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“Besides, my dear,” he said lightly, “you are presuming that you know my plans. I might have in mind a quiet evening of reading the Bible, drinking whole milk, and watching educational television. ”
“Oh, I’m quite sure,” she laughed.
“My sweet baby,” he murmured, kissing her hair. “What I have in mind is just a chance for you to turn off your brain and relax. ”
She snorted. “Relax? Maybe if I was shot with a tranquillizer dart. ”
“Just happen to have one inside. C’mon, it’s cold out here. ” Taking her good hand, Crow led her inside and nudged the door shut with his foot. He touched her chin and kissed her once, very sweetly. The wind had blown and tangled her dark hair, but she looked wonderful to Crow. He helped her off with her coat and tossed it onto a chair. They stood together just inside the door, in the wide living room, which was lit only by the warm fire crackling in the fireplace. The room was sweet with incense and the darkness was soothing.
“Come with me,” he whispered, and taking her by the hand, he drew her up the long flight stairs to the second floor. She saw, with wonder, that each stair was scattered with rose petals. The third floor was dark except for the spill of golden candlelight coming from the bathroom. Crow led her inside the spacious bathroom and smiled at her gasp of surprise. There were a dozen candles burning quietly, and wisps of jasmine incense wafted through the humid haze of steam rising from the filled and scented tub. A small CD player was playing serenades by Tchaikovsky.
“What’s all this…?” Val begin, but he touched his fingers to her lips to quiet her words. He kissed her again, and then began slowly—very slowly—to undress her. He did it with all the deliberate slowness of a sacred ritual, making the unfastening of each button a special act of beauty. He moved slowly, touching her face, her eyes, her lips with many small kisses that were as light as spring raindrops. He removed her bulky sweater and laid it on a chair, and then tugged the . 45 out of her waistband, making sure not to comment on it as he shoved it under the sweater, and then gently tugged the ends of the blouse from the waistband of her jeans.
Beneath the blouse she was wearing a lacy peach-colored bra. The sensual awareness of the moment had made her nipples hard and they made small tents in the soft cloth of each cup. He set the blouse on the back of a small chair and leaned forward to kiss her bad shoulder, his lips brushing the nearly faded bruises. He knelt in front of her and slowly undid the zipper of her jeans, revealing inch by inch the pale flatness of her stomach, and the edge of panties of the same lacy peach pattern as her bra. Crow slid the pants down her legs, taking long, slow strokes of her legs through the cloth as he gathered them at her ankles. She rested her hands on him for balance as she stepped out of them, and he placed the jeans on the chair on top of the blouse. Reaching up, he unhooked the front closure of her bra and it slid off easily into his hand, he felt the shift of weight as her breasts came free from the material. He rubbed the soft material across his cheek and then lay it over top of her other clothes.
Val tensed, and he saw it, but didn’t acknowledge it. She was never comfortable with being seen in the nude. Years ago Val had wrecked three motorcycles in as many years and each crash had left its marks. She had a four-inch scar across her stomach, a few minor ones on knees and elbows, and a whole bunch of jagged little ones dotting the curved landscape of her left shoulder, left breast, and the upper ribs. Those scars were linked by a few patches of healed burns. Val hated those scars, but Crow thought they were sexy.
In the glow of the candlelight her breasts were golden, except for her nipples, which were as dark as autumn roses. He bent forward to kiss her, only once, between her breasts over her heart, hooking his fingers at the same time in the waistband of her panties. He tugged them down and Val stepped out of them. The puff of dark hair between her legs had once been trimmed into a heart but had not been tended to since before the attack ten days ago; even so the heart shape was still visible and the dark hairs caught the light so that it seemed it was sewn with golden threads.
Crow kissed her stomach. Rising, he took her hand and guided her toward the tub. Val paused, looking uncertain and self-conscious, but Crow gently tugged her hand and she stepped over the rim; he continued to hold her hand as she settled, inch by inch, into the deep, hot water. It was one of the old-fashioned tubs with clawed feet, big enough for Val to stretch out her long, slender legs and immerse all of her body up to the delicate skin of her throat. The water was deliciously hot and a faintness of perfume rose from the mist.
Once she was submerged, she let out her first relaxed sigh.
Reaching over to a small table by the sink, Crow took a cut-crystal wineglass of very dark Shiraz and raised it to her lips. She drank gratefully of the fruity red wine, closing her eyes as she did so. She sank back against the tub and let the waters close over her body.
