August 1999

As Stacy peered at her wristwatch, her bare foot tapped against the slick tiles of the bathroom floor, matching the pace of her watch's second hand. Steam billowed and rolled out of the shower, coating the walls with a film of condensation. It fogged the mirror mounted above the sink, the glass face of Stacy's watch. She could no longer distinguish the watch's second hand, and her foot lost its guide, but continued its rhythm.

That evening, Stacy had giddily greeted Greg with news, leaping onto the bed beside him and launching into a breathless account of her afternoon. "Schneider had to go out of town. Some kind of family emergency," she'd said, bouncing on the mattress. "He was supposed to lead a panel discussion at the NLA Conference in Denver, but he can't, obviously, and Kinsley asked me to take his place." She had paused for a micro-breath, ignored Greg's frown, and shifted off the bed to retrieve her suitcase from the closet. "This will probably raise my chances for a promotion. It's such a good opportunity. My flight leaves tonight. I have to go in about an hour, hour and a half." Greg's mouth had dumbly opened, then snapped closed. She'd kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry all of this is so last-minute. I'll just pack and have a quick shower, and we'll eat dinner before I go. I think there are some left-over-"

Before she'd finished her sentence, Greg had catapulted himself from the bedroom to the bathroom and had defiantly taken root under the spray of the shower. He had refused to budge for thirty-five minutes.

Thirty-six minutes.

Now, beyond the shower curtain, Greg casually hummed the chorus of "I Want Your Sex", his water-wrinkled forefinger peeking above the curtain rod to point in her direction.

"Irresistible," Stacy mumbled, a soft sigh accompanying her eye-roll. "Five minutes, George Michael, or I'm telling the utility company to shut off our water."

Greg's hum disappeared, and, several seconds later, the shower curtain shifted to reveal his face. Soap suds clung to the hair along his temples. Water fell from his chin and the tip of his nose, spattering the bathmat. "No," he said. "You need to tell Mr. Tight-Ass at your office that-"

"Greg."

"Sorry," he snapped-nothing in his tone approached apologetic-and closed the curtain. "Mr. Tight-Ass, Esquire."

"You know," Stacy said, her fingertips rubbing high on her forehead, "it's not actually correct to use a prenominal form of address and 'Esquire'."

"It's also not actually 'correct' to wash your face with apricot extract and pulverized walnut shells in first-world countries."

With a noisy sigh, Stacy threw open the curtain and discovered Greg studying a handful of her facial scrub. "It's fine," she hissed, swatting at his hand. The scrub flowed from his palm, into the drain, and Stacy watched it disappear before she gathered her patience and said, "Come on, Greg. Out of the shower."

He ignored her, his attention turned to the water-ribbons curving around his forearm.

Stacy shook her head, eyes flickering toward the ceiling with exasperation, before darting for the shower knob.

As the water slowed to a stop, Greg glowered at her from beneath wet, clustered eyelashes. "You do realize that I could turn this"-he pointed at the showerhead-"back on, right?"

Pursing her lips, she lunged forward to cover his head with a towel and slapped his ass with an open palm, smiling with satisfaction at the sound of his sharp, surprised yelp. "Out," she ordered, backpedaling toward the sink and out of his reach.

Stacy prepared for a counter-attack-a taunt, a retort, a dirty innuendo, the crack-sting of the towel on her thigh-and she raised her eyebrows, surprised, when Greg dropped his head, draped his towel over his shoulders, and quietly stepped out of the shower. A deep furrow developed between his eyebrows, and he breathed a soft sigh before scrubbing his hair with his towel. His silence and his resigned obedience raised a mass of red flags in Stacy's brain, and she chewed on her bottom lip as her eyes swept over his body, studying him.

He slumped where he stood, his skin, red from the heat of the water, stretching over the curve of his back. Overhead light reflected in the sheen of moisture that covered him, casting highlights on his body and defining the lines of his shoulders, the curves of muscle in his chest. Stray water droplets rolled from his hair and pooled along his collarbone. Stacy flexed her fingers. She fought against the desire to trace each vein of water, dragging her fingertips from his throat to his hips, and make him arch into her hands. She hugged her own body instead, her arms crossing over her ribcage, while Greg secured his towel around his waist, raising his face to glance at her.

Silence loomed in the thick, humid air, and Stacy offered him a half-smile before turning to retrieve her toiletry bag from the linen closet. As she dropped her facial scrub into the bag, she heard Greg softly clear his throat.

