Adam

I wake up sweaty and breathing hard, unable to move. This paralysis is possibly the worst part of the nightmares, with all the terrible images still flickering across my vision and me stuck to the bed. Though this morning the dream is fading fast. I can't even hold on to the details before they disappear into the fog that's always lurking at the edge of my consciousness. It's a dark place, filled with shadows that never cease moving, never let any light through. I hate that part of my mind, but I won’t linger on it this morning.

The smell of something good baking in the kitchen cuts through the last dregs of the nightmare.

I lunge out of bed, as soon as the numbness recedes, wishing Taylor was still lying beside me, but this works too. I don't remember the last morning I got up this eagerly, the last time I looked forward to the day before me with such happy anticipation. Must've been at the beginning of my military career when they first let me take part in the action.

Taylor's humming to herself in the kitchen, bending over by the oven and checking on whatever's baking inside. Her hair is dripping, wetting the back of the oversized shirt she's wearing. I wish it was white and see through, but it's black. At least her milky legs are bare, and the fabric stretches over her ass in such a suggestive way I'm rock hard in an instant.

"Too bad you showered without me," I say the first thing that pops into my head. "I hoped we'd do that together."

Her humming cuts off abruptly, her cheeks turning pink as she faces me.

"Oh, good morning," she stammers, pulling down her shirt, puffing it out so it covers her more completely. It's a clear, Don't come here and kiss me, so I refrain, though it's not easy.

If she wore tighter clothes no guy would be able to keep his hands off her. It's a biological impossibility. I don't think she realizes that though.

"Morning," I say and make a gallant effort not to want her naked right this minute. "Did you sleep well?"

She nods her head, her face still serious. "Did you?"

The question is heavy with unspoken sub-questions, probably about the nightmares.

"Yeah," I lie. The last thing I want is for her to feel sorry for me.

"How do you like your eggs?" she asks, turning the stove on and moving a pan into place.

"You don't have to cook for me," I say. What I should be doing is going over there and kissing her breathless. Not affecting this modesty.

"I want to make breakfast for you," she says, the edges of her perfect lips finally curving up slightly.

"I don't know, just however you like them," I say and move closer, peeking into the oven. "What's this?"

"They’re mini croissants I made, with cheese," she says, scrambling the eggs in a bowl. "You'll love them, I promise."

"My mom used to make something like that. More pockets than croissants though, and she'd add ham and ketchup too," I say, only just remembering it now, and sorry that I spoke at all.

"She doesn't anymore?" Taylor asks, zeroing in on the one thing I didn't want her to ask. I think Mom did try to make them, on one of the first mornings I was back home, burned them all to a rock hard black mess. Maybe I should call home, see how she's doing. But why spoil my mood? Nothing ever changes in that house.

"Nah," I say and turn away from her, trying to find something to do. "Got any coffee?"

"Just instant," she says and points with her head to her left. "I boiled the water already."

I brush against her on my way to make the coffee, and she sighs a little, starts to scramble the eggs faster. I know she wants more. But I also know she's not done processing last night yet. It's a funny thing to watch. I'm not used to girls this shy.

I'm not used to being this unsure around a girl either. I want to rip that shirt off her and fuck her crazy right here on the counter, but I also equally want to slide that shirt off sensually and make sweet, slow love to her all day and all night long. The conflict's actually making my heart race.

The eggs sizzle as she pours them into the pan, and I remember I'm supposed to be making coffee. After that I sit down and watch her scurry around the kitchen. If I didn't want her so bad, maybe my heart would be sinking a little right now. Because she's careful not to look at me, and I'm starting to think that maybe, after breakfast she'll tell me to go. I'll want to say no, but I won't. Nothing's really changed, I still need her permission. Which doesn’t mean I won't try my hardest to get it.

I scoop her into my lap as she sets the eggs on the table, grabbing her soft thigh, because I need to feel her skin. I peck her on the cheek, and she's soft in my arms, but not really returning the gesture.

"You want me to let you go?" I ask, kissing her neck, because I'll take what I can get now.

