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I step out, grabbing a towel, thinking how nice it would be to crawl back under the covers.

I wipe the mirror, creating a momentary steam-free circle, and comb my hair before gathering it into its requisite ponytail. Twisting the last loop of the rubber band around my hair, I stare at my naked self.

I'm naked … and Eric is sitting in a chair less than twenty feet away.

They say the spinal cord transmits information at a speed of one hundred meters per second at a capacity of one gigabyte per second.…

My body reacts, blood rushing, face flushing, and I lean on the swirling granite countertop, gripping the sides. I told myself
no more,
and yet …

This is too much. Way too much. You need to stop this absurdity, get dressed, and get out of here.

I re-dress in his shirt and shorts, add sandals, check myself in the still-foggy mirror, face clear of makeup, as always, and breathe in a lungful of resolve.

I open the bathroom door, tugging on the strap of my backpack, and peek around the corner. Eric remains where I left him, sitting with his feet up.

“I, um, I'd better go,” I say.

“Okay.”

I'm not sure what I expected to hear, but it wasn't that.

“Thank you. For all of this,” I say with a sweep of my hand around the room. “It was really thoughtful of you to do this for me.”

“Anytime,” he says, unmoving.

What are you waiting for, Sara?

“Well, okay,” I say. I lift my uniform from where it hangs in the closet and turn for the door. Flipping the latch for the deadbolt, I push down on the handle, opening it partway. I step forward, one foot out, one foot in … and here I stay. My backpack grows inexplicably heavy and I can't seem to find the energy to continue forward.

I linger, facing the hallway, sensing him before I see him. He approaches from behind, his hand rising above my head, holding the door.

“I'll see you around, okay?” he says softly.

With his chest to my back, his breath wafts across my neck. He doesn't wear cologne, just aftershave. And nothing over the top, just him.

My eyes lose focus, the sound of his breathing amplified, my backpack growing heavier still. And though it defies the laws of physics, the air is charged here, pulling me in only one direction.

“I don't want to go,” I whisper. I'm not sure if I've just said that to myself or to him. I step back.

With his arm still high on the door frame, he gently pushes the door closed. The space around me becomes very small, my back to the wall, and his eyes search mine like he's going to crawl inside. His breathing is the only sound that registers in the stillness, which is when I become aware of the absence of mine.

He reaches to my face, brushing his hand lightly against it, his lips turning upward when I finally exhale. His fingers trace a delicate line under my chin, along my jawline, and through my hair, his hand coming to rest there. His thumb caresses my cheek, my nerves alight, the yearning overwhelming.

I lean forward and he presses his lips to mine.

Something cracks. Invisible and intangible, it breaks and crumbles. Shuddering, I shake away the pieces, released into an unknown lightness, floating free, untethered, my arms slackening. My backpack quietly drops to the floor and the clothes hanger slips from my fingers. His lips move gently, his other hand reaching to cradle my face.

I raise my hands to rest against his abdomen, which feels startlingly like a hardened set of wooden shutters. My body hums, blindsided with a swelling need.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him toward me, and my mouth opens. He responds immediately, lips parting, pressing his body to mine, pressing us both against the wall. Our chests now flush, my heart pounds. I curl my fingers into his skin as his kiss becomes increasingly urgent. His hands move down the length of my neck, his fingers slipping under my shirt, skimming across my collarbones—

He abruptly straightens, pushing back. Holding my shoulders, his breathing heavy, he looks into my eyes. As I try to find my own breath, I realize he's asking my permission.

“We should … over there,” I mumble.

He takes a calming breath—several, actually—before lacing his fingers through mine and leading me toward the bed. Looking back, he speaks with surprising clarity. “You're wearing my shirt.”

Guilty.

He pulls me toward him, his hands lightly gathering the maroon material at the bottom. “May I have it back?”

His hands slide underneath, and in one smooth motion, it's off. It strikes me that he doesn't look me over, but keeps his focus on my eyes.

