Page 10 of Point of Contact

“Mmm, I love American soldiers,” Pietro whispered against the tip of Jesse’s dick. He gave the head a small lick.

Jesse moaned. “Why?” he managed to gasp out, threading the fingers of one hand through Pietro’s thick black hair.

“Because,” Pietro said, letting the swollen tip rest against his lower lip, “you have to hide it, and that makes you need it.” With that, he opened his mouth and took Jesse deep.

With another moan, Jesse threw his head back, giving himself over to the pleasure. “Yes. Fuck, yes, I need it,” he growled. “Make it good for me.”

Pietro made it good. No, it was better than good, it was amazing, but in the back of Jesse’s mind the same old fear still lurked. What if somebody sees? What if somebody reports me?

What if this is all there is?

Despite the orgasm bearing down on him like a freight train, tears clogged his throat. Was this all he had to look forward to, furtive blow jobs in alleys or random hookups in gay bars? What if he wanted what Riley’s dad and his boyfriend had: a home, a relationship, a life? Why couldn’t he have that and serve his country, too?

As those thoughts swirled and chased themselves around behind Jesse’s closed eyes, Pietro danced his tongue along the sensitive ridge, his hand coming up to cup and massage Jesse’s aching balls. Jesse exploded down his throat with a low cry, digging his fingers into Pietro’s scalp. When the spasms eased, he yanked Pietro to his feet, unbuttoned his jeans, and jacked him roughly until Pietro jetted into his palm.

Panting, his knees weak, Jesse pulled away. He swished his hand gingerly through the brackish water in a nearby fountain and wiped his sweaty face on his T-shirt. “How do I look?”

“Buono,” Pietro answered, his breathing still ragged. “Sexy man.”

Jesse smiled. “Thanks. But I meant—”

“I know,” Pietro replied, interrupting him. “You look—how do you say, normal.” He waved his hand at himself. “Me, not normal. Yes?”

Jesse looked him over. His mouth was swollen and abraded from the blow job, his eyes bright and glittering, a flush burning high on his cheekbones. “Umm,” he began, and Pietro shook his head.

“I know. I will just leave from here,” he said. “So your friends won’t—” Pietro waved his hand, looking for the word.

“Suspect. So they won’t suspect. And grazie, Pietro.” He put his hand on the back of Pietro’s neck and pulled him close, brushing their lips together.

“I will show you how to get back to your friends, and then I will leave,” Pietro said. “Please to tell my sister I went home, Jess.”

“I will,” Jesse promised. He followed Pietro back the way they’d come, and Pietro left him with a soft arrivederci. Jesse watched him walk away, his body tingling with satiation, before he wandered back in the direction of the others, clutching some wine he’d ducked into a store and bought.

Nobody paid him the least bit of attention. Riley and Carlotta were nowhere in sight, Smitty and Enriquez were boozily dancing with a group of people, so Jesse put the bottle of wine down on the little bistro table and caught a shuttle back to the base.

As he rode, he couldn’t help but fantasize about a different life, one where he’d walk hand in hand with Pietro through the streets, maybe stopping every now and then to steal a kiss. They’d laugh, talk, share a meal together before hurrying home to make love all night long.

And instead of that life, what did he have?

Using someone in an alleyway.

* * *

The Chinook helicopter gave a sickening lurch and dropped into a convection cell, convincing Jesse his stomach was gonna pop right out his throat. He clutched his M4, bracing his feet on the metal floor of the helo, swallowing hard.

Amazingly, some of the men opposite him were sound asleep, their heads lolling, as if they were on a Greyhound bus instead of a combat airship flying with ponderous slowness over the sharp ridges and steep cliffs of the huge dark mountain range that loomed over the Korengal Valley far below.

The terrain looked hostile and unforgiving, and Jesse swallowed again. Valley of Death indeed.

Their two Apache escorts buzzed like wasps next to them, the 30-mm chain gun mounted between the forward landing gear ready to rake the ground below at the first sign of trouble. The Chinook was a little like a Greyhound bus, Jesse thought, lumbering through the sky, full of men, easy pickings for a Taliban surface-to-air missile or rocket-propelled grenade.

The helicopter dropped again as it rounded the mountain peak, and Jesse looked out the window to see a landing zone streaming with red smoke.

“Popping smoke means hot landing, boys!” the pilot called out. “Outpost is taking fire, so you gotta haul ass.”

The bird swooped in and touched down, and amid shouts of “Go, go, go!” Jesse jumped down and ran, right at the guy’s heels in front of him.

Ka-BOOM!