that she kept on the lowest shelf just for his little hands when he was a child. Although it wasn’t long before there was a bitter aftertaste of not-so-pleasant memory, too. The smell of mouthwash when his father was trying to hide the liquor on his breath.

Somehow that didn’t matter. All of the good overshadowed the bad and made it worth feeling, worth tasting.

Worth remembering.

Now, this moment, it would be twined with sweet mint, too.

“What do you taste?” he asked her as his hands roamed over her body.

“The chocolate chip cookie I had for dessert when Mom wasn’t looking, the toothpaste from when I brushed my teeth after dinner, and your lips.”

“I didn’t know a moment could have a taste,” he confessed. “But this one does. My memories do.”

“Everything has a taste.”

He traced his tongue against the edge of her mouth, over the seam where her lips parted for him and inside. Jack pulled back for a moment just to look at her.

Her black hair falling in waves behind her, the way the twilight fell on the palette of her skin, her mouth swollen and pink from his kisses.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Looking at you.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.” He traced his thumb over the fullness of her bottom lip, the delicate line of her jaw, down to the fine ridge of her collarbone.

“Turnabout is fair play.”

“Hardly.”

“No one asked for your opinion. I want to see you. There’s more to your body than your leg, and you know it. Why else do you work so hard on that gun show?” She ran her hands over his biceps to accentuate her point.

“Oh you like that, do you?” For the first time in a long while, he felt pride at his form.

“You know I do.” She peeled his shirt off. “Jeans, off. Now.”

He knew he had to do it if he wanted what was supposed to happen next, if he wanted to be inside her, but he still couldn’t stand the idea of her seeing it. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know it was real, but letting her see, it was wrong somehow.

“Jack, I’m not going to inspect you like some bug under glass. I just want you as naked as I am. I want to know what it’s like to be only skin to skin. I’ll close my eyes.” She dropped her hands and lay perfectly still and closed her eyes as she’d promised.

Jack shed his jeans and covered her body with his, careful to keep the titanium from touching her, but she was oblivious.

It was just as she promised: she didn’t care. She didn’t suddenly pounce on him and demand to see, or turn on the light and inspect him, she didn’t even open her eyes. He took the opportunity to study her again.

Her lips curved in a smile. “If I don’t get to stare, neither do you.”

He took a deep breath. Inhaled slowly as the word rolled around in his head. Exhaled, decision made. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Open your eyes.”

She opened her eyes slowly, sooty lashes fluttering as she focused on him. “There, now. Is that so bad?”

Betsy had allowed him inside her body; the least he could do was let her look at him if she wanted to. “You can look if you want.”

“I don’t need to. It’s just part of you, Jack. If that wasn’t okay with me, do you think I’d be here now?” Without looking away from him, she opened the foil packet of the condom with one hand and her teeth; then she reached between them and rolled the latex down his arousal.

It was one of the most erotic experiences he’d ever had, the feel of her hand on him, sheathing him for the act that was to come.

He’d never expected this—any of it. A shadow hovered at the edge of his consciousness, telling him this couldn’t last, but that didn’t matter. Not with Betsy underneath him, soft and wanting.

He buried himself in her—more than just the simple act of his erection in her sheath, Jack allowed himself to be lost, to feel pleasure without the expectation of pain. The sounds of her soft cries reassured him that he could still do something right, that there was still some use for him, even if it was only to make Betsy Lewis see stars. He could think of worse things.

If that was all he was good for, he was determined to be the best any man had ever been for a woman.

She gasped when he pulled out, dug her nails into his shoulders, demanding he stay. He liked the feel of her little claws curled into his shoulders. Not only did it mark him as hers, but she was demanding her pleasure as was her due.

He fully intended to give it to her.

How many times had he fantasized about being like this with her? How many times had he lain awake imagining what he’d do to her? What it would’ve been like that night if he’d taken everything she offered?

And how many times had he touched himself in the dark imagining this very moment?

Jack loved the feel of her skin, like satin. So smooth and perfect. He explored at his leisure, taking his time to fit his hands to the curve of her hips, to drag his stubbled cheek along the softness of her belly and finally down to her mound.

He’d been craving this again already, the taste of her on his tongue. He loved the sounds she made, too, breathy little cries of bliss, even as she begged him for more.

This was why sugar tasted like ecstasy, because it was Betsy.

Jack licked and laved, anchored her against his mouth, and in taking what he wanted, he gave Betsy everything she needed. When she’d surrendered herself completely to sensation, to him, that was when he pushed inside her again.

Maybe it was the contrast of being denied sensation, maybe it was because he hadn’t done this with a woman in so long or maybe it was just because it was Betsy, but being with her was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced before.

He drove himself forward again and again until she came undone for the second time. A rush of contentment washed over him after he let himself fall off that precipice of ecstasy after her. Betsy curled against him, as if there were nowhere in the world better than being wrapped in his arms.

Jack let his guard down and let himself sleep in the cocoon they’d made.