"You said you were going to shower," he said.

Stacy sidled into the narrow space between him and the edge of the sink, and set her toothbrush inside her bag. Behind her, Greg stood so close that she could smell him. The natural scent of him fused with the fragrances of his soap and deodorant-neither had changed since she met him-and, together, forged the subtle, unique smell that Stacy could recognize with her eyes closed. The smell that clung to their bed sheets and his clothes, the smell that could draw her out of sleep and cause her to curl her body around him, nestle her face in the curve of his neck. She faced him, leaning within a hair's breadth of his skin, and breathed the air around him. All of it was warm, saturated with him.

"I changed my mind," she answered, speaking as she exhaled, and peered at his face. "I'll shower at the hotel."

"You're going to hate it," he said, loosely winding his arm around her waist.

"The shower?"

"The conference." He toyed with the hem of her shirt. His fingernail scratched along the line of thread. "It'll be boring. You'll waste four days of your life listening to morons read mediocre publications about information you already know."

"You think I'm going to stick around for all those presentations? No way," she replied, mustering a smile that he didn't return. "Not when the science museum has a special exhibition about the Greek Isles. And there's a zoo. I like zoos."

Greg's hand slid up her back, and he curled a strand of her hair around his finger. "Philadelphia has a zoo," he said, almost hopeful. "We could go. Won't even drag you to the Small Mammal House."

"That's very thoughtful, but-"

His hands suddenly fell to his sides with a slap, and he suddenly burst with the words that, Stacy guessed, he had been withholding since she had delivered her news. "You don't see a problem with this situation?"

Stacy blinked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You don't see a problem with the fact that you're expected to come running more than half-way across the country with less than a day's notice?" he blurted. "What if you had, I don't know, plans? Your boss can't shove plane tickets at you and expect you to drop everything without any consideration for-" Greg pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "For anything else."

"The hospital expects you to come running whenever your pager goes off," she scoffed. "Talk about short notice."

"That's different," he said. "No one at this conference is going to drop dead if you don't show up."

"Fine, it's not the same, but your job isn't the only one that's important, Greg. This is a good opportunity for me." She paused to gather her resolve. Her tone was soft, but firm, and she met his eyes directly when she spoke. "I've already committed myself to this."

Greg fell silent and searched her eyes before casting his gaze to the floor. Stacy noticed the furrow reappearing between his eyebrows, saw the forced movement of his Adam's apple. She reached out for him as he turned away from her, catching his hands and pulling him back to her. When he returned to stand in front of her, she ran her hands up his arms and over his shoulders, gliding smoothly against his freshly-showered skin. Her fingers threaded through his hair, and she breathed a sigh, relieved, as his eyes fell closed and his head tilted into her touch.

"Honey, I-"

"Get out of it," he whispered.

Repressing a frustrated groan, she butted his shoulder once and raised her head. For a man who lived by a creed of logic, she thought, he was beginning to lead her in circles. "Greg."

"Tell them you're sick. They'll find someone else. You're not the only lawyer in your office."

"Are you going to write me a doctor's note?"

"I could," he said, a hint of a grin on his face as he pressed his forehead against hers, the damp spikes of his hair collapsing against her head.

Stacy laughed softly, sliding her hands out of his hair to rest on his shoulders. As she gently rolled her wrists, massaging the tension out of his muscles, a beam of light caught the face of her wristwatch, and thoughts of packing her luggage, catching her flight, rushed to the forefront of her mind. She dropped her hands from his shoulders, glancing at her watch. "Greg, I have to-"

Greg's eyes snapped open, and his hand closed over her wrist, covering her watch with his palm. "Stop, Stacy. Just stop." His breaths rushed quickly out of his mouth, and his fingers moved restlessly over the underside of her wrist. "You don't want to go. I know you don't want to go." He paused for a fast, wavering breath. "I don't want you go." He met her eyes, his gaze holding steady before he blinked, then shut his eyes entirely.

Her lungs, her heart, felt physically constricted as she forced a stuttering breath out of her body. She cupped his face in her hands, lifting his chin to urge him to open his eyes and look at her. "Greg," she said, her thumbs ghosting over his cheekbones, before curling her arms around his shoulders and pulling him forward, pressing him against her. "I'll be gone for four days, not four months."

