Until We Fall

by Jessica Scott

  Part of me is horrified at my outburst. Shame crawls over me, hot pinpricks piercing my skin.

  She doesn’t back away. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, she reaches for me, her fingers sliding around my wrists, her thumbs sliding over the Latin letters that hide the scars.

  The scars I know she can feel.

  I flinch. But I’m trapped. Trapped by the sensation of her touch. Trapped by the compulsion that needs the human contact.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you any of that,” I say. She steps close to me, close enough that I can feel the heat from her body.

  I close my eyes, undone by her simple statement. By her simple unwillingness to leave me alone.

  She presses her forehead to mine. “You’re not alone, Caleb.” Her breath is warm on my skin. “And whatever sins you’ve committed in the past, you can’t change them.” Her thumb slides over my wrist, over the scars that are painfully obvious. “We all do stupid things when we’re hurting. To try and make the pain stop. To try and tell ourselves that it doesn’t really hurt.”

  I shudder as her thumb continues to trace the line of the scar on my wrist. The words start tumbling out, despite my horror, my shame. “My father sent me to military school when I was thirteen. He tried to raise me and my brother alone after she died but he couldn’t do it.” I close my eyes, the admission ripping out of me like a dam that finally pushes a single stone free only to burst from the pressure. “Boys at that age are cruel. I was small.” I swallow. “I was a target. All I wanted was my mom back.”

  Her fingers tighten in mine but she says nothing. I’m not sure there’s anything she could say that could be the right thing.

  “I learned how to pretend the pain didn’t hurt. I learned how to hide it.” I swallow, the words like daggers in my throat. “I reported what one of the older boys did to me. I was bleeding and cut. And the sergeant on duty asked me if I was sure I wanted to report. So I didn’t say anything.”

  She presses her cheek against mine. I feel the wetness on her skin. The tangible evidence of her ability to feel pain while I have long ago gone numb.

  Her arms slide around me. Pulling me close. “You are not alone.”

  17

  Caleb

  I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t take this offering of comfort, no matter how badly I need the human contact today. A better man would walk away.

  But I am not a better man. And the storm brewing outside matches the turmoil inside me.

  And she is a shelter. Safe harbor beneath the rumbling skies.

  I want to feel her pulse beneath my touch. Feel her body press against mine. Her eyes have never left mine. I’m intensely aware of the rise and fall of her chest, the rush of air from her lungs.

  My body tenses and tightens, blood rushing to my groin. Her lips part, her pink tongue traces the inner edge before disappearing once more. I want to kiss her again; more than anything in the world, I want to touch her. To slide my fingers over her body, to feel her heart beat beneath my touch.

  To feel her slick heat cover my fingers, my cock.

  I’m aching now, my cock hard as steel. It’s all I can do to avoid adjusting my pants.

  Her gaze flicks down and I’m exposed and vulnerable. I can almost imagine what her skin would feel like against mine, how her ass would feel in my hands.

  How her tight body would squeeze my cock.

  I reach down, needing to move my cock away from the ragged zipper of my jeans.

  She watches me. Watches my hand slide over my cock, watches me grip it. Christ it feels good, watching her watch me touch myself.

  She’s close, close enough that her breath mingles with mine. Close enough that heat from her body brushes against me. Wraps around me. Draws me closer, until her hand closes over mine and squeezes me, a gentle, demanding pressure.

  I flick my jeans open, offering, hoping, praying that she’ll keep touching me. That she’ll stroke me until I can’t see straight.

  Praying that I can do this. That I can touch her how she wants to be touched. That I can find out what makes her squirm and what makes her scream.

  What makes her wet.

  The air is cool against my cock, her palm hot as she strokes me. Her touch is electric, sparks of jagged lust arching down the length of it with each slide of her palm.

  I slip my palm over her waist, drawing her closer until her breasts brush against my chest. Her hand is pinned between us, her palm raw heat. She presses her cheek against mine, her breath hot on my skin.

  “I want to touch you,” she whispers. An erotic request.

  She nips my earlobe, her breath a rush of sound and heat as she frees my cock from my jeans completely. “Say yes,” she whispers.

  “Please.” She does that thing with her thumb again, sliding it through the moisture on the tip.

  I’ve never done this. Never talked dirty with a lover. Never whispered the wants and the needs in the bright light of day.

  There are so many ways that Nalini is my first taste of life after a decade spent as the walking dead.

  Her hand moves faster now, gripping me tighter. She nips my shoulder and before my brain can fully register what she’s doing, she slides down the entire length of my body.

  She is on her knees, her eyes locked with mine. Her lips part and slowly, so slowly, she traces the tip of my cock with her tongue. Watching me watch her.

  Until I fall away, tumbling into the darkness as she draws me deep inside of her mouth.

  * * *

  Nalini

  It’s an act of trust, taking him into my mouth. Pure, erotic trust as I taste him. My entire body clenches tight as I lick the tip of his cock, moist heat flooding between my thighs.

  I’m aching as I draw him deeper into my mouth, sliding my lips down his thick length.

