“That night you didn’t meet me, I was pretty frustrated,” he said. “All day I’d caught your scent on my hair, my beard… then I showered before going to the bar, and you were gone.”
I chewed my lip thinking how I’d done the same—lifted my dark curls to smell his warm woodsy scent that was now all around me, filling my bed.
“I was desperate to see you one more time just to get that luscious scent on me again,” he finished.
I lifted my head, teasing. “Are you saying you haven’t showered in two days?”
He caught my cheeks and pulled my lips to his, covering my mouth in a gentle kiss. My lips parted and the tips of our tongues touched lightly, setting off a little spark below my waist.
“I’m just giving you a peek at what you’re doing to me,” he said, his voice low.
I slid down, resting my cheek on his firm pectorals, tracing the lines with my fingers. We were quiet a moment, then I thought of us at the pool, our unfinished conversation. “You were going to tell me something memorable,” I said.
His hand returned to my back where he lightly touched my skin. “Yes,” he murmured, and my head rose with his inhale. “What do you want to know?”
Everything, my stubborn mind answered. Instead, I said, “You were telling me about when you were a boy. Your favorite game. Start there.”
He was quiet, thoughtful. “My dad was in the military. A few times when I was pretty young, he was sent on missions where I knew he might not come back.”
He paused, but my interest was piqued. “How did you know?” I asked.
“I could tell by the way my mom cried when he left.” His hand continued stroking my back. “It scared me so bad I couldn’t sleep at night.”
In my mind, I pictured a kid-sized version of him, dark hair, blue eyes, lying alone in the dark. Afraid. It was an image I could relate to well, and instinctively, my arm went around his waist.
“What did you do?” I said.
His tone remained calm, comforting. “I made up a game. I thought about my favorite thing to do with my dad. And I decided as soon as he got back, we’d do that together.”
“What was it?”
He inhaled deeply. “Different things. Sometimes it was as simple as throwing a football together. But focusing on us doing it, having fun, smiling, helped me know I’d survive the pain of waiting.”
My eyes were damp. “It’s a very sophisticated approach for a little kid.”
I felt him shrug. “It didn’t solve the problem. It just gave it an end point.”
I thought about what he was saying, and I thought about my situation. “But what if it feels like the pain will never go away?”
His hand stilled on my back. “It will. Eventually. Sometimes you’re not even aware it’s gone and then something happens, something unexpected, and you realize it’s no longer there.”
I lifted off him, sliding my fingers under my lower lashes before propping my head on my hand. He wrapped a dark curl around his finger as his gaze traveled from my lips to my eyes. I wanted to know what he meant, if he had experience with pain like that, like mine, but we were venturing far too close to off-limits topics. Instead I changed directions.
“So you followed in your dad’s footsteps and joined the military,” I said, looking back at his beautiful blues. “You were so young. What was it like in Iraq?”
His lips tightened. “Lonely. Scary at times.”
“Did you use your game?”
A small smile touched his lips. “Sometimes.”
“Did it work?”
His eyes moved away from mine, and he didn’t answer. Then it struck me—he might have things he didn’t want to share as well.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re probably breaking the rules of a one-week stand.”
“Probably,” he said, but his tone was different. “I wouldn’t know.”