MARY
He’s so fucking tall. It’s not possible that he’s taller when he’s angry, but he seems taller right now, his hands on either side of my head, but higher as he leans over me, looming shamelessly.
I know he doesn’t want me to be aroused by this. I don’t want to be aroused by this, but he’s wearing short sleeves and his biceps are ripping over my head and he’s hot when he’s angry. The intensity which is always present lurking beneath the surface of his controlled exterior bursts forth. I can feel it emanating from him, pure masculine energy pumping into the space between us.
I’m tingling with excitement, my heart is pounding.
“I was doing my job!” I offer the excuse, knowing he’s not going to accept it.
“You were maybe sixty seconds from being sushi,” he growls. “That village isn’t safe. We’re pretty sure it’s being used as a stopover for weapons trafficking. There’s every chance that those houses hide stockpiles of ammunition, explosives, god knows what else. When you’re out here, everybody is a possible threat. There are fighters everywhere. Do you know what would happen to you if they got hold of you? Shall I get descriptive, Mary? Do you want to know what they do to women they capture?”
“I’ve had worse.”
Those three words hit him square between the eyes, because they’re delivered with the weight of truth. I have seen worse. Far worse. I see worse when I close my eyes. I know the reputation for brutality and cruelty some of the fighters have out here, but I have seen creative cruelty played out in ways that would make the men out here cringe. I refuse to be frightened of that anymore.
“Then use your damn brain,” he growls. “You think I want to find pieces of you?”
“What do you care?”
I throw the question at him, and his head rocks back as if I hit him.
“What do I care?” He growls the question again, shaking his head. He seems surprised, and maybe even a little hurt. I guess he’s forgotten the same thing I keep forgetting. We don’t really know each other. We’re total strangers, and whatever bond we do have was forged in such a fucked up way I don’t know if it will ever be strong enough to support anything remotely resembling a healthy relationship.
Right now, that’s not what’s at issue though. Right now, he just wants control. Control I don’t want to give anybody, even him.
I can see him hunting for words inside his mind. I don’t know what he’s going to say, and in the end he says nothing. His mouth descends on mine in a passionate kiss which captures my lips and makes all thought of resistance flee my mind. His lips are strong, but soft, urging mine apart and soon his tongue is snaking against mine. Our kiss deepens. His hands move from the wall and cup my head, large paws cradling me as he kisses me with the kind of passion I have only felt inside myself, the sort no man has ever mustered for me before.
I breathe him. Taste him. Feel him. My world is him and I am his as my tongue twirls with his and returns the vigor of desire.
When he breaks the kiss, none of the intensity has been lost.
“You’re going to do as you’re told,” he says in a husky growl. “I don’t care if you want to. I don’t care if you understand why you need to. I’m going to make sure you do either way.”
“You’re going to spank me again?”
“I’m going to do more than spank you, girl,” he promises. “I’m going to strip you down and…”
“No!”
My voice is strained and panicked.
“No?”
“You can spank me. You can even fuck me. But you can’t see me naked.”
He tilts his head to the side, and a look of compassion comes into his eyes. I don’t want that look. I don’t want pity. I want his anger, his fury, his passion. I want him to want me so fiercely that I forget the reason I can’t be nude with him.
“I’m going to have you naked,” he says, softly, but firmly.
Emotion cascades inside me. Fear. Relief. Both so intimately entwined and neither one of them making sense in tandem with the other. The relief is that it is no longer my call to make. The fear is that he will see what they did to me and then this moment will evaporate forever. Men don’t want broken women. They want whole creatures, perfect nubile, fertile goddesses. I’m barely female anymore. He doesn’t know that yet. But he will when he takes my clothes off.
I stand there, waiting for him to tear my secrets from me, but instead of those powerful hands ripping at zippers and buttons, he takes two steps back and looks at me.
“Strip.”
What? I can’t.
“Mary,” he says, his voice more firm than ever. “Take your clothes off. Now.”
“I can’t.” My voice shakes and cracks. “I can’t…”
All I can do right now is repeat those two words. I can’t take my clothes off. I can’t let him see me. I can’t be naked. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I’m frozen and useless to him and to myself.
Ken makes a soft sound and steps forward.
“What are you afraid of?”
