Special Forces - 1. Chapter 1

Everyone said it was a blessing when mom died. She had been in excruciating pain from the final stages of cancer, and even high doses of morphine gave her little relief. So yes, you could say it was a blessing when she died.

And it was a blessing for me too. Her death, as sad as it was, set me free.

I had been her companion and caregiver for a little more than two years. That job, which I gladly undertook, had fallen to me by default. My father had died several years before, and my brother, a doctor, was far too busy with his residency to be of much help. There were no other relatives nearby because my parents had emigrated from Quebec, Canada to Minneapolis, Minnesota in the early years of their marriage.

I was home for Christmas break—at the time I was in my final year of an MBA program at Northwestern University—when mom broke the news to my brother and me. I loved my mom, and I promised to come back to Minneapolis after graduation to support her. As it turned out, my return home also helped get me out of a soured relationship.

I met Tony Solan, a fellow student, at the beginning of that school year. He was a big, handsome, Canadian hockey jock from Toronto. Not only good looking, Tony was charming, intelligent and from a rich family—by all accounts, a very good catch. He treated me to fine restaurants and toasted me with French Chablis. He took me to concerts and plays where he held my hand and bought champagne at intermission. He made passionate love to me in his lavish apartment. Tony was my Prince Charming.

But after Christmas break everything changed—for both of us. I was devastated by the news of mom’s illness, and Tony became cooler, more distant, and less affectionate. We didn’t go out as much, and Tony quickly turned mean and critical. The sex became rough. I was very much a fool in love, so I rationalized the dangerous turn in our relationship as a passing phase. I kept faith that my old, loving Tony would come back.

But the situation worsened. The ugly truth dawned, just before final exams, when he crossed the line into abuse. He overpowered me and took me hard from behind. It hurt like hell, and I begged him to stop. He called me his bitch. (You like that, Bitch? You like it when I fuck you hard? You’re my bitch and don’t you forget it....)

I was crushed and ashamed. I blamed myself. But at least I wasn’t stupid enough to go back for more. I ran away; I hid. The downtown library became my safe haven in which to study. I changed my phone number. At night, I cocooned nervously behind my firmly locked apartment door.

The moment I handed in my final paper I fled to Minneapolis. Not just to take care of mom, but to find safety and lick my wounds.

I found a job in a local bank. A rigid routine of work and caring for mom kept me from brooding. Safe? Perhaps. But I couldn’t seem to move on from Tony. It wasn’t that I held any affection for him. I just had no confidence.

But even if I wanted to move on, to date again, I couldn’t because mom needed me.

Cancer just doesn’t kill, it slowly sucks the life out of someone. Mom went from feeling fairly energetic to being tired all the time. Then, as the cancer spread to her bones, she suffered. Spot radiation helped a little with the pain, but the radiation tired her and left her nauseous. She became more and more insensate and restless with each increasing dose of morphine.

She was moved to a hospice. Other than work and sleep I spent all my time at her bedside.

In the end mom became comatose. I sat with her, held her hand, and talked about happy family times. Perhaps my words brought her comfort; I hoped so.

Then one night, mom took her last breath and was gone. It wasn’t unexpected, yet I was surprised at my sudden, overwhelming grief. I cried like a baby.

But her death, as sad as it was, left me with no choice but to take care of my own life.

My brother and I became beneficiaries of a substantial estate. My father’s life insurance, and the sale of his practice, had made my mother a wealthy woman. On top of that was the life insurance she herself was carrying.

There was certainly more than enough money to give me a fresh start anywhere I wanted.

That turned out to be San Diego. A position in my bank opened there, and I applied for it. I had never been to San Diego and knew little about it other than that it was near the ocean and warm. But my intuition told me it was a good place to make a fresh start.

Once my transfer was approved, I took a week’s holiday and flew out to take a look at my future home. I’d done some online research, and each day I headed out from my downtown hotel to explore. First up was Cabrillo National Monument where the views of the city and ocean were spectacular. Then I drove to the charming town of Coronado which is on a peninsula in the bay. I explored Balboa Park. I went north to La Jolla and south to Tijuana. I ate Mexican food. Could this be the place where I turned my life around?

I talked to a realtor, and after looking at various housing options—I really didn’t want to care for a garden—I decided to buy a condo apartment overlooking the bay. The first one I looked at I fell in love with. On the 17^th floor of a newer building, the view of the bay was panoramic, and it was located within easy walking distance from my new office building.

