The Stories We Whisper at Night

by Sky Corgan

  I want him to talk. To say something to me. To tell me about himself. But he just stays quiet.

  I'm not even sure if talking is appropriate in a situation like this. We're two strangers, buck naked, pressed together for the sake of survival. Getting an erection must be embarrassing for him. Or maybe he doesn't care. I'm not sure if he's been in a situation like this before.

  “Have you ever had to save a damsel in distress from the cold before?” I ask, realizing that I'll feel jealous if the answer is yes. I don't want to think about him naked with another woman.

  “No,” he replies plainly.

  Not much of a talker when he's not explaining how he's saving my life, it seems. Oh well. At least, I can enjoy this moment.

  We lie together in silence for what feels like forever. My pain begins to fade as the drugs kick in. I'm starting to get drowsy, but I know I shouldn't fall asleep. Not yet. Not until I know for sure that I'm okay.

  “What are you doing out here by yourself?” I ask groggily.

  “I just wanted to get away for a while,” he replies absentmindedly before pulling away from me. I feel the loss immediately. The loss of his warmth. The loss of the security that having him beside me provides.

  “Where are you going?” I turn to face him.

  He's putting his boxer briefs back on, shielding himself from my view. “To get you something to eat.”

  At the mention of food, my stomach rumbles. I hadn't even realized I was hungry until he mentioned it.

  “Am I warm enough?” I know I am. The feeling has finally returned to my extremities. We have to have been lying together for at least an hour. Surely, that was long enough to thaw me. In all honesty, though, I just want him to come back. I want to be in his arms again. To feel his heart beating in its steady rhythm against my skin.

  “You're going to be okay,” he tells me soothingly.

  What is it about his voice that puts my mind at ease? He's so kind. Truly an angel. I wonder if he knows it, or if saving people is just so second nature to him that he doesn't even think about it anymore.

  I watch him dress, frowning at his backside. He goes to his bag and pulls out a brown sack. It's not until he rips it open and extracts the contents that I realize it's an MRE. This guy is the real deal. At least, I think he is. Anyone can buy MREs at an army surplus store. But everything he has is camouflage. He has the body. He has the medical skills. I'm inclined to believe that he is who he says he is.

  He hands me the crackers and jalapeno cheese spread before getting to work preparing my meal. I watch him with interest, wondering how the heating element works.

  “These are pretty good,” I note. “Do you want some?” I spread some cheese on a cracker for him.

  “No. I ate already.” He doesn't even look at me, focused on his task.

  He reminds me of a machine, doing whatever is necessary and not deviating. For as handsome as he is, there seems to be an emptiness to him. I can't tell if he's just a hard man or if he's deep in thought.

  “What's the IV for?” I thumb back to it.

  “Quick hangover cure if I needed it,” he replies, giving the bag a final stir before handing it over to me.

  “What is this?” I wrinkle my nose at the indistinguishable chunks of meat in the bag. I think I see rice, too.

  “Chicken fajita. It's not going to be the best thing you've ever eaten—”

  “It's fine,” I cut him off, grateful that he's going to such lengths to take care of me.

  He watches me with little interest as I take the first bite. It's not good—he knows that—but I do my best not to look too unimpressed. To be honest, it's better than I had expected it to be. For a moment, I think about asking him why he didn't bring any real food out here with him, but I stop myself when I realize that would be rude. This is his vacation or something. I have no right to voice my opinion about how he should take it.

  I eat as much of the meal as I can stomach, then offer him the rest. He finishes it, barely glancing in my direction.

  “I should probably get to a hospital,” I mention. More than anything, I just want to go home.

  “We're not going anywhere until this snowstorm blows over,” he replies.

  “Oh.” I fidget with my fingers. “How long will that be?”

  “A day or two. I'll get you out of here as soon as I think it's safe.”

  “All right.” I guess my adventure is going to last a while longer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KIT

  This was certainly unexpected.

  Divine intervention? No. I don't believe in that.