Words meant to reassure him seemed to have the opposite effect; his breathing accelerated in her ear and his head shook vigorously. She held him tightly, raising one hand to the back of his head to stroke his hair in an attempt to calm him, calm herself. His head still shook when he lowered it to drop open-mouthed kisses on her neck. He gripped her hips, curving his palms over the points of her pelvic bone and pulling her closer.

Stacy wanted to ask him what was wrong. She wanted to ask him why, of all the times they had been apart, this time was so different, but the touch of his mouth, his hands, derailed most of her words. She stuttered when she tried to speak. "I've-Greg, I've had to-had to go away before, and you've been fine. Why is this-"

Before she could finish her question, Greg's mouth closed over hers, jolting her with a raw, urgent kiss. Hot air streamed out of his nostrils and over her face as his tongue hurried into her mouth. He grasped her back, her arms, her waist, each subsequent press of his hands more aggressive, more insistent. He sucked on her top lip, his tongue sliding across it before darting into her mouth again. As Stacy met his kiss, she strained for air, her thoughts scrambling as she tried to remember if she had ever seen him this frantic, this desperate before.

Conflicting emotions nearly tugged her into separate pieces, her body caught in a tug-of-war between her professional and personal life. As Greg pulled back from her mouth to breathe, his arms wrapping around her waist to hug her to him, Stacy wondered if this was how he felt whenever a late-night page interrupted a lazy, movie-rental night, or forced him to untangle their bodies, dress in the dark, and leave for the hospital as she slept. Despite the nagging knowledge that she should nudge him away and finish packing, leave before she no longer could, her arms tightened around his shoulders, clutching at him, a warm thrill rushing through her with the realization that he wanted her-needed her-like this. It had been a long time since he'd spontaneously attacked her with such strong desire, and she couldn't, for the life of her, put a stop to it. Her fingers closed around a fistful of his hair, arching her neck and pulling his head low. She held him there until his lips, his tongue, pressed against her skin. Her breathing skipped as his fingers curled around the hem of her shirt. His mouth returned to her neck, kissing over her pulse-point, once her shirt, then her bra, skidded into the hallway. He frantically unzipped her skirt and stripped her completely, planting fast, hot kisses over her stomach before rising to stand. Stacy pressed herself against him before he reached for her, trying to force thoughts of her flight and the conference out of her mind. Her hips pushed against him. She felt the warmth of his erection through the damp cotton of his towel as his hips canted forward.

"Oh, God, Greg." Her hands slid down his back and clutched his ass through his towel to pull him flush against her, fanning her desire for him.

Greg groaned softly, his mouth opening against her cheekbone, just beside her ear. He pushed her hair away from her face, breathing quickly, and whispered, "Stay with me."

She wished the world could condense to him-his body, his voice, and, God, his kisses-and the flight, the conference, the possible promotion could all fall away. She knew they wouldn't-they couldn't-but, in the span of forty-five minutes, they had transformed into obstacles, live obstacles that tripped her as she tried to leap them. She drew an unsteady breath and shut her eyes. "Greg, I can't."

In the next moment, Stacy wondered if her body was, in fact, splitting into separate pieces. As her own words resounded loudly in her brain, her body rebelled, her arms squeezed Greg's body tightly enough to force air out of him. She worried, for a second, that she'd hurt him, but the concern passed as his hips rolled against her. Pleasure flared in her belly as his erection passed over her clit, and, leaning against the basin of the sink, she curled one leg around his hip, pulling his body closer.

She whimpered as he lowered her leg, confusion etching lines in her forehead. When he pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered her name, she swallowed her whimper, barely managing to utter a response. "Yeah?"

"Turn around."

Stacy's breath hitched so hard, it shook her. The protest that left her was obligatory, halfhearted, and went unfinished. "I need to-I can't-"

Dismissing her words, he stepped backwards, grasped her hands, and spun her slowly. His arms folded across her, tugging her against his body. Once her head rested against his shoulder, his hands slid low; one splayed over her stomach, pressing gently, while the other applied more pressure, fingers spread over her thigh. His lips brushed her temple as he spoke, his voice hoarse, "I know you'd rather sleep in our bed than in some strange, lonely hotel room with itchy blankets and basic cable."

"Yes," she whispered, her hands curling into fists, as his middle finger slid between her legs and touched her, lightly and slowly. "Yes."

"Then stay."

A raw, piercing ache raged through her body. She wasn't entirely certain if it was borne of the knowledge that, soon, she would have to leave him, or of the fierce, consuming need to feel him move inside her. She shut her eyes, and her voice trembled when she started to speak. "Greg, I ca-"

"Don't say you can't," he said, dropping a kiss into the curve of her neck and slipping his finger inside her.