Next, a design consultant from a furniture store helped me choose furnishings and, for a nominal fee, had everything set up for me when I moved.

I still grieved for my parents, and felt shame over the Tony debacle, but was optimistic I could crawl out of the funk I was in.

Unfortunately, that turned out to be more difficult than I hoped. After several months, I was still having trouble making friends—never mind a boyfriend—in San Diego. I’d built a wall around myself that was difficult to penetrate. Let’s face it, I was a little gun shy after the disaster with the evil ex. So my demeanor was aloof; nobody seemed willing or able to break through my barriers.

I half-heartedly tried the bar scene. But each foray to the gay bars in the Hillcrest area brought me home feeling more discouraged than ever. I wasn’t outgoing at the best of times, and my ‘stand and stare’ (or was that ‘stands and glare’?) pose didn’t help. Some guys did approach me, but none that I found attractive. I could have made some hookups, but rather than have sex with a random strangers, just to satisfy a carnal need, I turned them down. What would happen if they turned out to be like Tony Solan?

I began to doubt my decision to move to San Diego. Perhaps it would have been better to stay in Minneapolis? At least there I had a few friends.

But I wasn’t going back. For one thing, the physical beauty of San Diego seduces you. Perhaps it’s the warm air and ocean breezes. And I had settled into a comfortable routine of work, running, aimless sightseeing and gym workouts. Life wasn’t bad, just a little lonely.

Then something interesting happened.

One day, following my usual routine, I arrived home from work, changed into my baggy gym clothes, took out my contacts, put on my black-framed geek glasses and grabbed my sports bag. There was a fitness center on the second floor of my building that I used regularly.

I left my apartment, locked the door and walked to the elevator. I pushed the call button. The chime sounded, the doors slid open, and.....Holy Shit!

The guy was big, blond and very hot. Not handsome in the conventional sense—more Jeremy Renner than Brad Pitt, but Mother of God he was stunning.

He gave me an open, friendly smile, like he’d just run into his best friend. I tried to smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. Not the best way to make a first impression. I stepped (more like stumbled) into the car. Then elevator etiquette took over. He stood on one side; I stood on the other staring straight ahead at the closed door. Very elevator appropriate. I could see his large frame in my peripheral vision, and the air crackled as if we were under a high voltage power line.

I told myself to get a grip. First, the guy wasn’t gay. Second, even if he was, there’s no way he’d find me attractive. I was his polar opposite. He was blond to my dark. He was muscular to my rail thinness. He was two inches taller than my six feet, and he outweighed me by at least 40 pounds. I was an office worker and he was a labourer—I pegged him as a truck driver, or a furniture mover. He was working-man big—muscled but not chiselled. I, on the other hand, was pure nerd.

I noticed he’d pressed the button for the parking garage. Did deliveries come in from that level? I didn’t know.

I couldn’t resist a glance in his direction and, to my surprise, he was looking unabashedly at me. He gave me another smile, “Going to the gym?”

I quickly checked out his muscular frame—I mean, it was pretty hard to miss. I gestured in a back and forth way, letting him know I was comparing him and me, “Yeah, but I have a lot of work to do...”

“Nah, you look great just the way you are.”

My cheeks flashed scarlet at the backhanded compliment.

The elevator stopped at the gym floor; the doors opened. “See ya,” he said cheerfully.

“Uh.....well, uh....see ya.”

At the gym I took a look in the mirror and wondered what the guy was talking about. What was there to compliment? As I said, rail thin. Clothes hanging from my shoulders. Black hair in an unruly mess. Ridiculous glasses. Dark five o’clock shadow.

He was being artfully kind, nothing more.

But his image was burned into my brain. I couldn’t forget his dark blue eyes and open, friendly expression. I recalled the way his loose fitting t-shirt did little to disguise a broad chest and flat belly. He had big, muscular arms. His worn jeans hugged his thick legs and bulged nicely in just the right place.

Trying to forget about him, I punished myself with exercise. But no amount of physical strain would get rid of that deliciously haunting image.

After the workout, a gnawing hunger lingered. An unsatisfied longing, that left me feeling horny, frustrated, and lonelier than ever.

I sought relief in the shower by jerking off. Then I gave myself a stern lecture on the dangers of wanting something you can’t have. And the potential dangers of getting what you want.

