His eyes pierce mine, so blue, hot and deep and quavering with a tangle of emotions. I wonder what he is thinking. He licks his lips, tongue tip sliding over his lower lip, a pink dart.
I do not realize what is happening at first. His face grows closer to mine, his eyes wide and locked on mine, so, so blue, so close. What is he doing? I cannot move. I am frozen by his nearness, trembling with fear and anticipation. This is it. Now he will take what he wants from me. He is still wracked with pain, I can see it in the way the corners of his eyes crinkle and the way his free hand clenches the blanket so tightly his knuckles turn white. But his other hand is still touching my chin, my jaw, the skin beneath my ear, his touch as gentle as a breeze. And now his lips are touching mine; why? What is this? He is kissing me? Clients do not kiss. They do not try, and I would not let them. It is sex, not love.
I remember my mother kissing my father once when she thought I was not looking. They loved each other, Mama and Papa. She put her lips to his, and their mouths moved together, as if they were eating each other’s tongues. I did not understand it then, but now I do.
He tastes faintly of meat and garlic and something else unique and indefinable. Something distinctly male. I do not know what to do. I am afraid of this kiss, what it means, what it has begun, where it will lead, why it is happening. I am afraid of Hunter. He is confusing. Strong, and huge, and hard, but gentle with me. Angry when I am hurt. I have seen wounded men before, and they were weak, barely able to move.
Once, a few years ago, a client hit me in the side because I would not do what he wanted. He broke my rib, and I could not work for many days. I nearly starved. I told Abdul what had happened, why I could not entertain him, and Abdul did something. Made sure the client never came back. Not for me, but so Abdul could continue to enjoy my services. Each motion was impossibly painful. Each breath hurt worse than the blow that broke the rib. I could not move for the pain. Hunter has at least one broken rib, and he continues to move. It hurts him, I can see, but he moves anyway.
He kisses me carefully, gently. Hesitantly. It is…soft and wet and hot. I do not stop. I want to stop, want to run away from him and his eyes that see me, his hands that touch me in a way I do not mind but should. His presence confuses me. I do not run away. I let him kiss me, and I know I should not, but I do.
He pulls away finally, palm flat on my cheek, eyes searching me for a reaction. I do not know how to react. How to feel. I am confused. So turned upside down by him and by the kiss that I cannot move, cannot breathe.
Something hot and salty stings my eyes. Am I bleeding? I touch my eyes and look at my finger. I am crying. Why? I do not know. Am I sad? What is this feeling in my heart, in my chest? It is a tightness, warm and thick, spreading through me. My skin tingles where he touches me. My thighs tremble, and between them…I feel a dampness, and a strange clenching heat, a tension like need.
His thumb brushes the tear from my cheek, then the other side. He is still close enough to feel his breath on my face.
My lips tingle and throb where his touched mine.
It is madness, I know, but I find myself kissing him. Pressing my lips to his, a slow falling forward into him. His lips part and his hand curls around the back of my neck, holds me at the nape and pulls me closer, kisses me back.
Something touches my teeth, my lips. His tongue. It is a bizarre sensation. Invasive and frightening. I pull away and look at him, and I can feel the confused expression on my face.
What in Allah’s name am I doing, kissing this American soldier?
I flee, wondering why I suddenly called upon Allah, why I let Hunter kiss me, why I kissed him back, why his tongue in my mouth was not unpleasant.
I wonder, as my feet wend their way through streets and alleys, why do I feel a deep, coiling need in my belly to kiss him again?
What do I do? What is happening to me? What have I done?
EIGHT
HUNTER
Why the f**k did I kiss her? It wasn’t a conscious thought or intent. It just…happened. She was there next to me, her leg brushing mine, that small point of contact burning through me with lightning awareness. Her cheek was bruised and purpling, sending white-hot lances of rage through me.
I heard the whole thing. I heard a male voice give an order, Rania’s voice reply calmly, and then his again, angry. I heard a smack, fist on flesh. Heard her cry out. Then the jingling of a belt and an order. Gagging. Vomiting.
It’s not hard to figure out what happened.
I swear to god I will kill the motherfucker. I will cut his goddamn throat and cut off his c**k and shove it into his slit f**king neck.
I have to breathe deeply to calm the rage. My temper, a problem for me my whole life, is coming back with hurricane force. I’ve learned to control it, keep it contained, not lash out like I used to. I nearly didn’t graduate high school because I spent so much time suspended for fighting. I nearly got expelled when a kid ended up in the hospital after a fight with me. Of course, he f**king started it. Jumped me in the parking lot after football practice. Beat my ass, too. Knocked me down, knocked a tooth loose, and broke my nose. He didn’t expect me to get up, but I did, and I got mine. He spent a week in the hospital with a lot of broken shit.
Now this Abdul ass**le is hitting Rania, and I can’t see straight. Can’t think straight. I shouldn’t be reacting like this. She seems to be under the impression this Abdul character is some high-up general in the Iraqi army. I don’t care. I’ll still f**king kill him if he touches her again.
She ran after our kiss. After she kissed me. I didn’t see that one coming. She was there next to me, lush and beautiful and hurting and needing comfort. Needing protection. No woman should ever be hit. No woman should ever be forced to do what she did. Something primal inside me reacted to her proximity and her pain. My lips touched hers before I knew what I was doing, and then I was lost in the soft sweetness of her lips.
Goddamn, but I’m screwed. She tasted like mint toothpaste. Felt like heaven. It was just a kiss, but it got me so hard I thought I was going to explode without even being touched. And then she pulled away, crying. I don’t get why she was crying. She didn’t seem to know how to kiss. She didn’t respond, just let our lips touch, her whole body tensed and frozen. And then she was crying.
I think it was her first kiss. Seems impossible, but it feels true.
Then she kissed me, leaned in and took my lips with hers, and I think I did come in my pants a little. I’m still achingly hard. Painfully hard. She’s gone now, running away from me, from our kiss. She’s as confused as I am, if I’m any judge of her facial expressions.