While she soaked, Crow positioned himself behind her and slowly, deeply began to massage her scalp, feeling where the tension hid and chasing it away with strong, deft fingers. The music soothed her, lulling her into torpor, and Crow gradually slowed the motions of his fingers until they were barely more than a whispery touch. Time drifted past with a dreamy slowness.
After a while, once her skin had soaked up the richness of the water, Crow slipped one hand into a terrycloth mitten. Wetting it, he fetched a bar of scented wheat-and-lavender soap and worked up a good lather; then he helpe
d her to stand up in the tub. Water sluiced down the lovely length of her, and pausing once in a while to kiss her glistening hide, he used the luxurious soap and the gentle roughness of the mitten to wash every inch of her glorious skin. He was diligent in his thoroughness, and then with a large bath ladle he poured water over her to rinse away the soap. He drained most of the water from the tub as he did so and quickly refilled it so that when he helped her down again, she lay in fresh water and that sloshed around her.
With the ladle he soaked her black hair and worked a rich shampoo into it, massaging the gel into her scalp until it foamed with a hearty lather. He used a gentle spray attachment to rinse the suds from her hair, and with a fluffy towel patted the excess wetness from her hair. He bent and pulled the plug from the tub, letting it drain away, rinsing her with the shower attachment until every bubble of soap was gone. Finally all the water was gone and she lay reclining, nude and immaculate, on the slatted wood Japanese grille inside the tub. She made no effort to cover herself with her hands, which Crow took as a good sign. He kept running the clean water for a long time. Then, switching it off, he reached for her and helped her up, wrapping her in a huge oversize towel that had patterns of moons and stars and swirling galaxies.
At first all he did was wrap the towel around her and enfold her in his arms, careful of her shoulder, nuzzling his face in the dampness of her hair. Then he patted her dry, missing no single inch of her skin, and kissing her here and there as he went about his task. When her body was totally dry, he helped her into a silky robe that he’d bought for her that very afternoon. It was a deep electric blue, a perfect color for the paleness of her skin and the deep black of her hair. The thin silk clung to her body in a particularly tantalizing way, and Crow was eminently aware of it.
He blew out the candles and led her out into the hallway, where he paused for a long and lingering kiss. Neither of them had spoken a single word since they’d come upstairs, and neither spoke now. Words seemed pale and weak, the wrong language for this country of soft touches, sweet kisses, and incense-fragrant air. They went downstairs, following the trail of delicate little rose petals to the large living room. The floor was polished hardwood, and the high ceiling was lost in a swirl of shadows. The fire logs were quietly chuckling.
In the center of the floor, Crow spread a thick mat of layered quilts, scattered with pillows, and onto this he lowered her, holding her hand until she was seated comfortably. He used the remote to start the CD player, and Loreena McKennitt began singing sweetly to them from the four speakers placed around the room. Sandalwood incense burned mildly and flavored the air with the aroma of exotic and faraway places, and Crow went around and lit a dozen long tapers, adding their golden glow to the light from the fireplace. There was an ice bucket with two bottles in it; Crow poured white wine for her and Perrier for himself into tall glasses and they lounged there listening to the music. The fireplace was cheerful but subdued, and the candlelight soothing to the mind and the eyes. Time just seemed to swirl, not really moving forward and not standing still. Time just was, and they were, and the moment was golden.
Crow touched her face and she reached and drew him to her, rising until they were an inch apart, both of them on their knees facing one another, bodies only a whisper apart. Crow took her hand and kissed her wrists, her palms, her fingers. He held her hand like a precious thing and kissed each fingertip, and then pressed her palms against his heart. Leaving her hands there, he reached and lightly touched her face, his own fingertips barely touching the softness of her cheeks as he bent to kiss her forehead, her eyes, and finally the sweetness of her mouth. It was such an innocent kiss, despite, or perhaps because of the intense purity of its passion.
He trailed his fingers down until he found the knot of her robe, and with the subtlest tug, the knot yielded and the ends fell away. The folds of the robe parted and candlelight touched her with gold: the curve of one breast, one thigh, the tips of her pubic hair. With infinite slowness and gentleness, he helped her to lie back on the soft mat. The folds of her rob fell in such a way as to cover her, and somehow that made his heart glad, as if all things in this night were conspiring to keep her safe.