But that didn’t stop me from thinking about “Elevator Guy.” He might be unattainable, but he was definitely eye candy.

I didn’t really expect to see him again, but about two weeks later at 5:30 am, as I was leaving for work, there he was again. This time he was looking extra hot wearing Navy cammos.

He smiled and said, “Hello again.”

I smiled, “Oh, hi.”

His eyes looked me up and down. I was in a suit, hence his question. “On your way to work?”

“Yes,” I said. “I work in a bank. Stock analyst. Are you in the Navy?”

“Was,”

“Oh,”

“My name’s Sam,” he said.

“I’m Nick.”

He nodded and looked at me intensely, which turned my guts into water.

An elevator ride from the 17^th floor only takes about 30 seconds; soon the doors opened, and I had to step out. I said, “Well, see ya.”

He said, “Hope so,” in a very sexy tone, as the elevator doors closed behind me.

What???? Damn, this guy was a flirt. The ladies must be lining up for him.

After that I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Hot body, deep voice. It was driving me crazy. Would I run into him again? I hoped so. I told myself sternly to get over this stupid adolescent crush. At the very least I’d end up feeling let down, and at the worst I might end up making a fool of myself. Drooling in his presence would definitely do that.

So with a lot of self-discipline I managed, during the day, to put the thought of Elevator Guy to the back of my mind. But in bed at night I’d be overcome with profound longing. I’d jerk off thinking about him. This was not healthy.

Another couple of weeks went by. Suddenly there he was again. Still smiling, still sexy, still mysterious.

“Oh! Hi Sam...uh...do you live here? In this building?” (Nosey, I know, but I was dying of curiosity.)

“Hi Nick. Yes, on 18.”

“I’m...uh...on 17.

“Yeah, figured that.”

“Uh...guess that’s why we keep meeting in the elevator...”

He smiled a big 1000 watt smile. “Yes. And I must say, this relationship certainly has its ups and downs.”

I chuckled at his joke, flattered that he was talking to me. Delighted that he lived in the building, which meant I’d at least get to see him occasionally—even if it was only for 30 seconds at a time in the elevator.

A few weeks passed without seeing him. Then one Friday I walked home from work, not really looking forward to another lonely weekend and wondering how I was going to amuse myself for the next two days. Arriving at my building I was just about to swipe my entry card on the door reader I heard, “Nick!”

I turned, and there was Elevator Guy, Sam, approaching at a rapid walk.

I stood frozen with a deer-in-the-headlights expression.

“Sorry, did I startle you?”

“No, no,” I said, thinking that, in truth, he had really surprised the shit out of me.

He got right to the point, “Uh, Nick, Uh.... I was wondering.... Well, forgive me if I misread the situation, but I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me sometime?”

Huh? WTF?

“Like a date?” I asked.

He took a deep breath, “Yes, like a date.”

I was standing there gaping. I shook my head to clear it, “Forgive me, Sam, I’m just a little surprised....”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve completely misread things. Please forgive me. How embarrassing. I’ll...I’ll move to Guam. You’ll never have to see me again,” he said with a smile on his face and not meaning a word of it.

“No. No. I mean, yes. A date would be nice.”

He took another deep breath, “Where would you like to go? I mean, when?” Smile. Smile.

I collected my scattered thoughts and said, “Would you like to come up to my place for a beer? Maybe we can sort things out where it’s a little more, uh...uh... quiet.”

“Sure, that would be nice.”

Up we went. I opened my door, and the man of my dreams stepped into my apartment.

“This is nice,” he said. “My apartment is similar, but my view is more to the north.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Corona? Lime?”

“Yes to both.”

“Sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

He sat on the couch. I gave him the beer then sat facing him on a chair.

He lifted his bottle toward me, “To us.”

I saluted back, smiled, and nodded.

“Um, how about tonight?” he said.

“Tonight is good.”

“Would you like to go to Old Town and have Mexican? Maybe at Fred’s?”

“Perfect. What time?”

“How about I swing by at seven?”

“Seven it is,” I said.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Elevator Guy had asked me out on a date. He was sitting across from me looking like a box of chocolates. Life was improving.

Then Sam’s face took on a nervous look, “Nick, I need to tell you something.”

Oh fuck! He’s going to tell me he’s married.

“Oh God, you’re not married?”

“No! Jesus, no. It’s about work.”