Only to find himself trapped in a dream he couldn’t wake up from—the putrid stench of his own seared flesh in his nose and the pain—the burn so hot it was cold, the shrapnel tearing into him and the thundering explosions overhead reminding him that even though his body was home, his mind never would be.

* * *

T
HE HEAVY BLANKET
of warmth was ripped away from Betsy like a thatched roof in a tornado.

A sound of unbearable agony ripped from the body of the man next to her. He thrashed and clawed in his torment.

“Jack?” She sat up in bed and put a cool hand on his forehead. “Jack?” She said his name again when he howled, caught up in the throes of a nightmare.

“Let me go. It burns,” he murmured. “Let me die.”

She drew her hand back slowly.

“Don’t make me come back, Betsy. Christ, it burns,” he moaned, and continued to thrash, clawing at the remains of his leg, trying to put out a blaze on the limb he no longer had.

“Wake up, Jack.” She hoped his name would draw him back to consciousness, away from that horrible place. “You’re with me now.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” he roared, and she found herself slammed down into the bed, pinned beneath him, his eyes wild and haunted. “You’re not here. You can’t be here.”

His fingers dug half-moons into her skin and she realized he was still asleep, or trapped in the flashback.

“Jack?”

He squeezed harder. “Stop wearing her face, using her voice. I’d rather burn,” he snarled.

Her heart cracked in her chest. Even though he held her immobile, his face was only inches from hers, and she lifted her head to press her lips against his.

His mouth was as rigid and unforgiving as marble, until he finally kissed her back. She twined her arms around him and offered him the only comfort she had to give—the only thing she knew could block out the pain.

“This isn’t real,” he said.

“This part is. I swear.”

“You’ve said that before. And it was just to bring me back, to make me keep my promise.”

She remembered what she’d told the nurse. To tell him to remember his promise to come back to her.

He had. He’d heard her and it brought him nothing but torture. “You always keep your promises anyway. It doesn’t matter what I said.” Except that now she knew that it did. She knew the medics thought he was going to die, but she hadn’t realized the only reason he’d fought was her.

Betsy didn’t feel any of the warmth that a revelation like that should have brought her. Only guilt for making him live through it, because it would never lie silent and still in his past. It would always and forever be present and solid.

Burning.

She hated that word. She’d never use it again in relation to something good, because it was all sour.

“Wake up,” she whispered against his mouth.

The grip on her wrists eased and the mania waned from his eyes. His hands were on her face, smoothing her hair away from her forehead. Although it seemed he was checking to make sure it was really her.

“Betsy?”

“I’m here. I didn’t go anywhere.”

He buried his face in her neck and she stroked his hair. “I’m sorry.”

He was sorry? She was the one who’d made him face his nightmares with no escape hatch. She’d been so sure that he wasn’t as broken as he believed.

But she’d been wrong.

Betsy didn’t know what to do now, how to make it better. The places where he’d grabbed her throbbed, and she knew she’d be bruised, and he’d beat himself up over that, too.

The alarm on her phone went off, signaling it was time to get up. She had to open Sweet Thing. She didn’t want to leave him, and for a moment she didn’t think he was going to let her. She wouldn’t have minded too much if he hadn’t. If she just lay here with him, she could hold him and tell him it would be okay without having a plan to make it okay.

Or without thinking that it was an utter and complete lie.

He rolled from her to his side of the bed.

“Will you bring me that bottle on your way out?” He nodded at the whiskey on the table by the door.

Betsy didn’t know what else to do and so instead of giving him some speech about living in the world, or experiencing the good with the bad, she got up slowly and after grabbing her bag to head to the shower, she handed him the bottle.

And when she stepped into the shower to wash away the sins of the day, all she could do was cry.

For the first time, Betsy wondered if she might fail to save him.

It was one thing to hear about PTSD, to watch sad stories on the news and even to see it in the lives of some of the vets she spoke with when she went to the V.A. and handed out day-old donuts. It was quite another to watch Jack experience it—to hear him screaming because in his head, he was on fire.

If the whiskey made that stop, who was she to take that away from him? Who was she to demand that he be more than she could?

Betsy didn’t have to relive her drowning every night the way Jack relived what had happened to him, and sometimes she was still afraid of the water. Even there in the shower, with water clinging to her lashes, she remembered what it was like to look up through that heavy wall and see the faces of the people watching her drown. That was only on the bad days. For Jack, it was every day.

You’ll see what it’s like to be me.
He’d said it with such grim finality and Betsy knew he had challenges, but the reality of it hadn’t quite struck her. Not until she saw it for herself.

His pain cut her like nothing else.

Not even her own.

She needed the comfort of her shop more than ever, but Betsy didn’t know if anything could wring this out of her. She hadn’t been able to wash it off with soap and scalding water, so she didn’t know if the warmth and happy glow of Sweet Thing could change that. Betsy debated closing for the day, but Monday was V.A. day. She took the product that hadn’t sold over the weekend and handed it out to the residents at the dormitory. She knew she was the only visitor some of the guys ever had. She couldn’t disappoint them.