She makes the sweetest noise, something between a whine and a sigh. I still want to hear her scream in pleasure, but this works too. It works just perfectly.

"No," she whispers and I don't know if she's answering my question, or if it's a general sort of statement. I kiss her neck again, feeling the beat of her heart on my lips.

"I do want to…" she says then her voice trails off in another sigh.

"But you're not sure?" I finish the sentence for her, and stop kissing her.

"But you're just so forceful. I feel like I'm still coming down from last night, and it's all starting again," she explains.

"And that's a bad thing?" I smile at her wide eyes, it's automatic.

"It's just so new," she says, looking down at her hands.

"Alright," I say and nudge her off my lap. "We’ll just continue with the slow and steady then."

I'm not exactly annoyed with her, but I'm not happy either. But that's a gut reaction, something I should overcome.

She's sort of swaying over me now, her breasts almost touching my shoulder.

I refrain from making another move and ladle some eggs onto my plate. Scrambled are actually my least favorite kind, and I've eaten enough to last me several lifetimes out in the field. She brings the little croissants to the table, and heaps some eggs onto her own plate, peering at me from the corner of her eye. She probably makes breakfast like this for her boyfriend every morning, and this is what it's about now. It's not about going slow. It's about not going at all. I should've seen it coming. With me, things always end before they really start. This isn't going to be any different. I had hoped I'd at least get to fuck her a few times before it was over though.

She looks up from her plate and blushes like she heard me say it. I look at her questioningly.

"You probably do this all the time. With other girls, I mean," she says. "Sorry I'm not like that."

It's not really confrontational. It's sincere, and I'm instantly sorry for thinking any of what I just did.

"You don't have to apologize to me," I say. "I just thought…after last night…that you were into me too."

I dig into my eggs, ignoring the shock in her eyes. She makes excellent eggs, I don't think I've ever tasted better ones.

"I am…"

"You're what?" I ask with my mouth full once it's clear she won't be finishing the sentence.

"You're gonna make me say it?" The shock is giving way to something softer in her eyes.

I shrug and stuff more eggs into my mouth. Hell yeah, I'll make her say it. Just like I'll make her scream my name later.

"Fine," she sighs. "I like you too. A lot. But it's hard for me to just give myself to you. I've never done it before. Not fast like this. You happy now?"

Her eyes are blazing now, the amber specks glowing.

"Very happy," I say and smile at her. "Of course we can do this at your pace. So long as we do."

She sighs again and finally picks up her fork, shaking her head. "You really are something else."

"Nah, not really." I heap more eggs onto my plate, then bite into one of the croissants. "These are really awesome!"

She smiles. "I told you."

"And you're awesome too," I add, because I think she needs to hear something nice. "Don't ever change."

Like she could. People don't change.

She's blushing again. "Thanks, I guess."

"So what do you want to do today?" I ask.

"What do you?" she counters.

"You already know what I want," I say and grin at her, pointing at the counter behind her. "And it involves that box of strawberry flavored condoms over there."

Her face is the color of that box now.

"But we can also do something else, if you prefer," I add. "Like go for a hike, or something."

And take the condoms with us. But I don't say that.

"Alright, let's go for a hike then," she says and smiles rather coyly, like she's trapped me. Shows how much she knows. She's had me since that night on the sidewalk.

* * *

Taylor

I clear the kitchen while he showers. My hands are still shaking from that breakfast scene, and a huge part of my mind wants to get naked and join him in the shower. But I'm not a girl that just sleeps with strangers. Last night makes a huge lie of that. Though technically, we didn't sleep together. My stomach twists at the memory of how alive having his cock down my throat made me feel, how free.

I don't understand anything anymore. I wonder if Adam does. Is this all just a game for him? One he's played many times before?

I shake my head at the offending thought.

It might well be a game, but at least he's being nice about it, at least he's making me feel alive.

I hear the shower turn off. Now he's gonna come out and make some excuse. And I'll never see him again. I go into the living room, and dress quickly. I'm tying my shoes when he comes out of the bedroom, smelling of soap and with his hair slicked back off his face. I freeze while looking up at him. Damn he should be lounging by some pool with a model for a girlfriend, not in this cabin with a prude like me.