My emotions were going up and down like a roller coaster. I was sweating in my suit. I told him to wait a minute while I changed. I quickly threw on a pair of cargo shorts and a t-shirt and returned to my seat in the living room.

“Work?” I asked.

“Yes. Remember I said I’d been in the Navy?”

“Uh huh.”

“First, before I start,” he said, “Do you believe in love at first sight, or some version of that?”

I thought of my immediate, intense attraction to him, “Yes, I think so.”

“Well, when I saw you, I thought, well, here’s a guy I could like.”

“Okay, if we’re being honest, I felt the same way.”

“Yes, honest is good,” he said. “That’s why I need to tell you this stuff. To be honest. Up front.”

“Sure,” I said wondering what he could tell me that made him nervous.

“Okay, well, I enlisted in the Navy when I was eighteen. Right out of high school. I spent eleven of the best years of my life serving Uncle Sam. But I served during “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” so I could never really be myself. You know?”

I nodded.

“Anyway, about two years ago I was recruited by an, um, private firm. They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. So I said ‘yes, under one condition.’ I told them I liked guys, and if they had a problem with that I wouldn’t work for them.

“They had no problem with that. But they had one condition of their own. They told me it was standard procedure for all their employees: gay, straight, whatever. Before I dated someone they had to undergo a security check. You know, for security reasons....”

“You want me to undergo a security check?” I asked. Jesus, I’d walk over hot coals for this guy!

He grimaced and shook his head from side to side.

I was puzzled, “No? I don’t understand.”

He said, “That’s what I need to tell you. We’ve already done a security check.”

“Huh?”

“See this is the Catch 22. I can’t date you without a security check. Then when I tell you about it, you think I’m a fucking stalker. It’s a royal fuck up. But if I don’t tell you about it I’m lying by omission. And I can’t start out that way. I’m sorry, Nick, I can’t win here.”

Okay, this was a minor setback, and I wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

“This calls for another beer,” I said buying time.

He looked relieved, “Thanks.”

“What’s a security check?”

“Well, they look into your background.”

“My background?”

“Well, it’s mostly a computer search. We have access to pretty much any electronic records. Birth, school, tax records, stuff like that.”

“Oh. Did I pass?”

“Yes. Neither you nor any members of your family have any known criminal, subversive or terrorist associations. Your finances are normal. And you are not a known substance user.”

“Jesus! Really? What exactly do you know about me, Sam?”

“Well, for privacy reasons—yes I know that sounds weird--I don’t get a lot of detail. They only told me that you are cleared at Class 2, which is pretty good. I did see your driver’s licence to make a positive ID. So I know some stuff. Your full name is Nikolas Alexandre Poulos. You have black hair and brown eyes. You are six feet tall and weigh one hundred and sixty-five pounds. You need corrective lenses to drive and, oh, your birth date is the first of August, 1983.”

“How did you see my driver’s license?”

“Well, I knew you lived on the 17^th floor, so we checked property records against drivers’ licenses and I ID’d you from your photo.”

“Anything else?”

“I know that in the last two weeks you have not participated in any criminal, subversive or terrorist activities.”

“How do you know that?”

“You were under surveillance.”

“Jesus! By you?”

“Not by me. By someone from my, uh, firm.”

“Holy shit. You and your, uh, firm went to all that trouble because you were interested in dating me?”

“Affirmative.”

“How did you know I’d be interested in going out with you?”

“Nick, I’m a trained interrogator. I can read people’s faces, and their body language.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“I was pretty sure I read the signals correctly.”

“Is what you did legal?”

“Um....not really.”

A million thoughts were running through my head: Should I be offended? Was he making this shit up? But he’d seen my driver’s licence... What else did he know? But what did it matter? Besides a little porn surfing, I had nothing to hide.

I sat silent reviewing in my mind the pros and cons of what he’d just told me. Should I take umbrage over the fact that my privacy was violated? Or should I just be grateful for the attention?

Deep in my heart I didn’t feel offended, and I certainly had no moral qualms about the fact that what ‘they’ had done was illegal. I had nothing to fear from their inquiries. When I looked deep inside myself, what I really felt was pride. Pride that this attractive stranger was interested enough to run a security check. He had gone out on a limb for me, and he was risking my wrath by being honest. And then there was the fact that he was dangerously attractive. Dangerously. Not to mention, that my dick had been plump since the moment he called my name.

Play it cool, Nick, play it cool....