  What are the odds that this girl would wind up in front of my cabin, though?

  It doesn't matter. This is simply a postponement of the inevitable. My priorities have shifted. Saving this girl and getting her back to safety is at the top of my list. It was at the top of my list in the military, too. Saving people. I couldn't do it then, but I can do it now. One last good deed before I leave this world behind and join all of those who died in my care.

  I could still do it when she falls asleep. It would be easy. But I'm not going to scar her like that. For all she's been through, Ivy seems like an optimistic person. I won't rob her of that. I've scarred enough people in my day, failing to save their loved ones.

  There's not much left to be done. The storm has blown in with all its fury. I can hear the wind whistling outside, hear the creaking of the logs and roof as snow beats against it. There's a draft coming in. The fire is doing all it can to keep the cold at bay.

  I could bust out my deck of playing cards to kill time, but Ivy needs to sleep. Now that the threat of hypothermia has subsided, it's safe for her to rest. To be honest, I'm exhausted too. It's been a long day, both physically and emotionally.

  I pull my grandfather's old blanket from the cabinet and start making a pallet in the corner. I'd be warmer by the fire, but Ivy needs all the heat she can get, and I don't want to encroach on her space.

  “Are we going to bed?” she asks as she watches me sit on the floor and cover myself with the blanket.

  “Aren't you tired?” I counter. I know that fighting for her survival must have taken everything out of her.

  “Yes,” she confesses.

  “We should get some sleep. There's not much else to do with the storm going on outside.” I fold my arms behind my head to use as a pillow since Ivy is using the one I brought.

  “Did you know the storm was coming?” She strains to look at me.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you plan to do while it was going on?”

  “Sleep.” It's a boldfaced lie, but I don't feel like talking. Sleep is the last thing I want right now. No doubt, having to save Ivy is definitely going to trigger flashbacks when I close my eyes. We're likely both in for a rocky night.

  I roll to face away from her, shutting her out. My lack of interest in conversation should force her to sleep.

  I try to think about anything other than what wants to come to mind. The faces of all those I lost. I think about the smell of the crackling logs. The feeling of wet garments beneath my fingertips as I pulled them away from Ivy's body. I think about her pink skin. The smooth curve of her stomach. The feel of her in my arms. It was like cuddling an ice sculpture. Beautiful cold perfection.

  I feel somewhat ashamed for having gotten an erection, but it's not like I had any control over it. Hell, I'm surprised I was even able to get one. Sex hasn't been on my radar for the longest time. My thoughts were mostly rooted in saving Ivy, but there was a primal part of me that was innately aware that I was pressed against a naked woman. That a few readjustments and I could have been inside of her.

  I wonder if I'm even capable of enjoying sex anymore. So many normal human emotions are dead to me. But I suppose that's just part of being a shell—of trying to kill my feelings for so long. I've become numb to even the pleasures of the world.

  I sigh, thinking about what to do next. Do I take Ivy back into town after the sto
rm and return to the cabin? It's an inconvenience but seems to be the best course of action. I can just leave everything here. The IV bag—my death cocktail.

  I want to turn and look at it, but I don't want to give Ivy a reason to try to talk to me again. I wonder if she bought my hangover excuse. She probably thinks I'm an alcoholic. Hopefully, she doesn't ask for a drink tomorrow. There's no booze here.

  My eyelids are heavy. I give in to the weight threatening to drag me into unconsciousness. There's a rustling sound. My comrades are taking their positions. Our backs are pressed against the wall of a dilapidated building that we're using for cover. Guns are in our hands. Some of them are already firing. My brother is up ahead. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body and a pit in my stomach that's filled with rocks.

  The ground moves beneath my feet. I look down.

  A bomb? No. Something else.

  I turn with a gasp. Almost violently. So quickly that the face before me is full of shock. I blink a few times. This woman wasn't with us back then.

  It takes a moment for me to regain my bearings. My eyes fly around the room frantically. Darkness and logs. The face of an angel.

