Still We Have Not Spoen

2200 Lima

Georgetown

I'm cold.

It's dark, it's windy, and I can smell the approaching storm. Rushing down the hallway of my apartment complex and struggling to ward off the chill by pulling my jacket tighter around my torso, I'm in no mood to argue with the familiar figure emerging from the shadows. 'No, not tonight' I silently plead, all the while knowing my objections will be useless.

I could take him down. I'm a Marine, trained in hand to hand combat. I could knock that flyboy grin right off his pretty face. There are times when it's all I can do not to haul back and swing. I've pictured it many times. I could inflict some serious damage, and he'd be hampered by that damn savior complex. But then I'd have to battle with the guilt, and I'd lose that battle, and eventually we're going to have this showdown anyway, and tonight I just don't have the energy to take him down. Why try?

Did I mention I'm cold? And hungry? We still haven't spoken. I pause, eyeing him. Do I have a chance in hell of avoiding this? He must have read my mind (I hate it when he does that!) because his head dips in a quick negative shake. And then his big body is moving away from the door, maneuvering around me, blocking any chance I have of escape. Caught between my front door (and warmth) and an apparently immovable Commander Harmon Rabb, Junior and escape. I shrug. Some battles are destined to be lost. I unlock my door and shoulder my way inside. I briefly consider my chances of getting in and shutting the door in his face, but it's cold outside (damn guilt) and he's already pushing past me into the apartment.

The silence stretches as we stand in the dark. The door is shut now, and the oppressive silence closes in on us. I can hear the rush of air as he exhales, but he still hasn't spoken. Finally, I drop my briefcase and then my bag. They thud softly on the floor as I slip out of my jacket and turn, throwing it across a chair. He flicks on the lights, and I run a ring less hand through my hair, deflecting his notice so he won't notice I'm trembling.

Still silence. Fine. Better silence than the hurtful words, the yelling and screaming we're bound to be doing soon. The thought of the verbal wars ahead send another wave of exhaustion through my body. I shiver and turn, moving towards the only door with a lock in the apartment. A hot shower behind a locked door. Let him stew in his silence.

I close the bathroom door and press the lock, then turn on the shower. Wonderfully, mercifully, thick steam begins to build immediately. I strip off my uniform, paying little attention for once, tossing it into the corner. The running water is drowning out any sounds coming from beyond my bathroom door. Not that I'm listening, of course. I step under the warm rush of water and squeeze some shampoo into my palm. Working it through my hair, I try to think of something, anything, other than that large, well-built (damn it!) body out there.

On any other night, I'd play with my old friend BoB the showerhead, anything to release the buildup of tension. But BoB has often manifested as the man on the other side of the door, and I don't need any further physical spurs. Neither of us does.

Pink elephants. Think about pink elephants. No, bodies. Men's dead bodies, floating in my wake. That's sufficiently sobering.

I shut off the water and step out of the shower, toweling off. Automatically, I grab the body lotion from off the counter, and then stop, staring back at the gloriously naked and highly aroused man in the mirror. What the hell does he thing he's doing?!? Now I'm mad. I didn't ask for company tonight; contrary to popular thought, I never asked for my heart to be broken. And I sure as hell didn't ask for company in my bathroom! Where is my robe? Oh, there it is, hanging just out of reach. I turn; ready to fight a path to my robe if I have to. My hands are clenched in fists-- maybe, just maybe, today will be the day. I'll finally lose it, haul off and beat the shit out of him.

Or fall onto his monstrous cock, which is now drawing my eyes and wetting my cunt. Fuck. His hands are on my wrists pulling them behind me, and I'm being pressed back against the edge of the counter. This is painful. If I could remember how to breathe, I could remember how to move, and I could struggle.

But his lips are descending to mine, and his erection is long and hot, pressing against my belly. Any breath I have left is lost in a gasp of outrage (or maybe lust, who am I kidding?) as his lips come down on mine. I'm expecting, well, too be honest, I'm not sure what I'm expecting. And it doesn't really matter. All this male dominance shit is reflecting in his kiss, his tongue tangling with mine. But he's holding back a little.

Of course, he's always holding back a little. Emotion? That's for lesser mortals, not for the proud, the noble, the exceptional Harmon Rabb. And suddenly I'm angry again. My blood boils, a potent mix of lust and rage. I attack his mouth, seducing his tongue as my hands rise to his head, tangling in his hair. I shift, one thigh rising to curl about his hip as I adjust against his cock, then tauntingly begin to move. Is the great Harmon Rabb capable of human emotion? Let's see if I can make him blow his top.