“This is intriguing. I think I’d still like to go for dinner, but don’t you think things are a little one sided at the moment? I mean you know all this stuff about me, but I really don’t know much about you.”

“Fair enough, what would you like to know?”

What did I want to know other than I’d like to jump his bones?

“Name?”

“Samuel James Kozitsky.”

“Age?”

“Thirty one.”

“Horoscope sign?”

“Taurus.”

“Gosh, Sam, I’m out of questions already. It’s not like I’m a trained interrogator. And my brain is a bit fried right now. What do you think I need to know?”

“Not much, what you see is what you get. And we could get to know each other a bit more over dinner. I should add one more thing though. With my job I could get called away at any time, day or night, with little notice. So if we’re together, and I have to leave suddenly, it’s not because I want to go. It’s because I have to. I can’t tell you where I’m going—most of the time I don’t know myself until we get to our deployment point. And usually I have no idea how long I’ll be gone. If I’m not with you and I get called out, I’ll call you. If I get hurt they will tell you. I know that this sounds like a pile of horse crap, but it’s true. Jesus, I’m not very good dating material, am I?”

“Now you’re scaring me....Let’s see how it goes, okay?”

“Sure, thanks.”

He nodded, “Okay, why don’t I leave you in peace for couple of hours? I’ll swing by at seven. We can talk over dinner. I’ll tell you all about myself. Then I’ll use the trusted interrogator technique of plying you with liquor, and you can tell me more about yourself. I’d like to get to know better. All I really know so far is that I like you, I find you amazingly attractive, and that you’re not a terrorist.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

We stood and walked to the door. He was about to open it, when I had a sudden, crazy, selfish, bold, and totally uncharacteristic impulse.

“Sam, on a date....a first kiss...can be awkward. You know what I mean? Maybe we should just get that out of the way. You know.....so it’s not awkward later.”

Another smile lit up his face. “Great idea.” And he leaned in and brushed his lips against mine with just enough pressure to let me know that there was some interest behind it. It was perfect. I had to exercise a lot of self control not to plaster myself against him. Maybe the only thing that stopped me was the embarrassment of having a raging hard on that he would no doubt feel.

“Thanks, Sam. See you at seven.”

The next two hours dragged. I selected and rejected several outfits. I finally decided on my new jeans and a grey shirt. I fidgeted. I read the news on the internet. I took a shower. I got dressed. I put in eye drops. I put mouse on my hair and slicked it back. I was ready by 6:30. I sat on the couch watching the news for the longest half hour of my life praying this guy wouldn’t turn out to be a jerk like Tony Solan. Damn, I was going to have to let him know what my boundaries were before I was completely swept away.

Right on time Sam knocked on my door. “You look great,” he said.

“So do you,” I replied. And he did. He was wearing sexy, black, shiny pants with a long-sleeved dark blue shirt that complimented his eyes. He’d left a button undone and I could see chest hair. He looked fucking edible.

In the elevator I said, “This is where it all started.”

“And thank God for that,” he said.

Sam drove and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. We talked, searching for common ground. Both agreed that San Diego was a great place to live, that we’d lucked out finding view apartments, and that we both liked exploring the city and its environs. It was easy to talk to Sam. Natural. Comfortable.

He parked in a public lot and before we got out of his truck I steeled myself, and at the risk of ruining the evening, I put voice to my fears. “You’re not into rough stuff are you, Sam?” I stared at my hands folded in my lap, afraid to face the consequences of my question.

After a few seconds of very awkward silence he asked quietly, “Has someone hurt you?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Was it your parents?”

“No, a boyfriend....”

“Nick, I was hurt by my father. A lot. I know what’s it’s like to be hurt. I would never, ever, do that to you. I’m tough, yes, and I fight back if I’m attacked, that’s my job, but I’m not, repeat not, ever going to hurt you! But I’m so glad you asked. That tells me a lot about your character. How strong you really are. And even better, it tells me you want to move forward with me. So thank you.”

“Thank you, too.”

He slowly reached out and gently squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s go eat.”

We walked through a big Hispanic market then strolled the main street looking at the colourful goods on sale and hearing music. Watching the happy crowd soon relaxed both of us. I wanted in the worst way to take his hand.

Before long we were seated across from each other at a small table at Fred’s restaurant. Beer and dinner ordered, we started a more in-depth personal conversation. Sam told me his parents were alcoholics, and as soon as he graduated from high school, he enlisted to get away from them. He said the Navy became his real home. When I asked him what his profession in the Navy had been he said, “Security Specialist.”