  When I saw him watching me, I knew, in that moment, that this was how we’d end up. With me touching him, burning for him. Needing to touch every inch of his body, feeling his skin against mine.

  I suck him gently, one palm flat against his hard belly, the other holding him where I need him.

  A little erotic thrill spikes through me when he finally closes his eyes and drops his head back, surrendering.

  There is power—raw, intense, female power—in feeling him tremble beneath my touch.

  His palm is warm against my cheek, cupping me while I suck him deeper into me.

  And then he’s urging me up, away from the pleasure I’m bringing us both. One hand cradles my hip, pulling me against him as he urges us down to the floor. The blue satin of my yoga mat is warm now against my bare skin. I don’t know where my clothes are, or when or how they went there.

  All I can see, all I can feel, is Caleb above me, between my thighs, surrounding me until every shred of my awareness is consumed by him. Only him.

  I tilt my hips, urging him closer, urging him to press into me, to fill me. I need this, this reminder that I’m whole, that the scars don’t define me. That the fire didn’t consume my ability to feel.

  His skin is hot against mine and I arch into him, practically purring with raw power.

  His palm slides over my ribs, trailing lower toward my hip, toward the scars I know he can see but I’m not ready for him to touch. I thread my fingers with his, lifting our hands over my head. The movement pushes me closer, sliding down the length of his cock, feeling him slip closer to my core.

  “I need you.” A plea that’s a whisper away from begging.

  He slips his cock into my wet folds, sliding along my length. His touch is electric, pure thick fire.

  He pulls away abruptly, rocking back on his knees and—praise all the gods in the heavens above—produces a condom.

  I could make a joke right now about obstacles but it’s not really conducive to getting me what I want—and what I want right now is Caleb, deep and thick inside me.

  And then he’s crawling over me, urging me to surrender, to lean back and accept him once more between my thighs. He’s there, the wide flat
crown of his cock brushing against my tight opening. He threads his fingers in mine again, lifting our hands over my head.

  He’s there, just there.

  And he doesn’t move.

  It’s an impossibly long moment before he lowers his forehead to mine. “I’m afraid,” he whispers.

  In that moment, I know what this has cost him. What he risks in being naked and vulnerable with me.

  I cup his cheeks with both palms. Brush my nose against his. “Don’t think,” I whisper. Then I arch into him, using the angle of my body to draw him—finally—inside me. Just a hint, just the barest push of pleasure against my body that is craving the erotic friction. “Touch me.” A nip against his bottom lip.

  Please.

  But I don’t say that wanton phrase. This is too new, too risky.

  Everything with Caleb is a risk. One massive backsliding risk.

  But in this moment, the risk is worth it as he slides into me, thick and hard and full. My body vibrates as it expands to accept him. To squeeze him.

  To…oh, sweet baby Jesus. His touch is fire. Pure liquid fire as he pulls out, then pushes back inside me. Striking the tinder until it bursts into flames, tearing the remnants of my soul apart and binding them forever with his.

  18

  Nalini

  I’m surprised by how much I enjoy this—this quiet feeling of being skin to skin, the silence of our bodies touching, nothing more.

  There’s something about the silence between us. Something stretching and grasping, trying to form a sense of permanence in the impermanence of the morning.

  “Tell me about why you hate West Point,” he whispers.

  It’s surreal, lying in my bed, wrapped in blankets, cocooned within the warmth of his body. His question catches me off guard. “You really suck at pillow talk.” But I slip my thigh between his, moving closer to take the sting out of my words. “What do you want to know?”

  “You have this deep desire to bring yoga to people who need it. To soldiers. And yet, the very people who could help you—your Old Grad network—you seem to want to avoid. Why?”

  He slides my hair off my neck and nuzzles me. It’s a soft gesture. Loving. His need to touch is something I’m coming to expect from him. Something I could easily learn to crave.

  I never thought I’d crave touch again, that I would trust enough to let someone else’s hands roam over my body, my scars.

  I’m surprised at how hard it is to whisper my next words. How my throat instantly constricts at even thinking about the ways West Point changed me. “West Point was the most difficult experience of my life. I was in company B1.”

  There are four regiments at West Point. Each regiment has nine companies. Each company is known by its regiment and letter. And each company has a different culture, a different legacy. Some companies have graduated more general officers. Others have had more of the goats—the person with the lowest GPA in the class.

  Bravo company, First regiment had its own unique culture.

  I close my eyes and inhale hard, deliberately constricting the back of my throat in ujjayi breathing. Calming myself as the story starts to rise up from the dark place where we put memories that we try to pretend didn’t happen.

  “Boys First was the motto.” Another deep breath. “Well, they don’t tell you that the girls who are assigned there sometimes are worse than the guys to other women.”

  But he presses against me. “When I was a freshman, the firsties bragged that B1 was the last company to graduate a female when they first brought women to West Point.”

  I twist my fingers into his, needing the support for my admission. “And I embraced that. I fucking loved it.”

  It’s hard to say those words. To know that I embraced the toxic shit that said other women didn’t belong at West Point. To know that I actively supported the culture in our company that led to the highest rate of attrition of females during my junior year.