Kneeling next to her, he kissed her lovely face and mouth, feeling the heat of her tongue. Her eyes were closed, long lashes sweeping down over her cheeks. Crow couldn’t help looking at her, at the construction of bone and tissue and blood and heat that had combined into such a pattern of loveliness, and he marveled at the fortune that had allowed him to be the caretaker of that loveliness if only for a single night. His lips sought hers again, and then drifted away downward to chin and throat, tasting the different parts of her, the different textures of her. He traced the lines of her collarbones with kisses, as well as the hard flatness of her sternum, and brushed against the upswell of flesh where each breast rose away from her heart. With great care he peeled open the robe and looked at her breasts as if he’d never seen them before, as if beholding some new mystery. They reflected golden light from the candles, and he bent to them, kissing the contours of each, finding the hardness of each nipple and drifting away only to rediscover them again and again, touching the pebbly hardness with the very tip of his tongue.
Val writhed slightly, her back arching as Crow took one nipple in his mouth, his teeth nibbling on it very gently as the tip of his tongue teased the flat tip. The writhing of her body made the robe fall open even more, and he looked down the length of her, past belly and hips, down long legs to the feet and to each pink toe. To his eyes she was a collection of perfect curves and planes and angles, each part correct in its design and in its part of the whole of her. At the inward curve of her left knee he paused and pressed his mouth and teeth against a pressure point, drawing a line of sensation with teeth alone that made her body twist. Then he continued up her leg, kissing the inside of the long, soft, slender thigh, going higher until he could feel the feathery brush of her pubic hair against his cheek. He shifted, turned, and bent to bring his lips gently down onto the dark swirl of hair, drinking in the perfume of her body, the scent of her awakening passion. His lips explored deeper until they touched heat and wetness and softness. Val hissed and moved as his tongue found that tiny rosebud, coaxed it to hardness, and kissed it deeply.
He shrugged out of his own robe and settled down naked on his chest. Both of his hands swept slowly up and down the length of her, touching and exploring as his tongue began it rhythmic dance back and forth, back and forth, slowly at first, then faster as her breath came faster. Val knotted her fingers in his hair and arched her back as the sensations within her began to build and it was not long before the tremor began deep within her. Crow could feel it through his hands, through his tongue, and through every part of his body that was touching hers. It was a faint tremor at first, but it grew quickly, vibrating out from inside of her, blossoming up, becoming real and full and at a certain point, unstoppable. Her hips were bucking now, twisting and shifting under him, and Crow had to hold on to her to maintain that contact, to keep that essential rhythm so that she don’t fall from that peak. When she climbed to the top of that mountain, her whole body arched, froze, held for a long moment, and then there was a release so violent and so total that Crow was buffeted by her. Val managed no words, just a continuous and inarticulate cry of pleasure and sensation. Her fingers knotted and twisted frantically in his hair, pushing Crow’s face against her, forcing a deeper, harder contact until the relentless waves of pleasure begin slowly—very, very slowly—to diminish, each new wave reaching to a lesser peak and settling lower.
As her body began to relax, slumping bonelessly, exhausted for the moment, Crow kissed his way up her stomach, along the straight line of her sternum, up the graceful curve of her throat, and finally to her parted lips. They kissed, tongues darting and dancing, and he took her in his arms and held her, feeling her sweat mingle with his, feeling her breasts crushed against his chest, feeling the hammering of her heart so much in rhythm with his own. Gradually he rolled over onto his back and with infinite gentleness and care, he helped her slide atop him. It was a movement so skillful, so synchronously performed that even as she sat astride him they were joined. They both uttered small, almost inaudible gasps
There was a long time for silence, for doing nothing but holding that position, for maintaining that perfect contact. They lay in the candlelit darkness for a long while, and Crow felt a burning tear land on his cheek. He reached his hand up to touch her face, searching for a troubled frown and finding only a smile, and he knew that the tear was shed for beauty, and not for pain. He immediately felt his own eyes well up, and as they wept, they began that slow rhythm that is the pulse of all life and love.
Chapter 22
(1)
For a town like Pine Deep having Friday the 13th fall in October was a reason to celebrate. “Little Halloween,” they called it. Schools were let out at noon, special football games were scheduled, there was a major party planned for the Haunted Hayride, and the town got into the party mood. The Harvestman Inn ran a special for groups of employees who showed company ID: thirteen beers for thirteen bucks. Motley’s Steaks offered a special on thirteen-inch hoagies, and the Dead End Drive-In was advertising a thirteen-movie marathon of classic horror that kicked off with the entire Friday the 13th series, including a Jason Voorhees costume contest.
