Jack Wilder - The Missionary

And then, in a moment that passed out of time, their worlds came apart in a rapture of bliss, a synchronous detonation, something beyond pleasure, a potency neither of them were prepared for.

Wren’s eyes watered, tears leaking down her cheeks, and Stone felt something tight in his chest, heat behind his eyes, words stuck in his throat. He kissed the salty liquid away, and she pressed his face to her breasts.

“Don’t say it yet, Stone. Not until we’re home. No matter how many times we do this until then, don’t say it.” Wren whispered the words in a fierce growl. “I need that to look forward to. I know it, I see it. But don’t say it.”

Stone slumped to his side, groaning in pain as the ache he’d denied came to take its due. “I get it, babe. Until we get home.”

Wren rolled into him and nestled in the crook of his arm. They both dozed, and Stone was on the verge of sleep when the room phone rang, a shrill, sudden blast. Stone scooped the handset from the cradle and put it to his ear. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Who is it?”

“Dis José, from hotel desk. Some man, dey look for a girl, and a white man. Talk about it, dey lookin’ for you, I tink. I don’t say nothin’ to dem. But dey lookin’. You maybe go away now. Side door, quick-quick.”

“You know the guys looking for us?”

“Dey work por him . You lib in Manila, you know him. I know what he do. My sister, she neber come home one day, she dead now. For her, I tell you. Go away now, quick-quick.”

“Thanks. Check under the mattress, later.” Stone tossed the phone into the cradle and slid off the bed. “Come on, babe. Gotta go. They’re here. They found us.”

Wren didn’t waste time with questions. In seconds she was dressed and repacking the little backpack with the bottles of water. Before leaving the room, Stone stuffed one of his few remaining $100 bills under the mattress, tossed another Vicodin into his mouth and swallowed it dry. Then, hand in hand, he and Wren descended the staircase to the ground floor and escaped out the side door, out into the humid Manila midnight.

14

Wren held onto Stone’s hand for dear life as he led her in a quick walk through the nighttime bustle of Quezon City. The streets were crowded, cars coming and going, busses and jeepneys and three-wheeled rickshaw things, horns honking, voices shouting and laughing in Filipino and English and dialects and languages unknown.

She hurt, still, and she felt the need, still, but it was fading. She didn’t feel as feverish, and the need was distant, manageable. She hoped it would stay that way. She was afraid, deep down, that the need wouldn’t ever go away completely, that she’d always feel the hunger in her bones for a drug she’d never willingly taken. Just like she knew she would never forget the darkness, the heady forgetting euphoria, the pain of a fist against her cheek, a foot against her ribs.

Wren pushed those thoughts away as she jogged behind Stone, her bruised ribs aching with every step, hurting with every breath, but she knew she couldn’t stop or slow down, no matter how much it hurt.

She distracted herself with pleasant memories, focusing on the way Stone had held her when the nightmares had taken hold of her, the way he’d never let go and never lost his calm. She ran behind him, watching his broad shoulders shifting. She focused on the memory of his close-cropped head delving between her thighs, the stubble of beard on his cheeks scraping her sensitive skin, his hands spreading her legs apart, his tongue doing wicked, delicious things to her core.

She’d never imagined sex could be like that. In the past, it had been pleasant, fun, even hot. But with Stone? It was earth-shaking. Each touch was fire, each kiss was molten, each slide of skin against skin pushed her closer to a volcanic detonation. Her nerve endings seemed hyper-attuned to Stone’s every touch and kiss. But yet…it went deeper than mere physical sensation. She felt his emotions radiating off of him. She knew he wasn’t a vocal man, he wasn’t given to explaining the way he felt, but he didn’t need to. The way he felt was obvious in the way he held her, the way he kissed her. His eyes explained for him, his hands communicated what was in his heart. The odd thing was, that despite his claims, when Stone did start talking, he was actually fairly eloquent.

She felt him, felt connected to him. Even now, running for their lives, she could feel him worrying. She knew he was scared for her, worried about her, and that through it all he couldn’t help his desire for her, his need for her. And that was the sweetest thing of all. She wasn’t unaware of how she looked. The guys she’d dated had made it clear they found her beautiful. But with Stone, she felt more than beautiful. Something in the way he looked at her, touched her, kissed her, made love to her—it was like he needed her in a bone-deep way. Like she was his breath, and he’d been denied it for far too long.

It was how she felt, too. Like she’d never really been alive until now. Like she’d never really taken a breath until his kiss imparted oxygen to her starved lungs.

Stone skidded to a stop, and she smacked into his back, disrupting her thoughts. He pulled her to the side, pressed her back against a wall and buried his face in her neck. She felt the tension coursing off of him, sensed the danger in the air.

“Focus on me. Don’t look around.” His voice was a barely-audible murmur.

Wren pressed her nose to his scalp; he smelled like hotel shampoo and sweat. She let her hands scrape over the inch-long stubble on his head, soft yet prickly against her palm, trying to broadcast the image of heedless passion.

She saw them out of the corner of her eye, though. Four men with drawn guns, blocky black automatics. They were spread out across the street, peering at each face, ducking into doorways and hopping onto slow-moving jeepneys. “We can’t stay here,” Wren whispered. “They’ll find us. They’ll see us. They’re coming this way.” She hated the panic in her voice.

“Don’t move.” Stone’s lips moved against her skin, and even the imminent threat of discovery couldn’t stop her from shivering at the touch of his mouth. “Just kiss me.”

She turned her face to his, let her lips meet his. She wanted to get lost, wanted to get carried away, but she knew she couldn’t. She tried to keep the kiss light, but her body betrayed her. She felt her hands exploring him, her mouth devouring his eagerly, right there on the street with killers approaching.

Stone pulled his mouth from hers, but only enough to break the kiss and catch his breath. She breathed his breath and waited, holding on to his waist and wishing she could shrink away, wishing they were back in the hotel room, all danger forgotten.

The four men approached steadily, chattering to each other, shoving people out of their way, taking young Filipinas by the shoulders and spinning them around to examine their faces. Stone was completely still, his face against her cheek, one hand on the back of her neck, hips pressed against hers, but Wren felt the hard metal of his gun hidden behind her back in his other hand.

“Be ready,” he breathed.

Wren watched the men approach, counting her breaths, her heartbeats. Every muscle tense, she poised to move.

Three feet, now, and their voices were loud, raucous, slurring. Someone shouted in protest, then stuttered what sounded like an apology. Wren held on to Stone’s shoulders and trembled as their pursuers neared.

A dark hand clapped onto Stone’s shoulder and pulled him around. Wren didn’t have to fake the shriek of fear as she frantically buried her face against Stone’s chest.

“Hey, what the fuck is this?” Stone growled, grabbing the hand and shoving the man away. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Fuck off.” Wren clutched his neck and kept her face hidden, not daring to peek.