An inch at a time, I gave him more of me, until my panties were at my ankles.
With 20 seconds left, I was completely naked, short of my hat. Facing the television, I finished my performance and hoped he enjoyed it. As the song faded to nothing, I slowly faced the camera and titled my hat to the side.
I was fifteen feet from the phone, but it looked like he was masturbating.
I moved closer. Facing the camera with his cock in his hand, his shirt was off. His sweats were around his thighs.
Staring right at me, he was stroking his cock like his life depended on it. Turned on beyond measure and filled with a sense of self-pride for bringing him to that point of arousal, I watched as he finished his chore.
After erupting a geyser of cum into his cupped hand, he excused himself.
I’d trusted Braxton enough to reveal a secret about myself to him. Doing so cleansed me of my feelings of guilt, and it drew me even closer to the man I was slowly developing deep feelings for.
Feeling uncertain of where our relationship was headed, but pleased with where it was for the moment, I waited for him to return.
“Holy shit,” he said, stepping in front of the camera. “That was sexy as fuck.”
I grinned. “Do you feel better?”
“I do,” he replied. “Do you?”
The guilt—and my clothes—were gone. Still naked, but as comfortable as if I were clothed, I offered him a heartfelt smile.
“Yes,” I said. “I sure do.”
Anna
Day seventeen
I was tested for the virus and received negative results. Braxton drove to an independent laboratory to see if his body had developed antibodies against the disease. Although there was plenty of published data to support him no longer being contagious, he wanted scientific proof before he came in contact with others.
I yearned to be in Braxton’s presence but wanted a doctor’s clearance as much as he did. I didn’t want to be the cause for another funeral with no attendees or become the subject of a Dateline story about a wannabe nurse who died taking care of her sexy COVID-19 infected neighbor.
I sat on the couch, waiting for Braxton to return. Accustomed to having him breathing in my ear or talking to me on a video chat, the silence of his absence was unnerving. Feeling anxious, I pieced together a timeline of our makeshift relationship.
He saved me from a criminal. I became starry-eyed. We had sex. I was infatuated. He resisted. I pressed on. We had sex again, which was interrupted by a Hollywood harlot. During that disruption, he left me for the harlot.
We didn’t speak for two weeks.
He became infected with a life-threatening disease, which caused him to take a long, hard look at his life, and his actions. Thankfully, he had no symptoms.
He apologized for his actions.
Following his heartfelt apology, I felt much better about matters between us, and of the possibility that we could develop a valuable friendship.
Then, he fell ill.
Eleven days passed. During that time, the minutes seemed like hours. The hours resembled the longest of days, and the days dragged on like weeks. When it was over, my feelings about Braxton were far different than they were in the beginning.
In a week and a half, I learned who Braxton Rourke truly was. Throughout his illness, he unwillingly lost the layers of his protective armor, one by one. Eventually, he was exposed, alone, and in need of protection. I offered him shelter with the bedtime stories I read. I lulled him to sleep with songs. I absorbed each tear that he shed and wept for him when he was unable.
I now feared a friendship between us wouldn’t suffice. My relationship clock had been ticking at a much different pace than Braxton’s. During his sickness, I had spent a decade at his side reliving the horrors of war. That decade, however, was ten years that he had no idea I’d been a part of.
Unbeknownst to him, I’d accompanied him through battle. I held his virtual hand while he called in airstrikes. I sought shelter at his side on a dusty Iraqi road behind a burned-out Toyota while a sniper took pot shots at us. I waited impatiently in Afghanistan for a Corpsman that never came. As his brothers in arms drew their last dying breaths, I held him in my arms while he held them in his.
The familiar drone of his SUV’s exhaust snatched me from my dreamlike state. Sitting in my spot at the end of the sofa, I faced the window and waited.
He turned into my drive and rolled to a stop.
I held my breath.
He stepped out of the vehicle. His tailored navy suit that once fit him like a second skin now hung from his shoulders like he’d selected it from Nordstrom’s sale rack. He produced a sheet of paper from inside his coat pocket. He fumbled to unfold it, and then raised it high in the air.
I rushed to the front door and yanked it open. “What did they say? Is it…are you—”
A prideful grin covered his face. “I’m one hundred percent safe.”
“One hundred percent as in—”
He stretched his arms wide. “One hundred percent as in, come here.”
We hadn’t hugged yet. It would be our first.
I rushed through the yard and down the driveway. I leaped against him with such force that I nearly knocked him over.
He caught me mid-air and swung me in circles. Our actions resembled the scenes from the cheesy Lifetime movies that I used to watch at Christmastime while I was in college.
Only it was real.
Not knowing if we were merely celebrating his release from confinement with a hug, or if this was the beginning of something much bigger, I mentally struggled with where I should place my hands.
Fearing rejection, I chose to let them dangle at my sides.
I had questions I wanted to ask. There were answers I desperately needed to hear. I told myself to enjoy the moment until it was over. I closed my eyes and relished the comfort of being in his arms.
We stopped spinning. I opened my eyes.
His gaze met mine.
Held tight in his arms, my feet dangled six inches above the concrete. I searched his eyes for answers. They possessed a desire that I hadn’t previously noticed.
Lost in admiration, I gazed into the glistening sea of brown and green, wondering just what my future held.
He traced the tip of his finger along the edge of my jaw. A tinge of anticipation ran though me.
He lifted my chin slightly.
Then, he answered all my questions with a kiss.
It wasn’t a thank you kiss, nor was it one of appreciation. It was the type of kiss that all other kisses are compared to.
The kiss that defines kisses.
A kiss that forces the recipient to long for it more than they long for anything else in their lifetime.
One of his hands rested along the bottom of my butt. The other pressed firmly against the middle of my back. I draped mine over his shoulders and pulled him against me.
His lips melded to mine. Our tongues intertwined. The passage of time stopped altogether.
Suspended in that moment, we kissed each other as if our lives were dependent upon our successes.
When our mouths parted, I was mindless.
I knew one thing, however.
Braxton Rourke held my heart in his hands.
I prayed that he handled it with care this time.
Braxton
My fellow Marines were placed in two categories. The trustworthy and the incapable. While in combat, both groups of men faced the prospect of dying.