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I sank into a deep depression, thoughts of Mac the only thing I could focus on. After a week of that, I woke up one afternoon to loud banging on my door. I ignored it, but it didn’t stop. I finally went to answer it and found Vicky, Georgie, and Mac’s foster parents on my doorstep. It was a fucking intervention.
It was exactly what I needed, and I began to emerge from my depression, spurred on by the thought of what it would do to Mac when he came home if he found me in this state, because even then, even in the midst of the worst time of my life, I never doubted that he would come back to me.
I spent the next nine months studying hard at Stanford, loving my zoology degree. It brought me out of myself, gave me a purpose. I found a volunteer job at a local marine rescue center, which I absolutely love. The rent from my apartment pays for college, and Mac’s wages pay the bills. It’s tight, but I manage.
It’s going to get harder to keep my days full now that college has broken up for the summer, four long months stretching out ahead of me, but I have plans. I’m still at the rescue center, I’m going to be surfing every morning, and I’ve taken on a part-time job teaching kids how to surf, so I’ll still have plenty going on.
I use all of those activities to keep my mind occupied, to keep me out of the house when possible because being at home is hell. I see the ghost of Mac in every room, hear his laughter, imagine I can smell his cologne. It’s hard, really fucking hard. I didn’t know it was possible to miss someone this much.
I live for our talks. They’re few and far between as it all depends on when Mac can access a power point to charge his cell phone, but when they come, they keep me going. When he first called me to say his mission had been extended, it was three more months before I heard from him. Three months of torture. But now, he’s in a less dangerous place, having escaped enemy clutches, and it’s just a matter of planning how they will get out of there.
When he calls me, he calls me on Skype, and we make up for not being together. I’ve done stripteases for him, touched myself. I’ve watched him jerk off. And we tell each other all of the things we’re going to do to each other when he finally gets home.
Technically, his contract is up, but it’s not the sort of operation he can walk away from until it’s done. I can’t wait. The second he touches down on home soil, that’s it. He’s out. He never has to go away without me again.
I lie on the bed, waiting for sleep to take me. It’s not happening. I’m still wide awake. I flick the lamp on and reach for the framed photograph I keep on the bedside cabinet. My Mac in his suit on our wedding day.
I run my fingers over the glass, imagining I can feel his skin. As I look at his amazing body, his brooding eyes, his square jaw, I am overcome by a wave of desire so strong it sends a shudder through my whole body.
I reach down and slip two fingers inside my panties and begin to rub my clit. I work myself up into a frenzy, bucking my hips, feeling my climax building. I never take my eyes off Mac the whole time. When I am on the brink of coming, I force myself to pull my fingers away.
I made Mac a promise during our first Skype call. I would come for him and him only. I promised that even when I masturbated, unless we were on a call, I would stop before I got myself off. It’s been pure agonizing, delicious hell.
He’s due to call me tomorrow, and I have a feeling my orgasm will be fucking explosive as he directs me, telling me where to touch myself, how to move, how much pressure to apply. I can’t wait, and when I finally do fall asleep, I dream Mac is right here with me, touching me, licking me, fucking me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MAC
I sit in the back of the truck with the team, conscious of the space where James should be. It always hurts to lose a squad member, but we’ve been a team for so long, losing him was like losing a brother. He deserved better than being blown to smithereens by the fucking animals we had to tackle. He deserved better than the shambles the mission turned into. We all did.
I try not to focus on that. Instead, I try to focus on the positive. We’re on our way to a small, private airstrip where a plane should be waiting for us. A lot of small pieces have to click into place for the escape plan to pan out. We freed the hostages, but it meant we had to go even deeper into hiding, and this is the fourth time we’ve had an escape plan. The last three fell through, and I dare not hope that this one will turn out any different.