I can’t even bring myself to say it. I want to cry. I’m ruining this. He wanted me. He was going to have me. If I weren’t so fucked up and broken he’d probably be inside me right now. Instead, I’m cowering before him and trying to hide the tears which are coming to my eyes.
Ken’s arms slide around me. He sweeps me up against his body and carries me over to his bed. He lays me down and lowers his body next to mine, his arms encircling my waist as he pulls me up to rest against him. Then he holds me close as I bury my face in his chest and wish I wasn’t like this.
“Whatever you’re afraid of… I promise, it won’t come true,” he rumbles with reassurance.
It’s a big promise, and one he shouldn’t be making.
“I’m ruined, Ken. Forever. No man is ever going to want me.”
“That is absolutely not true,” he says, his voice low and serious.
I turn my face away from him. He doesn’t understand. He’s an incredible man and an amazing person. He’s brave, he’s incredibly smart, and he’s one of the most physically powerful people I’ve ever met. He could have literally any woman he wanted. He could walk into a grocery store and pick a woman up like most people pick up a few apples.
“Mary.” He growls my name and a ripple of delicious fear runs down my spine. Yes, I am afraid of him, but fear has a different meaning to me now. This fear I feel with him is nothing like the horror I endured in the hospital. That was a death of feeling which drained me of my will to exist. The fear I feel with him makes me more alive, causes my heart to race, my tummy to flutter. Little goosebumps appear on my skin, and the hair on the back of my next stands erect.
“Look at me.”
I can barely bring myself to look at him. He makes me shy. He is everything a man should be. I am nothing a woman should be and we both know it.
“Look at me!” He snaps the words with harsh command and when I still don’t move my head, he takes my chin and turns my head toward him.
“You are beautiful,” he says. “You are not less for what you have been through. You are more. You bear the scars of life. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. They are marks which tell everyone who sees them how much you have survived.”
“Men don’t care what a woman has survived. They want a pretty little innocent unblemished girl. They want to be the ones to defile. They don’t want used, broken women.”
I see a flash of pure anger in his eyes. “And who taught you that?”
“Everyone?” I shrug. I know it’s true. They don’t advertise cars with scantily clad women covered in scars and marks.
“Not all men are mindless, and not all men are looking for an innocent princess,” he says. “Don’t give up on love yet.”
He pulls his fingers away from my chin and lets me sit with those words. They’re nice, but it’s going to take more than words to change how I feel inside.
“I’m going to take your clothes off you, Mary,” he says. “I’m going to start now. You can stop me if you want to, but I don’t want you to.”
I lie there next to him as his fingers find the zipper at the top of my neck and lower it down to my waist in a slow, steady motion. That alone won’t bare anything. Beneath the overalls, I have a white t-shirt and a bra on top, and boxers and panties below. I left him remove the overalls, feeling their heavy protection slide away from me.
“Lay on your back,” he urges softly, crouching over me as he pulls the thick fabric from my hips and down off my legs.
I’m letting him do what he wants with me, and I don’t even know why. Maybe part of me just wants to get his rejection over with. He’s not going to want me once he sees me, I know that much.
His fingers curl under my t-shirt, peel it up an inch and I freeze. Now he can see them for sure, the little white lines marking me. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even seem to see them as he draws it up, over my head. I can’t see him for a moment. There is nothing but white fabric, pit sweat in the underarms and then I am free, in my bra.
“They’re everywhere,” I say as he puts a strong hand to my belly, his splayed fingers running over my skin. “They kept… they…” I can’t begin to say what they did. He can see what they did. Every part of it is written in scar tissue, perfectly neat, anal retentive marks joining and converging across my torso.
He’s looking at me. Seeing me as I really am. Scars and all. I can’t read the expression on his face and I don’t know if I want to either. Does he pity me? Is he disgusted?
The fear has gone. It’s been replaced with something almost worse: safety.
I can’t risk feeling this safe. That makes no sense to anyone who hasn’t been hurt, but it’s the most urgent thing in my mind. I have to get up, away from his strong arms. I have to hide myself away, make sure that he doesn’t have the chance to love me.
“Stay still.” His voice is gruff, and stern and calm. It gentles me. And then he reaches for my bra, his fingers finding the clasp between my breasts. This is the moment of truth.