  “I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I didn't mean to wake you. I was just so cold.”

  Ivy. It's Ivy.

  I try to control my labored breathing as I begin to calm.

  She's lying beneath the blanket with me. When did she move over?

  “What are you doing?” I ask a bit more aggressively than I had intended.

  Ivy flinches as if hurt. “I was cold,” she repeats. “I'm sorry. I'll go back.” She begins to edge away from me.

  “No. It's fine.” I shake my head. “You can stay.”

  “Are you sure?” Ivy gazes up at me with the most innocent eyes I've ever seen, and I feel a tightness in my stomach. Something within me stirs. Something that's been dormant for a very long time.

  “I'm sure.” The iciness inside me melts. I want to touch her. To caress her cheek. To tell her that everything is going to be okay. She makes me feel protective of her. I'm not sure if I like it or not. It's definitely different.

  Ivy scoots in closer to me, her soft body pressing against mine. I'm pretty sure she's still naked. A quick glance at her clothes draped over the table confirms that. I swallow hard, looking down at her. For the first time, I'm seeing her as a woman, not someone for me to save.

  “Would you...” she hesitates. “Would you mind holding me some more? It's so cold.”

  I pull her into my arms, and she rests her head against my chest. I can't resist the urge to stroke her long dirty blonde hair. I want to soothe her.

  I close my eyes and try to relax. It feels so different having a woman in my bed, even if there's nothing sexual about it. A naked woman, my body reminds me. Her skin is soft beneath my fingertips. I can almost wrap my arms all the way around her, my fingers resting near the side of her breasts. A lecherous thought runs through my mind that I want to touch them, and with it, my cock surges to full attention.

  I know she can feel it. I expect her to pull away, but instead, she lets out a tiny moan and presses even closer to me, her injured leg reaching over my hip. Come leaks from my tip, knowing it's so near to her sex. Knowing that clothes are the only thing separating me from being inside of her.

  This is torture. My body is alive in ways that it hasn't been in years, and I can't even act on it. Can I?

  Would she push me away if I made a move? I did save her, after all. Though that in no way obligates her to sleep with me.

  Maybe I'm reading too far into things. I know it's cold in the cabin. Hell, I'm cold, and I have clothes on. She probably really did just come to me for warmth. She must have been desperately cold to have been driven this far. But she doesn't feel cold.

  I press my fingers into her flesh. No, she's not as cold as I thought she would be. And there's no good reason for her to be wrapping herself around me like this, especially when she's injured. She must want me.

  And I want her.

  It's strange to want something I haven't wanted for so long. Something I could have had with countless other women but was easily able to pass up. I'm not sure why I want it now. Maybe my impending death is making me yearn for last times. But I really don't think that's it.

  I crush her against me and nuzzle my face into her hair, breathing in the scent of strawberries and fresh snow. I'm not sure if I'm looking for some kind of release from what I'm feeling or trying to fall deeper into it. Again, I expect her to pull away, but she doesn't. A contented sigh leaves her lips. Lips I desperately want to kiss. No doubt, my cock is making a wet stain on my underwear right now.

  My heart is pounding in my chest. My fingers are itching to explore her body. To fall the few inches it would take to grope her breasts. To have those two perfect handfuls. To pinch and tweak her nipples. They're already beaded. I can feel them pressing hard against my shirt. I want to lick them and suck on them and tease them until she's writhing beneath me. Then I want to taste her cunt. Make it nice and warm with my mouth. And then I want her to give me the warmth of her pussy wrapped around my cock. Squeezing me as she comes all over my dick.

  Fuck. I mouth the word, feeling like a junky needing his fix. For all of my desire, I can't force myself to do anything about it. We're stuck in this cabin together for at least one more night after tonight. I don't want to violate her and then for things to be awkward between us. I need to have some fucking self-control.

