It was his charm and strength and confidence that had first attracted her, and that dreaming thing, but now that she could sense something hidden, his weaknesses were becoming increasingly obvious. She knew about Linda, indeed had nursed him through recovery. But there were darker secrets within him, guilt and melancholy that were becoming increasingly difficult for him to hide and for her to ignore. She would do almost anything for him, but he had to do something for himself, too.
She couldn't carry his burden any longer. She didn't care about a former lover, what in the world did she have to do with his life before they ever met? But she would not let their life together be spoiled by a third party. Even if it meant losing him.
More than anything, she wanted to feel him touch her, not only with his hands. She wanted their bodies to pretzel together, she needed the Vulcan mind-meld that happened on their best linkages. But, knowing it wasn't going to happen that way tonight, Martika knew she had to sleep alone. Without him. And, goddamn it, without her. Even if she is dead.
He lay on the couch, staring at the door, dreading the breach in his Good Guy Suit that Martika had at last detected. He couldn't sleep, not after Linda's visit and certainly not after he'd driven a wedge between himself and Martika. Well, he hadn't done it himself. It was Linda, really. Why wouldn't she just leave him the fuck alone? He couldn't let her push Martika away.
He just looked at the door, saw the little slice of light underneath go out, and remembered the feel of Martika against him.
It hurt Martika to sleep apart from him. Just knowing that he was on the other side of her closed door felt wrong, as if she were punishing a child for hurting himself. The bed felt too big, too empty, but she lay in it, knowing that she was right this time. She could only see clearly from a distance.
She looked at the door, could hear his even breathing. She knew what his breath felt like against her ear, his scent still lingering on her pillow. She was tired, worn out but wired. Her eyes flickered and the bed did a high-seas dance as she watched the closed door.
She pressed her thighs together, flexing the muscles, wishing her legs were wrapped around him. The area between remembered him and was wet. She wished they had finished, and she drew her legs up against her chest. She wasn't about to touch herself.
As the bed swam, the door opened, revealing his silhouette in a wedge of moonlight. She couldn't speak, though she felt she ought to turn him away. He stood strong and tall and naked. And he spoke.
"I really do love you, you know. And I don't want to fuck that up."
He came closer to the bed, kneeled on it. She wanted to say "not now," but her voice wouldn't work. She wanted to stop him because she knew she should, but she wanted him the way he was and the way they were.
"I need you, Martika."
He'd never said that before, though she'd craved hearing it.
And he lay behind her fetal ball, spooning from behind. He kissed her back, his hands strong, working their way in a walking massage that began at her neck and led to her ass. He followed his hands with his mouth and reached around to feel the front of her.
She was gratified that he didn't reach first for her breasts, as every man before him had. He caressed her face, her shoulders, her stomach, and by the time he discovered her goose-pimpling breasts, he found them wanting and pointed. He turned her onto her back and tasted her. She sat up in front of him, and he nursed.
She wished she had milk to feed him, but all she could give were body and soul. And they were his. He rolled her onto her back, grabbing her wrists and holding them tight against the bed, and she opened up to him, wrapped around him, and clenched him, rocking, in her vise as he took her. She rolled him over, taking control for the moment, thrusting him into her as deep as she could take it. They gave and took and gave and took, the overpowering becoming the overpowered, and met in the fabled Land of Climax with a heaving sigh.
And she dared open her eyes, knowing even before she saw that she was alone. The bastard had dreamt all over her again.
He stared at the door, the puppet master of dreamland, hoping he'd made things right. He felt like Barbara Cartland or one of those gothic pulp novelists, creating breathy women's romances of seduction and submission, and the guilt bore on him. Martika deserved more than that. So he had let her get on top for a moment before being overcome. He knew what she liked by now, he hoped.
He waited on the couch for her invitation to return to the bed. The dreams always woke her up. He didn't wait long. The door opened, and she stood there in her chenille robe. That wasn't a good sign. He'd hoped to see her naked.
"You don't play fair."
He knew that. He would if he could… but he didn't know any other way. She stayed in the doorway, keeping her distance.
"It used to be that way for real, you know." Her tone was wistful, yet broken. Caved in. "A long time ago…"
"I want it to be that way again," he said. "It can be."
"I don't know. I'd like to think so. But when things start to slide, I don't know if they ever get better." And then, hopefully, because she wanted it, too: "Do they?"
"They can with us."
She took a deep breath, gathering the strength to say it, to take her position and stand her ground.
"Not as long as you keep Linda alive."
She expected a defensive reaction, but got silence instead. He was actually considering what she'd said. He looked so hurt that she wanted to hold his hand and apologize… but she realized she'd done nothing wrong.
"I know how hard it was; I know what you saw. But you're with me now. You say you love me; you used to show me."
He looked up and their eyes locked. "I'm sorry. I do love you. And I need you. More than anyone before. Linda is gone."
She wanted to believe him, saw new strength in his eyes. No, the old strength, the confidence. Now, if only he would come to her and show her he meant what he said.
He stood up and went to her, taking her in his arms. "I don't want to lose you."
He wouldn't.
They embraced, they went to bed, they made love, and the clouds behind his pupils parted. He was home.
In the afterglow, he refused to roll off and surrender to the sleep that dogged him. He could see she was watching him, almost dared to call her expression inscrutable, but she would have slapped him for it. Even though she'd have laughed afterward, she'd have meant it.
He tried to read her face. "What?"
"See? You didn't have to dream on me."
"I think maybe I did. This time."
He watched her consider that for a moment. "Please don't dream on me unless I ask for it. Okay?"
"Okay. I love you."
"Parrot fashion…"
She watched him fall asleep.
The defenses tumbled, and his youthful, unlined face cried innocence. He lost a good ten years as he slept, and every experience that lined his visage fled. He was newly minted in repose.
But now Martika was wide awake. Wasn't that always the way? He conked, she buzzed. It was hard not to resent it, but, of course, it wasn't his fault. She lay on her side and watched him sleep; his breathing was deep and even, with a light whistle through the hairs in his nostrils. He fell deep and quick. His eyes did a REM dance under their lids. His hand spasmed; he was dreaming.
She could only wonder what he dreamt. He swallowed, his hand clutched, jerked, scratched her, so she pulled away. His breathing came harder, and the breath deepened, soon dropping down into a trancelike hum, just like during the best times they made love… just like only half an hour ago.