“Do you like that?” I ask just before I lick over her again.
“I do,” she gasps. “You’re driving me crazy.” Chuckling at her complaint, I stop the slow foreplay and now suck her into my mouth. Making her wait was worth it as her hips buck with the sudden change in pressure. “Oh my God, Jael.”
Now, I don’t hesitate and switch from fucking her with my tongue to sucking on her clit until she can’t stop squirming. From experience, I know she is already close to coming. Any second now. Needing to feel her throbbing as the climax rolls over her, I slip a finger inside. Another much louder cry comes from her throat, and as I slide out and then back with two fingers, it is enough to tip her. Throwing her head back, her entire body shakes as the orgasm takes over, and as it does, I move my hand faster, thrusting deeper. “I can't stand it,” she whimpers as I milk the climax she is feeling, making it go on and on by not relenting. She will keep coming until I let her stop, and I intend for her to be limp from my fucking before I am done. Only then will I lead her upstairs to take her again in the giant bed. It will go on for hours, and when she is so spent she can't move, I will dress and leave her. Staying the night is never on my agenda. Women are special to me, but no single one inspires me enough to stay. It won’t matter. Alma will be sure to still feel me in the morning.
Finally, knowing from Alma’s whimpers she is satisfied for the moment, I relent my stroking and slip out of her, only to lift myself up and give her a kiss. Not gentle, but hard and with a passion I feel all through me. My own orgasms will come later but waiting is sweet torture. When I break away, she sighs. I smile at the sound of her contentment. There is nothing like coming hard. “I'm so going to miss you,” she breathes.
Surprised by her statement, I raise an eyebrow. My next deployment is yet to be announced, and there are no plans I know of for me to leave Riyadh right away. “Am I going somewhere?
Alma sits up, and her beautiful face is full of regret. Confused, I lean back to regard her but wait patiently for her to explain.
“We have to stop; for a while at least,” she explains. “My husband comes home tonight.”
“Your husband?” I spit out completely surprised by this news. She never once mentioned a husband. Quite the opposite. I believed she was a divorcee. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Pulling the suit jacket closed to cover herself, Alma won’t meet my eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t touch me if you knew I was married. You’re so Goddamn honorable.”
I don’t know what to say. She is exactly right. The idea I have cuckolded some man makes me almost sick. Anger building inside me. I stand knowing the wise thing to do now is leave before I say something I’ll regret later. She reaches for me, grabbing the sleeve of my shirt. “Wait. I’m sorry, but the last few weeks have been everything I needed. He doesn’t touch me like you do.”
Tearing my arm from her grasp, I start down the stairs, no longer able to stand the sight of her. “Not my problem,” I growl striding to the door. I see the roses on the sideboard and consider taking them. Obviously, she will have to trash the gift before her husband arrives. Again, not my problem, and without a look back, I throw open the front door and stride into the night.
2
Lifting the heavy dumbbells over my head in the officer's workout room on the base, I cannot get Alma’s eyes out of my mind. It's almost midnight, so I thankfully have the place to myself. This is good because I am not in the mood to socialize. Even as my muscles quiver from forcing myself to go an extra set, and sweat trickles down the back against my t-shirt, the look on her face as I walked out the front door bothers me. She seemed so surprised to realize her confession was a problem. That I cared she had a husband. Obviously, something I am doing made her, and so many women before her, think deceiving me to use as a temporary fuck was okay.
With a growl, I drop the weights at my feet and puff out a frustrated breath. I enjoyed the last three weeks, and not just because she was a sexy woman and a talented lover. When I think of the feel of her body clenching my fingers as she throbbed from yet another orgasm, an ache of hunger claims me. But I also thought there was a spark between us, perhaps something special beyond the sex. Apparently not. Unfortunately, this is not the first time I felt something I hoped could be serious only to find I was overthinking things. The hopeless romantic in me tries to make something from the sweet endearments whispered into my ear. Particularly, as I lay between the legs of my entirely satisfied partner, the shaft of my strap-on still inside them. Somehow, I can’t seem to learn. My role is clear. Make a woman scream as I plunge inside her until she comes and nothing more. For a lot of people, this would be fine. Although I don’t agree with it, I respect the choice. But I am not into one-night stands with near strangers or throw away sex with a revolving door of partners. That is simply not what I want.
Studying myself in the mirror, I can’t miss the anger, but also a little hurt in my dark eyes. Why are women so fucking complicated? After a beat, I can’t help but give a derisive snort at my own brilliant question. Of course, they are complicated, particularly in this part of the world where I live when not on military deployment somewhere else on the globe. Although a woman’s role is changing in the larger cities of the middle east, and with the influx of Europeans and Americans, traditions are evolving. However, there are still complexities and even dangers, unlike many parts of the world. That aside, on a more personal level, I have to admit if a woman is not intriguing, I won’t be interested in her. To be fair, I consider myself somewhat complicated as well, with more to me than meets the eye. Still, I am starting to wonder if, when it comes to the heart, anyone can be trusted. Everyone seems to have an agenda. Sighing, I realize the same could be said for me, only mine is a bit old school. I simply want to find love, find someone special whom I can romance and cherish. Forever. Sadly, I am beginning to think she doesn’t exist.
Racking the weights, I move to the pull-up bar and jump the few inches I need to grab it. Being just over five-eleven, reaching it, like many things, is easy. However, when I am dressed in combat fatigues, and my long black hair is clipped up under my beret, it leads to my being mistaken for a man more often than I like. Between the broadness of my shoulders from time in the gym to my confident stance, it is easy to make assumptions. Then, there is the uniform, which makes me look more mature than my thirty years. Of course, more women than a person might think seem to like it. A lot. Lesbian, bisexual, or straight. Unfortunately, no matter which type of woman I try, the result is the same. Disappointment, or even worse, heartbreak.
Bunching my muscles, I lift myself to the bar a dozen times in rapid succession, feeling the need to punish myself for not seeing through Alma's charade. I trust so quickly when it comes to beautiful women, which is ironic, because in the rest of my life, I miss nothing. Reading people and situations is critical. As an elite member of the special service division, something almost unheard of at my age, and as a woman, my skills at assessing danger keep my teams and me alive. My many commendations for flawlessly executed missions, although the accolades mean little to me, serve as proof of my talent for maneuvering successfully through hazardous situations. Yet, when it comes to navigating a relationship with a woman…