A Soldier's Hands

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                                               Photo credit: Toni Aleo, Mialy photography

A Soldier's Hands

   NC-17

My stomach leaps as the army aircraft rumbles down the runway. I shift from side to side and bob up and down, anxious to see him. He’s home! He’s home! He’s home! The words non-stop in my brain since receiving word he is once again on American soil. His deployment was hard, and from what the other wives and girlfriends tell me, the next won’t be any easier. But I refuse to dwell on him leaving again, not when I’ve yet to clamp eyes on him.

There are other families are on the tarmac; some are laughing and chatting amongst themselves or with those around them. Others are quiet, standing alone, their arms wrapped around themselves, perfectly still in numb expectation. We wait for our sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives and lovers. Until his parents arrive this weekend, I have him to myself. All mine.

The plane finally comes to a stop, and a cheer swells through the crowd as the plane door finally open. They are dressed in their Army combat uniforms, making it hard to distinguish one from the next, but then I see him appearing in the doorway and start down the stairs.  I scream his name and take off like a bullet, weaving in and around happy reunions to get to him. He turns towards the sound of his name and drops his backpack a second before I launch myself into his arms. Strong hands crush me close as I wrap my legs around his waist, and there are buckets of tears between reassuring murmurs and hard kisses. In the desperate minutes the world stops existing, and it’s just us, hearts slamming in our chests.

I chatter nervously as we go through the final steps before making our escape, but he is quiet, only answering questions and nodding. I try putting myself in his shoes and imagine what he must be feeling, but I can’t. He reaches out and takes my hand, cradling it in his. I’m shocked at how dry and chapped they feel. I squeeze tight, reassuringly.

He shakes his head at my offer of the keys and for a moment, I panic. This car is his baby. I remind myself to slow down and breathe. I glance over at him, but he’s looking out the window. He makes a comment about the weather as we drive through the subdivision, and I decide I won’t push him for more than he can give me. Not today. There will be enough time in the days and weeks and months ahead. Today I am just too happy that he is sitting next to me, even if I am the one driving.

 I pull the car into our short driveway, and he’s out and grabbing his bag before I unbuckle my seatbelt. With it slung across his back, he waits for me then lays his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close as we walk up the path. I lean my head into the crook of his shoulder and wrap my arms around his waist. If it’s awkward, neither of us complains. 

Despite the cold outside, the house is warm and comforting, and its silence wraps around us like a soft, woolen blanket. He drops his gear near the door and slowly begins wandering around the rooms. He runs his hands along the furniture in the dining and living rooms, reacquainting and reassuring himself, I think, that things are exactly as they were. I wonder why he’s wearing a Band-Aid on his pinky. He hates bandages.

He ducks into the den and gives me his goofy grin, looking pleased I haven’t touched any of his things while he was away. He picks up his old high school football, and I stare at his fingers as he grips and caresses the ball in his hands. They have changed. Gone are the long, supple fingers; they’ve been replaced with hardened ones, spattered with nicks halfway healed. 

My stomach clenches. I don’t want soft and smooth hands. He’s changed, they’ve changed, and I want those hands on me. The quick shot of desire catches me by surprise, and I squeeze my thighs together against the throbbing between my legs. I’ve been thinking about homecoming sex every day for the past month, but I had thought the desire and need would come from him. Seeing his hands, I realize how inadequate mine have been, a poor substitute.

I look up as he crosses the doorway into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and peers inside. So typically him that I smile. He puts his hand to his mouth and bites on the side of his thumb.  A new habit. But whatever else has changed and shifted inside him, he’ll still stand in front of an open refrigerator, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he looks and judges.

I walk slowly up to him, and wrapping my arms around his middle, I lay my cheek on his back. His arms cover mine and squeeze tight. He takes a deep breath, closes the door and turns. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes are hard and bright as they roam my face. His hand gently brushes my hair behind my ear before cupping the back of my head and pulling me close. He rests his chin on my head. We stay there for long moments, slowly rocking. He’s safe. He’s home. He’s here with me, in our little house.