He grins like he knows exactly what I'm thinking—that he's the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen—but he stays quiet.

I take a deep breath and finish tying my shoes.

"Ready?" he asks, once I'm done and just staring at him again. I should've taken that shower with him. What was I thinking? What am I thinking now?

"Yes," I say and stride out onto the porch.

A red and black motorcycle is parked by my car, glinting in the sunlight.

"Is that yours?" I blurt out. In France, I saw so many of these bikes, and I really wanted to ride one. But Henry wouldn't even rent a Vespa. Not that I expected him to. He's one of those people who keep both of their hands on the wheel at all times when they’re driving.

"Want a ride?" Adam asks.

"Can we?" I'm about an inch short of screeching and jumping up and down in glee. Get it together, Taylor.

He pulls out the keys from his pocket, showing them to me. "Yes, we can."

I know he's mocking me, but it doesn't bother me at all.

"You only have the one helmet though," I say.

"That's alright, you can have it."

"Then you'll be without. Isn't that too dangerous?"

"I've lived through more dangerous things," he says, and it's supposed to be a light, off hand remark, but there's such darkness behind it I almost flinch. He's a Marine. He's probably seen things I can't even imagine. He's killed people.

"So?" he asks, and I nod, following him to the bike.

The fresh smell of soap intensifies, then cuts off as he puts the helmet onto my head.

"Your head's smaller than mine," he says, adjusting some strap. "But your hair's bigger so that should make up the difference."

"Hey," I say, my voice muffled by the helmet. "My hair's my best feature."

His eyes travel down my body, and he shakes his head. "That's just not true. But your hair is great."

My face suddenly gets very hot inside the helmet. Why does he have to keep hinting at sex? Though if I'm honest, I really don't want him to stop.

"Just hold on tight, OK?" he says, and steps over the bike. It takes me three attempts before I'm finally lodged behind him, my heart beating in my throat.

"Let's not go too fast. It's my first time," I suggest, feeling very vulnerable.

"You sure?" he asks, and I can hear his grin even though I can't see his face.

"I think so," I mutter.

He revs the engine and turns the bike. I wrap my arms around his waist on instinct, wondering why the hell I've waited so long. His body is so hard, so solid, and I can mold myself to him perfectly.

We're riding on the main road further up the mountain, going slow and steady, so there's no reason I should still be holding onto him so tight. But I don't loosen my grip.

"This is boring, though, isn't it?" he asks. "There's no traffic. It's a Tuesday morning."

"We can go a little faster, I guess," I say loudly, so he can hear me.

He speeds up suddenly, making me press even closer to him. My hands ache, I've got them wrapped around his stomach so hard. We're going way too fast. And the ever cautious part of my brain is screaming warnings, but I don't really hear them. Because I feel like I'm flying, the world a green and grey blur, but his body is so steady between my thighs I don't ever want to come down.

My head's spinning when we finally stop at the top of the hill. I'm grinning so hard my face aches. But I can't stop, not even after I finally manage to climb off the bike and remove the helmet.

"That was awesome!" I say.

He gets off too, pulls me to him and kisses me. All my objections, my wishes to take it slow are a bullet, speeding away from us at a million miles an hour.

This. This is what I want. Freedom, recklessness, wild abandon. To be kissed like I'm the only girl worth kissing in the whole wide world. So what if he has a thousand girlfriends elsewhere? None of them are here now. I am here now. And every nerve in my body knows it.

* * *

"I wish we'd thought to bring a blanket," I whisper later, as I'm leaning against Adam's chest, his arms wrapped around me like he'll not let me go anytime soon.

I realize the mistake I made as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

"We don't really need a blanket. Not unless you brought the condoms." I can just hear him grinning as he says it.

Our fingers are entwined over my stomach, and I squeeze his hands harder. "You have such a dirty mind. I meant for a picnic. But then again we brought no food either."

Though I like his suggestion too. I like it more each time we kiss.

"There's food in the forest." He lets go of my hands and lifts me to my feet like I weigh nothing, then pulls me along. "Come on. We should be able to find some berries at least."

