"Oh, that's so good," she moans. "You taste so good." She licks her lips as I finish coming against her pretty little tits, and I fucking feel like I've died and gone to heaven, showing up here like this today.
I sit on the bed, and pull her into my lap, needing her pretty bare ass in my hands, my cock demanding more attention. Demanding her cunt.
God, I want her.
Running my hands over her spine, I kiss her shoulder. "I don't even know your name."
Her pink tongue darts from between her lips. "Everyone calls me Sweetie."
I smile, the nickname so damn perfect for this little thing in my arms. "Then I'll call you Sweetheart."
She closes her eyes. "What is your name?"
Smirking, I shrug. "You can call me your Sailor."
"You're a sailor?" she asks, tensing.
I nod. "Something wrong with that?"
She crawls out of my lap, the mood shifting. "I don't do sailors."
Not believing I could lose something so fucking fast, I try again. "I thought you didn't do anyone?"
"I don't," she says flustered, reaching for her nightie. "I mean, I don't in theory. And in practice, I won't do them either."
Offended, I snort. "And is there a reason for this?"
"My father was a sailor. And I swore I'd never be with a man like him."
Running a hand over my jaw, I try to get a fucking handle on things. "You don't know what I'm like."
"Do you go out to sea for months at a time?"
"Yeah, I leave real soon, in fact."
She shakes her head. "Then I know enough."
"Seriously?" I ask. "You want me to go?"
She closes her eyes, breathing slowly through her nose as if it's taking all her concentration to nod her answer.
"Goddammit," I say, reaching for my clothes. I pull them on, looking at her as she folds in on herself as if she can't bear to look at me. "You don't know shit about me, Sweetheart."
She doesn't answer, just buries her face in her hands and begins to cry softly.
I want to stay, to console her--to make sure she's all right--but she told me to go.
And I won't stay where I'm not welcome. It's why I left for the Navy in the first fucking place.
I leave through the back door, so her brothers won't see me--the last thing Sweetie needs is to be hassled by them right now. And I'm glad to see the house is empty, but I can hear some people out in the front yard. Crossing through the backyard, I walk back to base, hating that the man I am isn't enough for her.
If she only knew.
I understand her fears to some extent-- lots of men join the military and walk away from their families--but fuck, lots of men do that every damn day no matter their profession.
I joined the Navy to stop that cycle. To fucking give myself a chance. To do better and be better.
The life my family wanted for me wasn’t one I wanted.
I wanted to be my own man.
When I get to my bunk, I fall into bed, trying to remember every last detail about that Sweetheart tonight. She has no fucking clue how special she is. There are a thousand things I wish I had asked her about herself. Her hopes and dreams and how I can be the man she needs.
Finally, I fall asleep, wishing like hell I was in her bed, with my arms wrapped around her. Sure, I'd like to fuck her all night, but more than that, I want to protect her. Her brothers are sketchy, the shit going down in that house isn't acceptable. She deserves a safe harbor to rest her head each night.
I want to be that man for her.
I don't know much, but I know this: I will see her again. And when I do, I'll make sure she knows I'm not like her daddy.
Just like I'm sure as fuck nothing like mine.SweetieDays go by and I try to forget. But every time I look at myself in the mirror, all I can do is remember.
When that sailor's eyes locked on mine--he saw me.
But I didn't see him.
I looked at him and saw only strength and power, but I didn't see his heart. His soul. I judged him without giving him a fair shot; a chance to show me who he was.
Then I kicked him out, told him to leave.
Didn't even say goodbye.
"Sweetie, what's your deal?" Smith asks. "You're staring at the wall like some cuckoo bird."
"Hey, don't give her a hard time," Porter says. "She's still pissed at us for the party."
They're right, of course-- I am pissed about the party. A gun being shot in my house is not acceptable--ever.
Nixon steps into the Grim Reapers Tattoo Shop after taking a smoke break. "My next appointment here yet?" he asks.
"They canceled," I tell him, my eyes flitting to the appointment book in front of me. "No more appointments until tonight--that goes for all of you. Looks like a three-hour dead zone here at the shop." I push my glasses up my nose and stand. "I'm gonna get my lunch from the backroom."