“I like this soap,” Taylor informed him when Will popped the shower door to join him in the creamy citrus-scented steam. They were late getting ready for dinner with Tara and James, but neither felt like rushing.

“I thought you would.” Will slid his hands up Taylor’s slippery torso and pulled him close. “I bought it with you in mind.”

“Oh yeah?” Taylor was grinning, shower drops clinging to the tips of his long eyelashes. He looked happy and contented, pliable in Will’s hands as Will backed him toward the white tiled wall. “What else did you have in mind?”

“I think it’s going to have to wait till after dinner.” All the same, Will bent his head and pressed his mouth to Taylor’s shoulder. He tried to avoid looking at the mangled skin from the bullet scar on the right side of Taylor’s chest—not because Taylor minded the scars, but because Will did.

Taylor tasted like wet skin and French soap. Will wanted to inhale him. He wanted to fuck him into next week. He had to remind himself they were already late. Taylor wasn’t helping. His warm breath gusted against Will’s ear. His hands rested on Will’s shoulders, kneading tight muscles with his long, strong fingers.

He murmured, “Why are you so tense?”

Will’s arms instinctively closed around Taylor’s slick, lean body, holding him tight for a moment.

Taylor laughed. “Will?” He stilled. He pushed back, tossing his wet hair and scrutinizing Will. “What’s wrong?”

Will shook his head. He even managed a sheepish smile. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.” His gaze automatically dropped to Taylor’s scarred chest. Not as bad as he remembered. The scars were fading, silvering beneath the scrollwork of fine black hair.

“Will,” Taylor said again, only this time he sounded weary.

“I just have a bad feeling,” Will admitted. “You asked. I’m telling you. I’ve got a bad feeling in my gut every time I think of you going to I—”

“Goddamn it.” Taylor’s face was sharp with anger. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t say that.” He let go of Will, pounding the tile above Will’s head with his right hand. “We weren’t going to talk about this!”

Will shook his head. He grabbed the soap and began to lather up.

Taylor continued to stand there, water running down his face and chest in rivulets.

“You want me to lie?” Will snapped.

“I want you to shut the fuck up about it!”

For an instant they glared at each other while the warm, soft water beat down around them.

I’m going to lose him if I don’t stop this. But what could he say? He wasn’t going to lie. Every time he thought about the future, about Taylor flying off to Iraq, that cold, sick crawling started in his guts. Will didn’t believe in premonition, but what the hell else could you call it?