I follow a little reluctantly. I'm not a huge fan of forests, and the path he's taking can barely be called that since it's so overgrown.

"There's a huge bush right around here, I'm pretty sure…" he goes on and I don't protest, because I don't want to ruin his sudden excitement. It's contagious too, and soon I'm eating more berries than I'm picking.

"Stop that," he says turning to me. He's got his t-shirt rolled up and the fold is nearly full of berries. But that's not what I see. I’m focusing on is how his jeans are riding low on the well-pronounced V of his stomach muscles, pointing down, the light sprinkling of hair leading to the same place. I'm growing wet just thinking about what the jeans are hiding.

"I thought you wanted a picnic," he says, but he knows what I'm really thinking, I see it in the hungry look in his eyes.

"I do," I say, turning as serious as I can. "And you'll ruin your shirt like that."

"I got others," he says and shrugs, turns back to pick more berries. "Besides, if it gets too dirty I'll have to take it off."

He grins back at me over his shoulder, and my face turns hot. But I grin right back this time. Because blushing or not, that's exactly what I want too.

After the berries, he takes me to pick some hazelnuts, and then we're sitting in the soft mossy bed by a stream so clear the water looks white.

"So, they teach you how to survive in the wild in the military?" I ask, crunching down on the hazelnut he handed me.

"Yeah, obviously," he says. "But I knew it from before too. I learned this stuff with the boy scouts."

"You were a boy scout? No way!"

"Why?" he says stuffing a fistful of berries into his mouth. "I always loved that survival in the wild shit. They couldn't get rid of me."

"Why would they want to?" I ask, kind of sorry I did, since it's another opening and I'm enjoying just having a normal conversation with him.

But instead of him saying something lewd, dark shadows congest in his eyes. He just shrugs, doesn't answer my question.

"You must know these woods pretty well then," I say to change the subject. "Is this water drinkable?"

His lips and teeth are purple from the berries, and I'm sure mine are too. It must be a horrific sight.

"I guess," he says and points at a spot a few feet behind us. "That's where it comes out, so it can't have gotten that dirty from there to here."

I decide to risk it, cup some of the water in my hands and wash my mouth. The water is so cold it hurts my teeth.

"That was a good color on you though," he says. "Not so much on me, I suppose."

He takes some water and washes too, then leans back resting on his arms.

He has a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. Hunter's Point, with March 3 under it, all written in narrow cursive script. I haven't noticed it before, since he's always worn a watch. It's to do with some girl, I know it is, and I don't like the metallic taste it brings to my mouth. I shouldn't be jealous, but I am.

He stares at me looking at it, but doesn't say anything.

"Is that the only tattoo you have?" I ask, since I have to acknowledge it now, I think.

He sits up, wraps his arms around his knees and grabs hold of his left wrist like he's stretching. Or hiding it.

"It's not enough?" he asks. "You into tattoos?"

Honestly, I don't know. I could be, I think. Never thought about it much. Most guys have at least one these days, but I still think it gives them an edge, something dangerous. So, yeah, maybe I am.

"I thought you soldiers all had a bunch of tattoos," I say instead.

"Sure. But I've seen what bullet wounds and burns do to tattoos and I'd rather not mess up this like that." He points in a way that encompasses his whole torso.

I'm still concentrating on the bullet holes and burns, not really seeing his cocky grin.

"You got a lot of scars?" I ask.

"What’s with all the questions, Taylor?"

I've asked like two, so that's not really fair. But then again, I haven't seen him without his shirt yet. His legs seemed fine last night, but for all I know he could still be covered in burns.

"I'm just trying to get to know you better," I mutter, fighting the feeling that I should be apologizing for something.

"And you think asking random questions will achieve that?"

"Not if you don't answer them," I retort. I haven't done anything wrong here. So he has no right to be prissy with me.

"So, do you have any tattoos?" he asks suddenly taking me off guard.

"No, but I'm thinking of getting one," I say. Henry's against it, but I've been thinking about it for over a year.