When he eventually pulls away, his eyes are soft and relaxed. His smile lights up the room as he hooks a long finger in a belt loop of my jeans and tugs. He walks backwards as he leads me out of the kitchen and through the house towards the stairs. My breath hitches, my heart beats faster. As we near the stairs he turns and places his strong, warm hand on the small of my back and gently pushes me up the steps.  

Our bedroom is dark and cool, despite the time of day.  He pauses just across the threshold and once again looks around, taking in the small changes I made. He takes care to close the door, the soft click exaggerated in the silence. It's on the tip of my tongue to remind him there is no need when it dawns on me that the door, and privacy, is a luxury for him. He guides me deeper into the room, stops and finally, finally kisses me. His lips brush mine tentatively, reminding me of our first. His tongue slides across my lips and slips past them, and I wrap my arms around his neck, returning the kiss with joy, cherishing this moment. His fingers tangle my hair, holding my face still as his tongue plunges and retreats again and again. We break apart, breathless.

 My hands shake slightly as I slide his jacket off his shoulders and toss it towards the chair near the door. I unbutton his shirt, and it joins the jacket. I lean in, my mouth skimming along his throat, as I tug his tee shirt free of his pants. His hands grip my hips and pull me hard against him. With his shirt around his ribs we kiss again, and the hot swipes of tongue and lips release a moan in the back of my throat. There is heat in his eyes as he reaches for the shirt, whipping it over his head, letting it land on the floor somewhere behind him.

He pulls me into him again, and my hands drift over his shoulders and chest, now impossibly hard. His hands drift down to my ass, and his big hands clench, his fingers dig in to the soft swell of muscle and skin. His cock bulges behind the buttons of his pants, and I rub myself against him, answering his need with my own. His lips trail hot wet kisses down my neck, licking and nipping and driving me higher.

He grabs my sweater and pulls it up and over my head in one fluid motion. He eyes the outline of my bra beneath my cotton tee, my nipples hard inside the thin material. He reaches for me again but I stop him with a hand on his chest.

"I have a surprise for you," I whisper against his chin, taking a step back. "I'll be back in a minute. I'm going to get changed." A grin spreads across his face, and his eyes dance at the news.

"Hurry up," he says as his hand wanders down the front of his pants to rub the outline his hard cock. My legs are weak as I walk into our master bath. I close the door and lean back against it, my hand on my stomach to quell the butterflies. His hands. Jesus, his hands.  I feel like it’s our first time all over again.

I undress quickly and reach for the sheer, white baby doll. It reminded me of the one I wore on our wedding night. The one I only wore once, since once he ripped it getting me naked and under him. I hope this one has a similar effect on him. I fluff my hair and reach for the door.

He managed to down the bed and light a few candles in the minutes I was gone, but he is where I left him, standing shirtless in the middle of our room. He clenches his hands at the sight of me, and I smile.

I walk slowly towards him, enjoying the feel of the soft lace trim brushing the tops of my thighs. His eyes are hot and hard again, watching me. With one stride he is on me, lifting me against his chest. I wrap my legs around his waist, and against the scrap of lace covering my pussy, I feel him straining.

He kneels on the bed, taking me with him, until we are facing each other in the middle of big mattress. His lips find mine, and his tongue fucks the wet cavern of my mouth. My hands roam his neck and shoulders and back before finding his ass. I squeeze, letting my nails dig into the material still covering the hard muscles. He raises his hands to my shoulders, and his skin snags the soft lace. He stops. I look down at his hands, then into his eyes. He grimaces slightly then shakes his head.

“I want you naked,” he says. “But no ripping this time.”

He slips the straps off my shoulders, leaving them hanging loose down my arms. His mouth is hard and insistent, and my lips tremble. He slips under the sheer white silk to cup my ass as he bites and licks my lips, my jaw and neck. He pushes away the silk covering my breasts and teases my nipples.  The hard skin on his thumb is deliciously rough on the sensitive flesh, and my pussy tightens in response. He pushes aside the panties and his fingers rub and tease, seek and find.

