Chapter 8
She awakened slowly, muttering a bit when the sunlight intruded on her dreams. She shifted, or tried to, but she was weighed down by an arm around her waist and a leg hooked possessively over hers.
Content with that, she snuggled closer and had the pleasure of feeling her sleep-warmed skin rub against Cal’s.
She didn’t know what time it was, and for perhaps the first time in her life it didn’t matter. Morning or afternoon, she was happy to lie curled in bed, dozing the day away, as long as he was with her.
Drifting, nearly dreaming again, she stroked a hand over him.
Solid, she thought. He was solid and real and, for the moment, hers.
Even with her eyes closed she could see him, every feature of his face, every line of his body.
There had never been anyone she had felt belonged so completely to her before.
Even her parents, for all their love, all their understanding, had belonged to each other initially.
She would always think of them as a unit, first and last. And Sunny .
. . Libby smiled a little as she thought of her sister.
Even though she was younger by nearly two years, Sunny had always been independent and her own person—argumentative and daring in ways Libby could never try to emulate.
But Cal . . . It was true that he had only just appeared in her life, would disappear again all too quickly, but he was hers. His laughter, his temper, his passion . . . they all belonged to her now. She would keep them, treasure them, long after he was gone.
To love as she did, Libby mused, when every emotion, every word, every look, had to be squeezed into a matter of hours, was both precious and heartbreaking.
He thought he’d been dreaming, but the shape, the texture, the scent of a woman’s body were very, very real.
Libby’s body. Her name was there, his first waking thought.
She was pressed against him, a perfect fit even in sleep.
The slow, gentle stroke of her hand aroused him in the most exquisite way.
He’d lost count of the times they had moved together during the night, but he knew dawn had been breaking the last time she’d cried out his name.
The light had been dim and pearly. He would never forget it.
She was like a fantasy, all soft curves, agile limbs and tireless passions.
Somewhere along the line he had stopped being the teacher and had been taught.
There was more to loving than the uncountable physical pleasures a man and a woman could offer each other. There was trust and patience, generosity and joy. There was the drugging contentment of falling asleep knowing your partner would be there when you awoke.
Partner. The word floated through his mind. His match. Was it fate or fancy that he had had to travel through time to meet his match?
He didn’t want to think of it. Refused to. All he wanted now was to make love with Libby in the sunlight.
He shifted, and before either of them was fully awake, slipped into her. Her soft moan mingled with his own as their lips met. Acceptance. Affection. Arousal. Slowly, drawing out the lazy delight, they moved together, their hands beginning a quiet exploration, the kiss deepening.
“I love you.”
He heard her words, a caressing whisper in his mind, and answered them like an echo as his lips began to trace her face.
The admissions shocked neither of them, as they were too dazed by the tumultuous sensations and emotions running through them. She had never spoken those words to another man, nor he to another woman. Before the impact hit home, need had them clinging closer.
Gracefully, gloriously, they took each other to the pinnacle.
Later, he nuzzled down between her breasts, but he was no longer sleeping.
Had she said she loved him? And had he told her he loved her?
What disturbed him most was that he couldn’t be sure if it had happened, or if it had been his imagination, something wished for while his mind was vulnerable with sleep and pleasure.
And he couldn’t ask her. Didn’t dare. Any answer she would give would hurt. If she didn’t love him, it would be like losing part of his heart, of his soul. If she did, it would make leaving her something akin to dying.
It was best, for both of them, to take what they had. He wanted to make her laugh, to see both passion and humor in her eyes, to hear them in her voice. And he would remember. Cal closed his eyes tight. Whatever happened to him, he would always remember.
So would she. He needed to be certain of his place in her memories.
“Come with me.” Sliding off the bed, he dragged her with him.
“Where?”
“To the bathroom.”
“Again?” Laughing, she tried to snag her robe, but he pulled her into the hall without it. “You don’t need another shave.”
“Good thing.”
“You only cut yourself three or four times. And it’s your own fault you used up most of the shaving cream beforehand.”
