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Grace writhed beneath me, wordless moans tumbling from her mouth. My hands traversed her body, squeezing and caressing, relishing those incredible curves. Those hips, that ass — my god. I landed a playful smack on one cheek, drawing a sharp little cry of pleasure.
"Again," she said.
And so I did. That cracking sound, the way it marked her, the way her body trembled, it was intensely erotic. Something animal was rising in my chest now, some primal imperative that set my blood burning. Wrapping my fingers around her shoulders, I began fucking her harder, yanking her body toward mine as I thrust inside her, grinding our hips together. Beneath us, the sofa shook under the weight of my assault, but I couldn't care less. I had space for just one thing in that moment.
She was so little, part of me was worried I might hurt her, but she seemed to relish when I lost control like that. Her pussy hugged me like a glove, muscles shifting and tightening as I took her. I could tell by the pitch of her cries that she was close.
Without slowing, I leaned down close so my lips were poised just above her ear and whispered, "I want you to come for me again, Grace. I want to feel you tighten around me as I bring you over the edge."
Those words were all it took. With one final sustained groan, her entire body clenched around me. The sensation was exquisite, and I felt my own orgasm coming on. With almost rabid urgency I plunged myself deeper still, and then the world seemed to burst apart at the seams. My body became possessed, my muscles flexing to the point of pain as I spilled inside her.
*****
There were no tears when we finished. Grace lay against my shoulder, her hand idly stroking my chest.
"Are you okay?" I asked tentatively. I knew she wanted this, but I wouldn't have blamed her for breaking down again.
"I'm not sure."
Not the ideal answer, but I'd be a selfish prick if I expected anything better. "What are you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking about how happy I was just now, and how guilty that makes me feel. I'm thinking about you, about the fact that I've never felt anything like that before, not with anyone."
The pause that followed said more than words could. It was her asking permission to continue. "It's okay," I said.
Of course I didn't like her thinking about Tom. I'm not a fucking saint. In an ideal world, I'd be her everything. But I'd learned long ago that there's no such thing as an ideal world. There's just this place, capricious and ruthless and cold. It doesn't give a shit what you want, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can go on with the business of surviving. I know I sound grim, but I'm starting to think maybe there's a method to the madness. If it wasn't for Grace's fiancé, for the hurt he'd caused, what we had now wouldn't exist. We were two broken halves making something that vaguely resembled a whole. Well-adjusted Grace and decorated soldier Logan didn't belong together. She'd never get me without the shit she'd been through, and I'd never get her without mine. Pain has a way of stripping you down, burning away your masks until it's just the core that's left. We found each other because of that, and so I couldn't begrudge it, no matter how much I might have wanted to.
"I'm trying to remember what it was like with Tom," she said, "if it was that raw, that...explosive. But I can't. I've got bits and pieces, but they're dim, like I'm looking at an old photograph that's aging before my eyes. He's fading, Logan. I can feel it. I've still got the big stuff — his face, his laugh, his voice, the things we did together — but the details are slipping away." Her fingers looped through mine, turning my hand so she could study it. "I can't remember what his hands felt like anymore, what he smelled like, tasted like. All the little things that made him him. Meanwhile you're here and you're so real. I can touch you, I can kiss you. You're filling in those spaces. It terrifies me, the idea that I might lose all of him, but at the same time, a tiny part of me, a little voice swimming in the guilt, is wondering if maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's better if he just fades away. It would make things so much easier."
It sure as hell wasn't healthy, but I understood that compulsion. I'd spent plenty of time myself trying to expunge the past from my head.
"He'll never fade. Not completely. Part of him is going to be with you forever."
"That's what I'm worried about," she replied.
I laced my fingers through hers and gave a gentle squeeze. "I know it hurts, but like anything, the bad stuff has a way of drowning out the good. You obviously had some great times with him. Focus on those. They're what will get you through this."
She didn't seem at the point of tears. Introspective, rather than upset. It was a huge improvement.
"You're right," she replied. "It's just scary."
"Yes, it is."
That seemed to satisfy her. We lay in silence for several minutes. Eventually, her fingers found their way back to my chest, tracing the lines of my tattoos. "You have so many."
I nodded. "I started on my first tour. We had a guy on our base who was a fucking genius with a needle. He runs a tattoo shop somewhere out in LA, now. Originally it was just a way to commemorate people, you know? Kind of got addicted to it though. I've been adding to it ever since."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yeah, it hurts like hell. The ones on my back were the worst. Anywhere that's close to bone." I considered what I was about to say next. It was something I'd never told anyone — part of the long list of shit that probably should have consigned me to the nut house — but she was so open with me, and I felt compelled to be the same way with her. I wanted her to understand me, and that was a compulsion I hadn't had for many years.
"To be honest, the pain is part of the allure. You see a lot of things during war. You do a lot of things. The pain helps. I don't know if that makes sense, but it's true."
"It makes sense," she said. Nothing more to it.
She began studying my skin more intently. At that point, it wasn't really multiple tattoos anymore. Everything had blended together into a single sprawling collage that covered most of my upper body, but there were distinct images within the piece, and her hand began to move between them.
"Ace?" she asked, pausing on the black playing card on my right shoulder.