With unsteady hands I open his belt and unbutton his pants then push my hand inside the gaping material. I close my fingers around him. He is perfect – silky, soft skin surrounding steel. He thrusts against my fingers, once, twice then groans and pushes my hand away.

“Not going to last if you do that,” he utters gruffly. He falls back onto the bed, pulling me down with him.

His head hits the pillows piled on the bed, and I push myself off his chest to straddle his thighs. His thumb plays with my clit through the silk panties. I move against him, my breathing ragged.  He runs a hand up my side, his callused fingertips counting my ribs then palms my breast, lightly pulling and twisting my nipples.

“Up,” he orders, and I raise myself off him. He quickly removes the last bit of material covering me, then puts his hands on my hips and drags me up his body, pulling my pussy to his mouth. He kisses and nips the tender skin then blows softly on my clit. My hips jerk in response. He holds me still while he flicks the swollen nub with his tongue. I grab the headboard to steady myself while I my other hand slips beneath his head to guide him with my fingertips.

My eyes drift down my body to watch him as his mouth works. His eyes meet mine, and my heart skips a beat. His arm wraps around my hips and pushes me harder onto his mouth, moving me over him, and I’m caught up in the rolling tide as he licks and sucks. I grind my pussy onto his face, bumping his chin and nose. Reaching behind me, I rub his cock. His hand clamps around my wrist and forces my hand away grabs my hand, laces his fingers through mine and squeezes tight.

His tongue and mouth are relentless, moving over my skin. My thighs tremble when the orgasm explodes, and I scream “Oh Fuck!” as I gasp for air, my pussy convulsing, my back arching.

In a fluid motion he sits up and flips me onto my back. He shoves his pants and briefs down his thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging in to his lower back. I clutch his hips as he buries himself in one hard thrust. He pauses a moment and lowers himself to draw my mouth into a deep kiss. I taste myself on his tongue. He arches his back and thrusts, and the movements are slow and languid, taking his time. His tongue mimics his cock. He groans into my mouth then pushes himself up.  He closes his eyes as he snaps his hips, rolling and twisting his spine as his cock surges and retreats.

He reaches between my legs to rub my clit and quietly ordering me to come again. Helpless to anything else, I do, a moment before him. His cock pulses and jerks as he continues to move, slower now, gentler.

I unlock my legs. He collapses next me and gathers me close. I wrap myself around him and tilt my chin, looking up.

“You got bossy. And you still have your pants on.” I murmur.

He dips his head to look down his body and laughs, the sound rumbling in my ear.

“Yeah, I do. And I guess I did. Do you mind?” He asks.

Instead of answering, I take his hand and wrap my fingers around his.

“You’re hands changed,” I whisper.

"They are rough. And so dry, they hurt. I've been using lotion..." He looks around as if searching for something then brings his eyes back to me.

"I've always loved your hands." I remind him. It is the truth. They had never been soft, not from working on his bike and the lawnmower and playing football.

He continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “I didn’t think I’d ever get them clean. They were dirty for weeks from the dirt and rocks and the oil from the gun. The carbon from shooting…” He coughs to clear his throat.

I bring his hand to my lips, kissing each fingertip.

“You’ve told me, baby. You told me… the firefights, pulling your buddies to cover, carrying those who’d fallen… I love these hands. They protect and shelter, they fought and stood their ground. They shook and they bled and they hurt. But they are good hands. And because they did what they had to do, they brought you home. To us. To me.”

He swallows hard. “Every time I thought about coming home to you, to touching you, I’d look down as see my filthy hands. I didn’t want any of that to touch you.”

I lower his hand gently to my breast, pressing it against me, letting him feel the soft skin swell at his touch.

“I want these hands on me. I need them on me, as much as I need air in my lungs. I’m proud of these hands. I lean forward and press soft kisses across his chest.  “I’m proud.”

His laughter is short and loud. “That’s good, baby. Because they aren’t going anywhere, any time soon.”