I point to his shirt. “May I?”

Without waiting for a response, I gather the edges and pull up. His chest now bare, he pulls me toward him, eagerly forming his mouth around mine. His hand smooths across my back, unhooking my bra and sliding the straps off my shoulders. I look down, past gray shorts rolled at the waist, to the sheer material bunched at my feet.

“I guess you'll be needing your shorts back, too, then,” I say.

“Yeah, I think that would be a good idea,” he rasps.

I slide them down, underwear and all, as he rids himself of his jeans. I've barely straightened when he finds my mouth, opening it once more. He places his hand on my stomach, smoothing it over my skin, moving upward. I shiver when his fingers move across my breast. He takes it fully in his hand, and I let out a gasp, a moan, maybe both. But the goose bumps soon subside, my skin warming with his kiss, his lips melting hungrily into mine.

I cling to a single strand of coherent thought. “Do you … do you have protection?” I manage, pulling away just enough to speak.

“I do,” he says, his breathing labored.

“You do?”

“Well, yes, I—”

My face falls slightly.

“Wait, it's not like that,” he says, reading my reaction perfectly. He brings his hands to either side of my head, smoothing his fingers across my temples. “I wasn't planning this, if that's what you're thinking. When you leave the ship, you have to take—”

“I know, Eric,” I say, swallowing with unexpected relief. “I know.”

He bends down, rummages in his jeans, and removes a tiny packet. I recognize the brand because I have eighteen in my backpack just like it.

I reach for his hand, guiding him to the bed, and lay back, pulling him toward me. His eyes hold mine as he presses his body along my length, his weight settling, our features melding, wholly perfect, and overwhelmingly wonderful. I swallow, a steady burn eating its way through my insides.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Desire has swallowed my left brain whole. I offer a non-thinking, well-programmed response. “It's fine.”

“What kind of fine?” he asks, trailing kisses from my lips to my ear, hovering there now. His breath, warm and moist, echoes loudly. He is all I hear, all I feel.

“The real kind.”

 

22

My head fits neatly in the crook of his shoulder, my cheek resting on his chest. We've lain here for some time, air-drying after a not-so-quick rinse in the shower. His fingers absently comb through my still-wet hair, neither of us speaking.

Rather, I've been content to observe, afforded a close-up view of abdominal muscles ripped from here to tomorrow. Although, that's not what holds my focus.

It's the scars.

So many. I trace my fingers along one and then another, knowing they each have a tale to tell. But one in particular stands out. It's raised and circular and I keep coming back to this one. I scooch away from him slightly, scanning his body from the side. I find the circular scar's twin residing on his lower back, almost directly opposite. I touch it, feeling the raised tissue, and slide my hand up and over to his abdomen again. Now, I'm no expert in ballistics.…

“Are these…?”

I look up to him, but his expression doesn't change. Nor does he answer.

“Entrance and exit wounds?” I finish.

He continues to stroke my hair, deliberating.

“Yeah,” he says.

I give both scars equal attention in my explorations, running my fingers over each. As I study them, my mind races to a hundred different horrific scenarios to explain how he came by these. He watches me intently, his mouth evenly set.

“Are you going to tell me about this?” I ask.

He thinks on this for a moment. “Maybe someday, when we have more time.”

I glance at the circular scar again before returning my gaze to him.

“Is that the same day you're going to explain why you speak so many languages?”

A hint of a grin escapes. “Yeah. That day.”

“I see.”

“Speaking of injuries,” he says, touching my arms lightly where the bruising is heaviest. “Are you feeling okay?”

“It looks a lot worse than it feels.”

I scooch myself close again, nuzzling my head against him. He caresses the skin across my back, my head rising and falling with his breathing. His heartbeat echoes slowly, rhythmically in my ear, and my eyes close in response, my breathing slowing to match his. This settles me, trying as I am to wrap my head around what just happened. Talk about letting your guard down. But god, it felt right.

