Page 31 of Chain Reaction

A minute later they had their key card, crisp and glossy, the same color as the stone all around them.

—

Their room was on the twenty-first floor. The elevator was fast and silent. They found their door. The lock clicked open. They went inside.

“Lose the shirt,” she said.

He unbuttoned it and shrugged it off. Dropped it on the floor.

“And the T-shirt,” she said.

He peeled it off and dropped it on top of the plaid. She ran her fingertips over the slab of his chest, gently, speculatively, exploring, remembering, like tracing familiar landmarks on a map of a place she once used to live. His scars, his stitches, his lumps and bumps. She slid her palms behind his back and held him close. She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed his mouth.

“Your turn,” he said. He hitched his thumbs under the collar of her jacket and eased it off her shoulders. She dropped her arms and gravity did the rest. The leather hit the floor. She raised her arms up high and he peeled her T-shirt up over her head. It landed on top of her jacket. She shook out her hair. Her bra was black and insubstantial and mostly see-through. He unclipped it behind her and it floated away. Then he did his own exploring and remembering, fingertips, palms, mouth, lips. She pushed him down on the bed and untied his shoes and eased them off. He rolled her over and tugged off her boots. She undid his button and unzipped his pants. He returned the favor. Her panties matched her bra, black, wispy, transparent. They came off easy. He resumed his exploration. Fingertips, palms, mouth, lips. She was sweet and fragrant and luscious. She was lean and slender and strong. Nearly a foot shorter than him and less than half his weight, but she was his equal. In every way there was. She gave as good as she got. She rode him all the way home.

—

Afterward they lay next to each other, quiet, breathing hard, like they had run a mile. The air in the room was still and cool and it smelled like the petals on a flower. As it should, for a thousand dollars. Their breathing slowed down. Deep, regular, relaxing, hypnotic.

“That’s another good thing about you not working for me,” she said.

“You wouldn’t have done it if I did?” he asked.

“I bet you didn’t either, back in the day. Dozens of times, I’m sure. Absolutely prohibited. Inexcusable. A court martial offense.”

“Not dozens of times,” he said. “A couple, maybe. Three, perhaps.”

“I read the old files on your 110th. There were some impressive women.”

“The best.”

“But still you said no?”

“Most of the time I wasn’t asked.”

“But when you were?”

“I said no. It’s a good rule. As a whole, I mean. For the army. Not good for me personally, those three particular times in my life. Didn’t like it at all. Although I met one of them again, much later.”

“And?”

“Nature took its course.”

“Do the breakfast card,” she said. “Hang it on the door. We’ll have it in bed.”

“You do it,” he said.

“Why?”

“It involves thinking. And choosing. You eat like a bird. I wouldn’t want to get you the wrong morsel.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t move.”

“Neither can I.”