Stacy moaned softly, reaching behind him and splaying her hand over the small of his back. She pressed, her arm straining, until his hips surged forward and his erection rubbed against her.

"Greg. God, I want to-I want-"

Behind her, Greg lifted his head. His body stilled. Stacy felt the beat of his heart against her back. When she raised her eyes to the mirror in front of her, she glanced at his reflection and found him staring, waiting. Slowly, she slid her hand from his back to his hip. She unraveled his towel, listening as it fell onto the floor, and closed her fingers around his shaft.

Greg shuddered, exhaling with a quiet groan. He dropped a line of kisses across her shoulder as his hand slid from between her legs and settled between her shoulder blades. Stacy's breath stalled as he pressed gently, silently urging her to bend forward. Anticipation swelled in her chest, and she braced her hands on the edge of the sink, already rocking backwards with the hope of feeling him against her.

When his hand lifted from her back, she raised her head, glancing into the mirror. Her eyelids fluttered, but stayed open, her eyes focused on Greg's face when his hips pressed forward, his erection slipping between her legs. Heat surged off his skin like a solar flare, and Stacy pushed into each touch, each burn of his body. His hand closed around her hip, trapping a layer of heat. The head of his penis painted hot, thick strokes over her sensitive skin. She noticed Greg's gaze flicker into the mirror, his eyes soft and his expression tender, before he pulled her body towards him and slid smoothly, completely inside her.

Before she closed her eyes, Stacy watched a wave of pleasure wash over Greg's face. His eyes closed as his mouth opened. His head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat as he uttered a long, stuttering groan. She bowed her head and listened, her heart skipping with the knowledge that, after all their time together, she could still draw that sound out of him, that she could please him. She pressed back against him, and her fingers pinched the walls of the sink with a vise-like grip, the ache in her knuckles barely registering. Her ears filled with her own voice as he withdrew, her sigh turning to a deep, content moan when he filled her again. Greg leaned forward, wrapping his arm around her waist, and held her so tightly that Stacy wondered if he feared an escape. He pushed deeply into her, rocking with a slow lullaby rhythm. He paused at the end of each stroke, his whole erection inside her, and pressed soft kisses over her spine. She could feel everything.

Sounds echoed, leaping off the damp, beaded walls and amplifying their groans, their breaths. Greg drew shallow, quiet breaths, and Stacy looked into the mirror to glimpse his face. She reached toward the mirror and touched the surface, tracing his reflection and leaving smudges on the glass. Her fingertips slid against the image of his face, following the lines of his eyebrows, his lips, and trailed down his chest. The glass was cool, too perfectly smooth, and Stacy wanted to feel Greg's warmth, the texture of his skin, the fine hair on the nape of his neck. Leaning back, she reached around him to spread one hand over his neck and the base of his head, several fingertips sliding into his hair. Her other hand curled around his forearm that rested over her stomach.

As she touched him, she fixed her eyes on their reflections, glancing from her own body to Greg's. Stacy's heart thundered under his free hand as it traced a broad line from her neck to her ribcage, his fingers spread wide. He cupped her breasts, squeezing gently before playing with her nipples. Stacy tracked the path of his hand down her body, seeing it descend past the bottom edge of the mirror and out of sight. As his knuckles dragged across her hips, she watched their bodies moving together. Usually, she could only see him. Admittedly, she loved to watch him, to absorb the expressions on his face, to follow the movements of his body, the shifting and flexing of his muscles. But this, the sight of the two of them, made Stacy's heart feel enormous in her chest. She felt taken with love for him, a breath blustering out of her so strongly that she realized she had forgotten to breathe.

Stacy lost sight of him, bowing her head, as Greg touched her clit, rubbing in time with his slow, steady thrusts. She drew his head down to the curve of her neck, her fingers burrowing into his hair. She waited until he pushed all the way inside her, and clenched down on him. His body jerked, his finger skipped on her clit, and his muffled groan vibrated against the skin. He applied more pressure to her clit, more speed. Stacy tried desperately to store all of it in her mind, wanting to remember his voice, his touch, the feel and movements of his body. She wanted to recall it tomorrow as she touched herself, her legs spread on a hotel mattress, her own fingers a poor substitute for his body.