"Let me guess, on your back? So you can hide it easily," he says, kinda sneering at me.

"Or the wrist, like you," I answer him anyway.

"Well, both places hurt like hell," he says and smiles at me.

"I thought you were too perfect to ruin your skin with tattoos," I snap. He's just playing with me, has done since he first saw me. Like a cat playing with its food. That's what his eyes are all about.

He whips around so his back is to me, and lifts up his shirt. "I do have this."

I'm still reeling from the realization that I'm just a toy for him, but I gasp at the intricate scene he's showing me. I push his shirt further up to his neck, so I can see the whole thing. It's a picture, no, more like a black and white painting of a beautiful winged woman, her long wavy hair flowing behind her as she walks over a field of death, skulls and bones piled high, black crows feeding on the remains. It's a chilling scene, but mesmerizing at the same time, hopeful and beautiful. The longer I watch, the harder it is to look away, and the more I see.

"What is it?" I finally manage to croak out, running my finger down the woman's face, along her perfect silhouette. The edges of her wings look like swords. "The angel of death?"

"Kinda," he says. "It's a Valkyrie…one of the—"

"Norse Goddesses choosing slain warriors to take to Valhalla, or Heaven," I finish for him not able to stop myself. "It's beautiful."

"Thanks," he says rather breathlessly, probably since I'm running my palm down his back, trying to get closer to the scene, take it all in.

"You have Viking ancestors?" I ask.

"Not that I know of," he says. "A friend of mine drew this. Bjorn. He was Swedish. He wanted to get it tattooed on his back, but he was killed before it was finished. I thought I'd get it, as a tribute to him, you know?"

I gasp, can't help it. Mostly I'm shocked at the monotone way in which he delivers the speech. Like it's not touching him at all. But it must be. I know it is.

"That's a beautiful gesture," I manage to say, speaking barely above a whisper.

"Right?" he says, but I don't think it's even a question. "I'd still prefer him to have be alive and have the tattoo though."

My fingers stop abruptly as I reach a bumpy scar on his lower back, only the tip of it jutting out above his jeans. It looks fresh, still more pink than white, and cuts a line through all the skulls and bones.

He shivers as I lay my hand over it.

"What happened?" I ask, aware it's another question, but I think he wants to tell me.

"An explosion. A bad one. I got thrown back against the truck during my last mission," he says in the same toneless voice as before, then lets his shirt fall down over his back. "Shattered two of my vertebrae. But it's OK now."

"How can you even walk still?" I ask, my hand preventing his shirt from slithering back down all the way.

He turns around and rolls his shoulders. His eyes aren't glowing now, they're dim and shadowy like he's not actually completely awake.

"They gave me new ones. Titanium," he says.

"Is this why you left the military?"

"You mean the injury?" he asks, adjusting his shirt so it covers his whole back. "No, my back’s better now that it was before."

"But you came home to heal?" I ask.

He sighs, stretching again. “I actually have no idea why I came home. Didn’t have anywhere else to go, I guess. But anywhere else would be better.”

“Why?”

“Long story and not very entertaining,” he says, and I can just feel him pulling away from the conversation. I think he said more than he wanted to.

"I will have to get the tattoo fixed, though" he adds more lightly, and crushes two more nuts in his hands, holding them out to me. "Let's talk about something else."

The plea in his voice is so raw I feel it in my stomach. I take both the nuts and peel off the shells, holding one out to him. His lips brush my fingertips, as he takes it making me giggle. That dangerous, wild gleam is back in his eyes.

I know war can be addicting. My dad’s all into military stuff and even though he’s never been a soldier, he’s fascinated with war. I wonder how he'd react if I brought Adam home, introduced him as my boyfriend. And there I go, getting ahead of myself again.

"You just want to have some fun with me before you go back to war, don't you?" I ask, the thought sort of crippling, but exciting at the same time.

"No, I want to have a lot of fun with you." He grins, showing me a row of perfectly straight white teeth. I want to run my tongue over them, I want them to bite down on my nipples, my neck, my clit. I'm all out of objections. We're far from the real world here, and I can be his plaything. As long as he's mine too.