He wasn't expecting my actions, because he hesitates, shudders. But maybe he is angry too, because his response is almost instantaneous. His fingers grip my hips tightly, fiercely. He lifts me into his groin, nipping my lower lip sharply, then pulls back to attack the crook of my neck. Heat is coursing through me now, heated shivers rise up my spine as he finds and attacks that special nerve. I'm still forced back against the edge of the counter, and the force of his body is pressing me back further. I squirm, and suddenly the base of his cock is pressing into my slit. I grind my clit against him.

He lifts me up and away, and I growl in protest. I grab him by the ears and haul his mouth back to mine, sucking his tongue. I register the coolness of the sink beneath me, and I don't like the cool air that sweeps between our bodies. My hands slip down the planes of his back to his muscled ass before teasingly sweeping slowly around to his front. I feather gentle touches against his sack, then trace his impressive length before circling the plump head of his cock. How could I possibly remain angry with a man equipped with such a large cock?

He groans his approval and releases my mouth to trail kissed down to my breasts. I moan in satisfaction. God, his mouth, his hands. I suddenly can't wait anymore. The fire is building in my blood. All thoughts of domination, of power and control have gone-- all that's left is his mouth, his pulsing cock, and the empty, needy ache. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer. My hand directs his cock towards my cunt--wet and achingly empty.

His hands are suddenly framing my face, and he forces me to hold his gaze. His cock is taunting me, pressing in minutely; it seems, before retreating, then returning to press in again. My fingers tighten on his ass, digging in, trying to force him closer. But he merely smirks, keeping up that enticing rhythm of minimum contract and withdrawal, and I snarl.

The bastard is still playing games. I'm long past power games, about to die from the compelling ache of want and need, and he still wants to win. With a sudden burst of energy, I shove him back. He stumbles, the perfect Harmon Rabb caught unawares. I press my advantage, hook an ankle around his knee, jerking, sending him down. I follow, landing on his chest, not even attempting to lighten my weight. He gasps, the breath is knocked out of him. And I impale myself on him.

I ride him wildly, my head thrown back, my teeth bared. He's recovered enough to grasp my hips, meet my thrusts. I lean over him, slowing only slightly, pressing my hands against his shoulders for leverage. He is watching my breasts, captivated by the bob and sway as I ride his cock. I take pity, lean forward slightly so he can get a better view. He rises up slightly, tongues a nipple, then sucks. The pleasure arrows down to my cunt. I moan in approval. The movement is a double pleasure; his dick has shifted inside me, altering the pressure against my walls. I tighten my muscles and grin as he gasps, grinding my clit against his shaft, sharing my pleasure. He pulls my upper body closer, adjusting his attention to my other breast, sucking harder. Too late, I see the glint in his eye.

His arms go around my back, he hauls me down against his chest and rolls. And my back is against the floor, my legs curled around his waist. His hands circle my thighs, and he forces them wider. He draws nearly out of me, then forcefully pistons back in. Again, again, and again, his hands griping my thighs, forcing me to remain still. His gaze bores into my own, and I understand the silent message. I've had my fun, but we're playing by his rules now. I let my head fall back and close my eyes, concentrating on the growing physical tension, rather than the satisfaction in his face.

Maybe one orgasm will be enough. One time, just to settle the curiosity and unresolved tension, and we'll both be able to get on with our lives. His mouth has returned to my breasts, the roughness of his late-night beard scratching slightly as he moves from one to the other. But we are both closer to orgasm. His hands tighten, then forcing my legs back against my shoulders; he pounds into me. I clench his hips, writhing beneath him as the spiral of need builds. We are both gasping for breath, so close, so close.

I throw my head back, grit my teeth and growl against the nearly unbearable pleasure and tension. He is fucking me with all the force in his body, grinding into me, his own lips pulled back in a snarl. We are fucking like animals amidst the love and hate and rage. His teeth suddenly bite into my shoulder, and I scream in pleasure and rage as he marks me. I dig my nails into him, raking them down his back, drawing blood as orgasm bursts upon me, refusing even here and now to be totally subject to him. He groans harshly, holding me down as he surges up into me one final time, higher and harder than ever before, than explodes in a rush of cum.

We lay there after he collapses, tangled and breathing hard. I close my eyes and listen to the rapid beating of his heart. What have I done? What the fuck have we done? After our breathing has slowed, he pulls away from me, forcing my chin up in an attempt to make eye contact. I stare at him, silently cursing us both, then push him away. I stand and turn my back, reaching for my robe. He inhales, perhaps prepares to say something, but I open the unlocked door and walk away.

I dress quickly in jeans and an oversize U.S.M.C sweatshirt, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen. By the time I enter the room he is fully dressed, and I watch him chop veggies and scramble some eggs. And still we have not spoken.