  I grit my teeth, resting my chin on top of Ivy's head to escape her scent. I think of everything disgusting in the world. Things that sexually repulse me so that maybe I can drive these intense primal urges away. As a last ditch effort, I try to force myself to think of the war. Normally, I wouldn't go that far, but I'm too scared that I'll act on my impulses if I feel like this for much longer. No matter what I try though, my thoughts keep drifting back to her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IVY

  It feels like I'm trapped in a vice grip of muscle and flesh. I should feel smothered, but I don't. I like being in Kit's arms. He's big and warm and strong. And sexy. So sexy. Masculine perfection.

  I dreamed of what could have been last night. Hours of him rutting between my legs, taking my virginity and making me his forever. Reality feels a lot colder, despite being in his embrace.

  As I stare at his face, his eyes closed in sleep, I realize that I don't know anything about him. Maybe I crossed some invisible line by asking if I could sleep beside him. He could have a girlfriend or a wife. That would definitely explain why nothing has happened between us yet.

  I could feel his erection pressing hard against me, but he never acted on it. Any other guy would have fucked me without a second thought. Kit is a true gentleman, and that makes him even more desirable.

  I carefully slide out from under his arm and go to stoke the fire. As soon as I push the blanket aside, the cold reminds me of my nakedness. I quickly divert to check on my clothes. My pants are in shreds. My shirt and jacket aren't in much better condition. At least, my panties are dry.

  I put them and my bra on. I can't exactly be wandering around naked.

  After stoking the fire, I check my wounds. My ankle is still sore and swollen. I can barely put my weight on it, but I'm still able to hobble around. I got lucky with the bite on my arm. It's already beginning to heal. It's my leg I'm dreading looking at.

  I sit on the floor and peel the bandages away, hissing as they pull lightly on the sutures. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. The wound is clean. It should heal fine with the right care. Hopefully, the scarring will be minimal.

  I decide to save Kit the burden and dress the wound myself. His medical kit is on the table, and it has everything I need. Just standing while I doctor myself makes my ankle hurt. I think about how well those pain meds worked last night and wonder if he has anymore. My eyes dance across the floor to his backpack. Would it be a violation of his privacy if I went through it? It's not like I would be snooping.<
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  I consider my options for a few minutes. I could wake Kit, but I'd feel bad robbing him of sleep. Alternatively, I could wait the pain out until he rises on his own, but who knows how long that will take. I feel like yesterday I suffered enough for a lifetime. I deserve some relief. Besides, it's not like I won't have an excuse if he catches me rummaging through his backpack. He knows I'm in pain.

  I hobble over to where it's lying and sit on the floor before pulling it to me. The material of the bag is worn and pliable. It's been used a lot. Briefly, I wonder if he's taken it on missions with him.

  I unzip it as quietly as possible. The wind beating against the cabin helps to drown the sound out some. Now that I'm actually listening, it's a miracle that either of us ever got to sleep. The snow's song is loud, whistling and thudding.

  I open the bag and look inside, my eyes narrowing in confusion at the sheer amount of prescription bottles. There must be at least ten, though I don't bother counting. Who his age could possibly need this much medication? Maybe he was injured on duty or something.

  I start sifting through the bottles, looking for anything I recognize. It's mostly an assortment of depression and anxiety medication. I glance back at Kit, wondering what he's been through. Post-traumatic stress disorder is pretty common with people in the military. My uncle used to tell me stories about when a bomb exploded next to him. He still has shrapnel in his back from it. I don't remember seeing any major scars on Kit's body, not that I got much of a look.

  Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I find a bottle of hydrocodone. I'm not sure if that's what Kit gave me last night, but I know it's a painkiller and should do the job. I pop a pill in my mouth and follow it with a few gulps of water before going to sit by the fire to wait for Kit to wake up.

  Time passes with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. I wonder how far off the trail we are. If there was a guardian angel watching over me that brought me here. What happens after this? Maybe I'll write a book about my experience. Or maybe I won't. I tried writing a vampire romance novel a few years back but only got two chapters in before abandoning the project. That was one of three books I started writing but never finished. Being an author probably isn't my calling.