As if to prove her right, Greg readjusted his footing, secured his hold on her, and moved within her faster, a little harder. Her body bent like a bowstring, arching and tightening with pleasure. She felt surrounded by him, aware of the press of his body against her back, his forearm across her stomach, his mouth against her shoulder. He dropped kiss after kiss, pushing hard. Stacy shut her eyes, meeting his thrusts as well as she could. A flush of heat spread from her cheeks to her breasts. The burn between her legs compressed, and she hiccupped his name between moans, her fingers flexing around his arm.

He urged her on between fast, heavy breaths, dropping his voice and whispering close to her ear. "That's it. That's it." A kiss landed on the side of her neck. "Come on, sweetheart, that's it."

Stacy heard the echo of his voice as she came, the hot pressure between her legs flooding outward. Bright, tingling sparks fired into her belly, down her legs. Her knees locked, muscles tightened. She felt her hands shaking, one slipping against the surface of the sink, the other holding fast to Greg's arm.

Greg followed her quickly, and she hurried to look into the mirror as his voice, low and quiet, reached her ears.

"Oh, God, Stace," he shuddered, his head tipping back, his eyes closing tightly. "Stacy. Oh."

Stacy focused on his face as he came, groping for his hand. She frantically interlaced their fingers, her breath hitching when he squeezed her hand. Behind her, his body tensed with strain, jerking with his orgasm. She returned his squeeze, pressing their joined hands between her breasts until he collapsed and leaned heavily on her back.

She could feel the tacky stick of his forehead on her shoulder, but she didn't ask him to move. Greg stayed inside her, both arms curled around her as their heartbeats slowed. After a long moment, Stacy felt him draw a deep, relaxed breath, his chest rising and falling against her.

Her breaths left her quickly, skirting the jagged lump in her throat. She glanced at the top of his head in the mirror, reaching over her shoulder to lace her fingers through his hair. She wanted to tell him that she could stay. She wanted to take his hand, lead him to bed, and lie with him in rich, orange, summer hues until the sun set, imagining the far-away dot of a plane blinking and moving across the sky without her.

She knew she couldn't stay.

Stacy turned her head and, in a voice she barely recognized, whispered, "Greg, I don't want to, but I-"

His arms tightened around her, and he ground his forehead against her. "Don't," he said.

"I have to," she said, restlessly smoothing the hairs on his arm. Her voice broke when she added, "Honey."

"Stacy."

She couldn't find her voice to reply, and, several seconds later, she felt the soft, resigned thud of his head against her. Another second passed before Greg uncurled his arm from around her, pulled out of her body, and shuffled towards the wall.

Stacy felt an acute sense of loss. She bowed her head low between her shoulders. His semen, thick and wet, slid out of her and down the inside of her thigh, and she shut her eyes tightly. She leaned heavily against the sink until she managed to draw a deep breath, aware of Greg's presence behind her. She bent to gather her clothes and, as she passed him, glanced at his face in time to see his expression fall and his head drop, bobbing gently.

In their bedroom, Stacy forced herself to dress and fix her hair, tying it into a ponytail. She heard Greg exit the bathroom and pad through the hall as she reapplied her eyeshadow, the tiny brush trembling in her fingers. She completed her packing, a heavy weight in her chest, and hauled her bag into the livingroom. She quietly set it near the door.

Greg sat on the couch, dressed in the same t-shirt and boxer-briefs he had worn earlier. He glanced at her with a sullen expression, then turned his eyes back to the television screen without a word.

Stacy plodded into the kitchen. She rummaged the cupboards for a snack and uncovered a pair of granola bars, slipping one into her pocket for later. She tore open the other wrapper, watching as it fell from her hand to the trash. A long strip of paper caught her attention, and she glanced at Greg, frowning, before bending to retrieve her plane ticket from the trash.

Her heart plummeted, nearly dying in her chest, when she realized she wasn't holding her plane ticket. She held their plane tickets. Two, departing tomorrow, for Paris. Stacy forced herself to swallow her bite of granola, wincing as it scratched the inside of her throat. Her fingers gripped the tickets, and she looked over her shoulder at Greg. He flipped through the channels, never settling on one, and twirled a lock of hair at the back of his head.

Uneven breaths sliced into her lungs. She bit her lip, her canine teeth pressing until blood pooled on the smooth membrane under her tongue. Turning her head, she raised a heavy arm to peer at her wristwatch.

With a quiet, strangled sob, Stacy stared into the trash and let their tickets go.