I told him that my parents had immigrated to the States from Canada before I was born. But now they were both gone. I explained that my father had been a doctor. My mom had been a college French instructor. Both my mother and father came from Montreal, so I grew up speaking French at home. I told him that my undergraduate majors were French and art.

“Cool,” he said. “A French artist. Bet you look good in a beret.”

We ate and played twenty questions: Did I have any siblings? Yes, a brother. Did I like him? Sort of, but he was an asshole. What does do? He’s a doctor, like my dad. Did he, Sam, have siblings? Yes, a sister from whom he was estranged. What sports did we like? Sam liked boating, I liked skiing. Conversation flowed easily, we were becoming friends.

I asked if he could tell me a little about his current job. He told me that he worked for a private security firm doing contract work.

“Like what?” I asked. “You said something earlier about getting hurt. Anything dangerous?”

“Sometimes.....” he said. “We do a lot of personal protection. Nick, I really can’t talk details. I’ll never lie to you, but there are just some things I can’t tell you. Okay?”

“What if I make it worth your while?”

“And how would you do that?”

I reached out and ran my index finger lightly, sensuously, across the back of his hand.

He rolled his eyes. “You’ll have me singing like a bird if you keep that up.”

“See. Easy.”

The sexual tension soared, and it wasn’t long before we called for the check.

When we got to the car I kissed him. Our tongues duelled; we both wanted more but didn’t want to get charged with committing a lewd act in public.

“Wow, awesome,” Sam declared. “A French kiss from a French guy.”

As we drove home I put my hand on his thigh and he put his hand over mine.

In the elevator he held my hand. I pressed 17. He didn’t press 18.

Finally, we reached the privacy of my apartment. Once the door closed we were all over each other. Sam was big; he could easily over power me but he didn’t. It was all give and take in the best possible way.

Everything happened in a rush, but I will always recall those first few moments as if they happened in slow motion: A powerful kiss. Tongues. Burning lust. Running my hands under Sam’s shirt; feeling his hair and muscle. My hand drifting south over the bulge in his pants. Him doing the same to me. Then both arms around each other for a full body press. Hands at the back of necks, pulling. Pelvises thrusting and gyrating. Pure heaven.

When we came up for air, I pulled away.

“No....,” he groaned.

I dropped to my knees, wrapped my arm around his thighs and pressed my face against his hardness. I cupped his ass and kneaded. His hands gently stroked my hair. He mewed and moaned.

My hands moved to open his belt buckle and zip down his fly.

I put my fingers inside his trouser waist, and catching his boxers in the same movement, pulled down quickly.

His cock bounced free and stood at attention. A glistening drop of precum at its tip. I licked.

“Oh Sam, it’s beautiful.....”

“I’m close to the edge, Nick...” he growled. “Enough. My turn. Stand up.”

I obeyed and he dropped to his knees and yanked down my pants. It was my turn to mew and moan.

“Bedroom!” I said.

We stumbled to the bedroom with our pants around our ankles.

Off came the rest of our clothes and we dove onto the bed. Our hands were everywhere. We kissed everywhere.

We groped. I felt every inch of his dick. I rolled his balls in my hand.

I felt every muscle in his body. I noticed his scars. I noticed his tattoo.

Finally, we were at a fever pitch, and I took his glistening cock into my mouth. Immediately, he arched his back, cried out and let loose like a fire hose. I swallowed as best I could but with that volume a little of the thick cream dribbled out and down my chin. He tasted sweet.

I crawled up and we kissed hard and deep. He clearly had no qualms about tasting himself.

Seconds later he was down on me, returning the favour. Like him, I was ready to go, and I went off like a rocket. Totally fucking amazing. I blacked out momentarily. Now I know why they call it ‘the little death.’

After, as our breathing slowed, we lay cuddled, with my head on his chest. He had his arm around me and stroked my hair. I was in heaven.

“Can you stay the night?” I asked.

“I have no intention of going anywhere.”

We made love two more times before drifting off to sleep with him spooning my back. Sam was a gentle and considerate lover. I had nothing to worry about.

I woke up not believing my luck.

I brought him coffee in bed.

We cuddled.

I touched his tattoo and said, “That’s a Navy SEAL crest.”

“Yes,” he said.