He sent her a wicked grin. “I liked rubbing it all over you better.”
“If you’re getting ideas about the toothpaste . . .”
“Maybe later.” He lifted her up and into the tub. “For now I’ll settle for a shower.”
She let out a quick shriek when the cold water hit her. Before she could retaliate or form even a token protest he had joined her, wrapping one arm around her while he adjusted the water temperature with his free hand. He thought he was getting rather good at it.
She took a stream of water in the face, sputtered, started to swear, then found herself caught in a hot, wet, endless kiss.
She’d never experienced anything like it. Steamy air, slick skin, soapy hands. Her knees were weak by the time he shut the spray off and wrapped her in a towel. As dizzy as she, he rested a forehead on hers.
“I think if we’re going to get anything done—anything else, that is—we’d better get out of the house.”
“Right.”
“After we eat.”
She was amazed she had the energy to laugh. “Naturally.”
***
It was late afternoon when they stood by Cal’s ship again. Clouds had moved in from the north, bringing a chill. Libby told herself that was the reason she felt cold. She hugged the short jacket tighter, but the cold came from inside.
“I’m standing here, looking at it, knowing it’s real, but I still can’t understand it.”
Cal nodded. His contented, relaxed mood had fled, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.
“I get the same sensation whenever I look at your cabin.” There was a headache building behind his eyes, the kind he knew came from tension.
“Look, I know you’ve got work of your own, and I don’t want to hold you up, but would you mind waiting a few minutes while I check the cycle? ”
“No.” She’d been hoping he’d ask her to stay all day. Masking her disappointment, she smiled at him. “Actually, I’d like to see it.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He opened the hatch and disappeared inside.
He would do that again soon, and for the last time, Libby thought.
She had to be prepared for it. Strange, but she’d imagined he’d told her he loved her that morning.
It was a nice, soothing thought, though she understood he didn’t really.
He couldn’t. He cared for her, more than anyone had ever cared for her, but he hadn’t fallen deeply, completely in love with her, as she had with him.
Because she loved him, she was going to do everything she could to help him, starting with accepting limitations. It was a beautiful day, after the most beautiful night of her life. Smiling, really smiling, she looked up at the cloudy sky. The rain would come by evening, and it would be welcome.
She glanced back at the ship when she heard a low, metallic hum. Another door opened—the cargo door, she assumed because of its size and location. Her mouth dropped open as Cal, on the back of a small, streamlined bike, raced out, six inches above the ground.
It made a sound that was something like a purr, not catlike or motorlike, more like the sound of air parting.
It was shaped something like a motorcycle, but without the bulk.
There were two wheels for ground transportation, and a narrow, padded seat to accommodate riders.
The body itself was a long, curving cylinder that forked into two slender handlebars.
He drove—or flew—it over to her, then sat grinning on the seat like a ten-year-old showing off his first twelve-speed.
“It runs great.” He made some small movement with his hand on the handgrips that had the purr deepening. “Want a ride?”
Frowning, she eyed the little gauges and buttons on the stock beneath the handlebars. It looked like a toy. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, Libby.” Wanting to share his pleasure, he held out a hand. “You’ll like it. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She looked at him, and at the bike, hovering just above the pine needles that were strewn on the forest floor.
It was a small machine—if indeed that was the proper term—but there was room enough for two on the narrow black seat.
The body was painted a metallic blue that glistened with deeper shades in the sunlight.
It looked harmless, she decided after a moment, and she doubted if anything so small could hold much power.
With a shrug, she slid on the seat behind him.
“Better hold on,” he told her, mostly because he wanted to feel her body curve against his.
The strength of the vibration beneath her shocked her, though she knew it was foolish. Cal had looked harmless, too, she remembered. “Hornblower, shouldn’t we have helmets or—” The words whipped away as he accelerated.
She might have screamed, but instead she squeezed her eyes shut and gripped Cal so tightly that he choked on a laugh.
He could feel her heart beating against him, as fast and heavy as it had through the night.
With an innate skill honed finer by practice, he steered once around the ship, then up the slope.