Minutes to Burn

Chapter 38

Something about the humidity made Szabla come alive. The air was a blend of moisture and warmth. Sex, heat, and danger were indistinguishable from one another in the tropics, separate movements of the same dance. The rain started, slow, warm, and building, pasting a few wayward strands of hair to her cheeks.

Alone, she sat on the log, keeping an eye on the night. The larva and Derek's violent behavior had thrown her for a loop; she'd found it diffi-cult to settle into sleep. She wasn't the only one with insomnia-Tucker lay on his sleeping pad behind the tents, charting the constellations in a spare log book, and she could see Derek's silhouette shifting around in his and Cameron's tent.

Having sat on her shoulder in the hot sun all day, the solar cell was fully charged. Szabla removed it from her shoulder, the Velcro giving with a tear, and snapped it into a clunky, olive-drab elbow light. They'd brought only non-tactical lights; despite its interchangeable lenses, the unit gave a broad, bright signature.

Tilting back her head, she let the rain fall into her mouth. Her cam-mies and tank top were molded against the curves of her body. She was as wet as if she'd just stepped out of a shower, the rainwater pouring over her face, drenching her hair, even pooling in her jungle boots.

She flipped the light and caught it by the end. The sound of the rain was soothing and ineffably exciting. She was oddly aware of each muscle in her body-the ripples of her stomach, the solid curve of her thighs, the divot that split her deltoid when she raised her arm. She jerked her neck to one side, and it cracked all the way from the base. The wet tank top clung to her chest, forced out by the points of her nipples.

She thought about Savage's body, hard and untan. The thin patch of hair across his chest. She'd caught him looking at her a few times, staring at her mouth until she could almost feel it growing hot under his eyes. She bent her head to the top of her biceps, licking the beads of water.

They were salty with the ocean mist, even up here in the highlands. She lowered a hand, pressing it down the slope of her stomach.

She rose suddenly and walked to Savage's tent, ducking inside. He was sleeping peacefully on his Therm-a-Rest. Szabla pulled her shirt over her head, quietly removed her boots, and then stepped out of her pants, one leg, then the other.

Savage's eyes remained closed, his breathing constant.

She crossed naked to the sleeping pad and sealed his mouth, pressing her palm firmly over it. He struggled awake, one hand shooting to his knife like a reflex, but she was already working at his pants and had him out. He was hard from sleep.

His eyes widened as he recognized her, and he froze, blade pushing against the soft flesh of her bruised neck. She sat on him with a shudder, arching her back. She saw herself from far away, her knees pushing into the pad on either side of him, her hand clamped down over his lips, her teeth biting the inside of her cheek. She worked on him quickly, vio-lently, the blade against her throat, her hand pressed over his mouth the entire time.

He was pinned down so tight he couldn't even react to her move-ments, but she felt him building as she came, biting even harder on her cheek as her hips rotated with a mind all their own.

She pulled herself up off him, her throat leaving the blade, and he gasped for air when she removed her hand. His pants loose at his hips, hand still stretched upward holding the blade, he looked around as if trying to figure out where he was, what had happened. She got dressed with her back to him, then turned calmly, amused by his shocked expression. A thin scratch, beaded with two tiny drops of blood, stretched across her throat where the knife had been.

"Thanks, soldier," she said, not untenderly. She ducked through the flap and disappeared into the rain.