  That I thought I was one of the good ones. One of the ones who deserved to be there. Who could out-guy the guys.

  No shifting blame. No blinders. No matter where this goes, I’ll own it.

  And I’ll be grateful for moments like this. Moments that are open and raw and pure human connection. No matter how bad it might hurt in the future.

  “What happened?”

  I’m afraid to resurrect those memories. “There was one upperclassman. He was some big shot athlete or something. He was supposed to be the great hope that helped us finally beat Navy.”

  His arms tighten around me. It’s almost as if he knows where this story ends.

  “I was a yearling. My plebe told me he pinned her in a corner. That he demanded she recite some knowledge. When she failed, he punished her by making her low-crawl up and down the halls near the trunk rooms until her hands and knees bled.”

  “Jesus…”

  “She told me what he did. How he stood over her. How he implied that he could do anything he wanted and she couldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t believe her at first.” Another deep breath. “He laughed about it openly. About how he put that uppity little bitch in her place and I agreed with him. She should know the knowledge book. She shouldn’t argue with him. She’s a plebe and plebes are always trying to get out of shit. I heard him laughing with the company commander and the first sergeant.” I breathe out deeply. “I watched my plebe start to fade pretty hard. I have no idea what made me believe her but I knew something was wrong.” My breath is shaky now. “I turned him in. I went with her to report him for hazing. And the entire corps of cadets turned on both of us because he was thrown out of the academy.

  “I was moved to a new company but it was still pretty terrible. Sam was one of the only people willing to still talk to me. I refused to go to behavioral health. So he gave me an order to show up at yoga the next morning.” Another deep breath; my eyes are burning.

  “Wait. Sam does yoga?”

  I choke out a laugh at his attempt to make me smile. “Yeah. He does. I found my tribe. I made it through West Point because of the brothers and sisters I made in the yoga club. I became obsessed. Focused. It helped me. I know it doesn’t help everyone. I know it’s not a miracle cure that will magically solve all trauma and terrible things. But it helped me. It brought me back to who I was when I’d almost lost it.”

  He moves closer, if that’s possible. Wraps me tighter in his arms. Pressing his chest against me, his thighs to mine. I’m completely surrounded. Cherished and held.

  “I had no idea.”

  “It’s not easy owning up to being an asshole,” I whisper. “I thought I was doing what West Point wanted me to do. I thought I was being loyal to my company. I almost failed my plebe because I wasn’t looking. Because I didn’t want to believe one of my peers could threaten and harass someone else when they were good to me.”

  My heart doesn’t hurt like it used to. I’m able to get the words out without feeling like I’m suffocating. It’s amazing how things that control our lives for so long manage to look so different when you can change how you look at them. “I blamed West Point for a long time. But in the end, it’s my responsibility for how I acted.”

  “There are good people there,” Caleb says softly. “But a small percentage can do a lot of damage in the name of duty, honor, country.”

  He says nothing for a long moment. “That explains why you were kind to me when I got in trouble.”

  “Yeah. My firstie year, they made me a regimental sergeant major. Try leading when everyone hates you. It’s not that easy.” I feel her breathing, slow and steady. “I made it through. But I’m not ready to go back. Because I’m afraid that the person I was when I was in B1 wasn’t an anomaly, but was a part of who I really am. And I’m ashamed of her.”

  * * *

  Caleb

  It’s hard to put into words how it feels when your oxygen is cut off, when your skin prickles with nerves and anxiety and anger.

  Hatred for the person you were.

  F
or the person you’re trying so hard not to be anymore.

  “That’s not who you are anymore,” I whisper.

  “I know that. Rationally, I know that. But fear is a powerful thing.”

  She’s an addiction. My drug. A human connection that I never knew I needed. But to know that she was part of that culture…

  I don’t have the words I need.

  I slip out of her arms. Away from her warmth.

  The cold is an instant slap against my skin.

  I pull on my pants. Needing to get away. To hide.

  To remove myself from her.

  She sits up behind me. Her arms wrap around my waist, her thighs slip over mine. Holding me. Flowers and vines and lotuses snake down the sides of her body, intertwined in the scars covering her thighs.

  She’s a goddess. A goddess of rebirth and strength.

  She’s everything I’m not.

  And I will never be.

  “Where are you going, Caleb?” Her words vibrate into my back, her breath warm against my skin. “You don’t get to do that,” she whispers.

  I turn my face, looking out into the storm as lightning flashes outside. “Don’t get to do what?”

  “Leave just because something hurts.”

  I laugh bitterly. But I don’t stand up. I don’t step out of her embrace. “You have no idea what’s going on inside me right now.”

  Her palms fold over my heart and it’s so easy to cover hers with mine. “People don’t just start drinking as kids because they’re healthy, well-adjusted people.”

  I want to pull my hands away, to break the contact. To staunch the wounds inside me.

  The broken pieces of me aren’t an excuse for what happened to me.

  I close my eyes. Her voice mixes in my head with another one, until I can’t tell where her voice ends and my memories begin.