Later he took me to his apartment while he got his toiletries and a change of clothes. In his den I noticed a large, sturdy, locked metal cabinet.

We made love in his bed, just for the fun of it.

We didn’t venture outside all day Saturday.

On Sunday we took the ferry to Coronado for lunch. Later that afternoon after making love, I was lying with my head on Sam’s chest.

“I can pretty much figure out what kind of work you do,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Well, first, you were a SEAL, and I’m pretty sure that’s not a Girl Scout troop. Second, you move and talk military. Third, you were recruited out of the Navy, so I assume your current job has something to do with your, uh, skills. Fourth, that metal cabinet in your den probably doesn’t contain your grandmother’s heirloom china. Fifth, your body is muscular, but not gym sculpted—it’s a working body. And sixth, your scars didn’t come from playing tidily winks.”

“Very good. You should be a spy.”

“We only need one spy in this family, Sam.”

The moment the words were out of my mouth I realized what I had said. Woops! To change the subject I quickly said, “So what do you know about me?”

“Well, you are very analytical, as you just so aptly demonstrated. Which probably makes you very good at your job. You know what you want and go for it. Remember, you asked for the first kiss? And you are slightly vain because....ouch! that hurt!....because you wear your hair rakishly long and combed straight back, which you know perfectly well looks sexy as hell. You keep your body tuned by a combination of gym work and running, and you wear clothes that compliment your body. And, you just slipped up and called us a family, which can only mean you’re in love with me. And just for the record, I’m in love with you. I have been since the first time I saw you.”

“Oh God, me too, Sam. Since I first stepped into that elevator.”

Monday morning came all too soon, and we each headed off to our respective jobs. Sam said he spent most of the time when he was not on assignment ‘training.’

When I stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor, and Sam continued to the parking level, it seemed like the air cooled. Then as I walked to work, my analytical mind began to stir up trouble. I worried: Would Sam tire of me because I was too boring? Too skinny? Too geeky? Who did he work for? Maybe he was a hit man for the mafia. Maybe he really drove a Coca Cola truck and made up the tough guy shit to lure me in. But how could he own an expensive apartment? Maybe he rented. But a Coke truck driver couldn’t afford the rent in that building....

All that day I vacillated between periods of exhilaration and anxiety. It was heavenly remembering the intimacies of our weekend and hell thinking that this was all too good to be true.

So when I walked into my apartment after work and found Sam smiling I was happy and relieved. Wrapped in a welcoming hug I let go of my worries.

We spent the next few days getting to know each other. Except for work (we both left for work at 5:30 in the morning and returned about 3 in the afternoon) we didn’t spend a minute apart.

Sam saw to my needs; he wanted to please me. My favourite position was face-to-face, with his slightly curved cock gently massaging my prostrate.

He, on the other hand, liked to be fucked doggy-style and enjoyed the feeling of my hands on his chest, belly and cock.

I learned that pleasing someone else is even more erotic than being pleased. Finding the sensitive spot on his dick, just below the head, I would bring him to the brink, then back off until he begged me not to stop. After he came he’d do me; I’d be so excited my orgasms were super intense.

Sam listened. He rarely asked direct questions, but I found myself opening up to him. I told him about the years taking care of mom, about my first love and terrible shock at Northwestern and about summer visits to my grandparents in Quebec.

He, in his own way, shared important parts of his life. His dad had been physically abusive, and when Sam was 16 he finally retaliated and swore he’d never let anyone beat him again. This resolve gave him the determination to survive the tough training in the SEAL program. He said the Navy, and later the SEALS, became his family. He told me, although hardly a virgin, he’d never had a seriously lover; that I was his first.

It was almost perfect, but I couldn’t stop analysing the relationship. I was wary and held back a little of myself, afraid of getting hurt again.

My inner voice said that our romance was too good to be true.

As the next few days went by my love for Sam grew, but so did my fears. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

By Thursday afternoon I had become anxious and sick with insecurity.

When I got home I tried to act normally, but it was a strain.

It was all I could do not to throw myself at his feet and beg him to keep loving me.

Sam seemed distant too. All the signs that the relationship was deteriorating were there. That night in bed we made love almost desperately. Like two people who know the end is near.

Our parting on Friday morning was awkward.

That afternoon I walked into the apartment in a state of fear. So when I saw the grim look on Sam’s face I wasn’t surprised.

“We need to talk,” he said.