I'll admit, I don't have much in the way of comparison. Yeah, there was that first time in high school. Feeling awkward and scared, I closed my eyes the entire time. I can't bring myself to say I made love, which would imply it was somehow a good experience. Even saying I had sex would be a stretch. The “act” was more along the lines of some farcical science experiment, figuring out how the parts and the plumbing worked. But even after that initial round of awful, it never got much better.

Unfortunately, I never had the chance to make it right. To feel like you're supposed to feel when you make love. That period during college and after, when most people start to figure it out, was wiped clean for me. After Ian, I shut down on so many levels, a relationship was the very last thing I wanted or felt like I deserved. Of course, what I wanted or deserved became radically moot points upon entering the navy, as I shifted into survival mode.

Over time, one by one, my emotional systems clicked back on line, most running quietly in the background behind multiple layers of defenses. With one notable exception.

I run my fingers across Eric's chest, feeling the strength of his heartbeat beneath my palm. He brings his hand up, running it over mine, curling his fingers around it. My heart swells.

This
part of me has remained steadfastly under lock and key. I think back to the day when I first wore Eric's shirt instead of Ian's Vikings jersey, at a loss as to how that could have happened.

But this? To open myself to Eric like this? And for it to have been as wonderful as Emily's Harlequin romances would lead you to believe?

“I have an idea,” he says, shaking me from my contemplations. “I'd love to show you something—I guess you'd call it sightseeing—if you're up for it.”

“Sure,” I say, thankful for the opportunity to step back a moment.

We rise to dress and I pull out my jeans and the blue blouse I wore to the Hail and Farewell. The images, the feelings, that the clothes conjure, slice like a knife. The woman in blue. Who was she?

He holds up his maroon shirt, scooped from where it lay strewn on the floor. “You're not going to wear my shirt?” His tone is so playful, so sweet.

There was one more thing I missed during that figure-it-out time in college—the vulnerability attached to opening yourself to someone like this. Like a rogue wave, it crashes over me. He wouldn't act like this with someone else … would he? This had to have meant more to him than just …

“What's wrong?” he says, placing a steadying hand on the side of my face. His eyes are clear.

There can't be anything wrong. There can't be.

“Nothing,” I say. “The wrap on this shirt just gives me fits to tie. Besides, I thought you wanted that back.” I motion to the shirt in his hand.

“That was just temporary. You can have it, if you want.”

“Yes, I want it!”

“What you're wearing is better, though,” he says, indicating my blouse.

“You think so? Em made me buy it.”

“She has great taste,” he says.

I slip on my sandals and put my arms through the sleeves of my black sweater. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see,” he says.

*   *   *

He leads me to the MTR ticket stall to buy a pass, and we move through the turnstile, descending several flights of stairs until he finds the train he wants. It's the blue line and the train we board is headed west, along the northern edge of Hong Kong Island.

Debarking at Central Station, we walk hand in hand down Garden Road, and I finally see where he's leading me. The sign says
PEAK TRAM STATION.

“Victoria Peak?”

“The view from up there is incredible. Just wait.”

We board the tram and, 1,500 vertical feet later, debark in front of Peak Tower, a seven-storied boat-shaped building that sits atop the mountain. From here, we ride an elevator to the Peak Tower viewing deck. My pulse quickens as Eric leads me to the railing.

Hong Kong is laid out before us in all its breathtaking nighttime glory, treating us to a shimmering light show from uncountable millions of neon bulbs that reflect in the waters surrounding us.

But this million-dollar view is competing with something else for my attention—a hand that holds mine, a strong hand, calloused in places. He applies gentle pressure to my fingers, rubbing his thumb softly across my palm.

“Eric, this is spectacular, truly.”

He shifts to face me. “It's never looked better.”

Taking my other hand in his, he sweeps my arms behind my back, pinning them there.

“So beautiful…,” he whispers, looking into my eyes.