quietly.
“Suppose his mother finds us here.”
Her fingers bit into my arm. “Don’t say it!”
I listened to her breathe.
“I want to tell you this. There’s nothing wrong with me, only I’m too much for him.”
“Too much?”
“Yes.” She didn’t say it, she breathed it. “He couldn’t keep me—happy. Now he doesn’t even try.”
“You mean—” I tried to move away from her on the bed, but every movement only brought her closer. “You mean Verne’s like that because of you?”
“Yes. He’s sapped. He’s dead weight. He can’t do anything any more.”
I thought of tales of the succubus.
“He keeps me cooped up here. Yet he offers me nothing—nothing of what I need. Must have. I’m not crazy.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I love you, Alex. I want you to know. And you love me, you know you do.”
“My God, woman, you’re off your rocker.”
“Don’t say that!” Her fingers bit into my arm again. “It’s not what you think. Verne tried—hard. But he didn’t really love me, ever.”
My voice was hoarse; I hardly recognized it. The smell of her perfume, the warmth of her body … “Why don’t you divorce him?”
“And lose all this? His money? He’s going to die. I could kill him myself, I think. Merely by—His heart is weak. He—”
I tore her hand off me, started up in the bed, grabbed the sheet, began to sweat. “Get out, Petra!”
“Listen! You’ve got to listen. He wouldn’t let me divorce him anyway. He wants me here, he wants to torture me.” Her voice was a shrill whisper now, her hands against my chest. She leaned closer. I felt her thick hair brush my shoulder as her face neared mine. “I watched him fade away. Bad business lately has helped. He’s losing weight steadily. I love you, Alex! Don’t you see? Are you blind? I’ve loved you for months.”
“You’ve never—We never saw each other till yesterday, Petra.”
“We didn’t have to. My letters told you.”
My hand brushed her thigh. I jerked it away and it struck her breasts. She grabbed it and held it there in the soft dark valley between her breasts. I could feel her breath, taste the odor of her perfume, hear the sound of our bodies touching.
“You wrote me regularly,” she whispered. “You must have known. Don’t pretend you didn’t know. Don’t pretend anything. I can’t bear it, Alex. We’ve got to face this thing. We can’t escape.”
“Good Lord, Petra!”
“Yes.”
She came down against me then and my arms circled her, pulling her to me. Her lips brushed mine, then she tugged savagely away, her knee on the bed, pushing.
“Petra!”
“Not now. We can’t. That old hag!”
My fingers clutched at her nightgown. She slapped my hand away. I had to have her now.
“We must wait for that!”
She was up, standing beside the bed, her breasts rising and falling in the moonlight.
“Petra. Is this true?”
“Yes. You saw my husband. He’s a dead man already.”
I stared at her, wanting her, frightened, wanting her, wanting to run, escape.
She bent over the bed, over me, and her hair fell across my face as her mouth met mine. She fell away from the bed, started for the door. “There,” she said. “You may leave now, if you wish. If you can.” She stood by the door. “But don’t forget what I said about Verne. There have been no other men, though I tried once. I was desperate. Nothing happened, but Verne caught me. Now, leave, if you can.”
She was gone. The door was closed. The air was full of her presence. The sheets were damp and cold.
An instant later I heard her talking loudly in the hall. I went to the door. “Get to bed, Mother!” she shouted. “What are you doing?”
“Harlot! Harlot!” the old woman shrieked.
I opened the door a crack.
“I shan’t tell him. Not yet,” the old woman said.
Petra was walking swiftly toward her room. Her door slammed. The old woman stood in a flannel nightgown in the hallway, her thin gray
“Suppose his mother finds us here.”
Her fingers bit into my arm. “Don’t say it!”
I listened to her breathe.
“I want to tell you this. There’s nothing wrong with me, only I’m too much for him.”
“Too much?”
“Yes.” She didn’t say it, she breathed it. “He couldn’t keep me—happy. Now he doesn’t even try.”
“You mean—” I tried to move away from her on the bed, but every movement only brought her closer. “You mean Verne’s like that because of you?”
“Yes. He’s sapped. He’s dead weight. He can’t do anything any more.”
I thought of tales of the succubus.
“He keeps me cooped up here. Yet he offers me nothing—nothing of what I need. Must have. I’m not crazy.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I love you, Alex. I want you to know. And you love me, you know you do.”
“My God, woman, you’re off your rocker.”
“Don’t say that!” Her fingers bit into my arm again. “It’s not what you think. Verne tried—hard. But he didn’t really love me, ever.”
My voice was hoarse; I hardly recognized it. The smell of her perfume, the warmth of her body … “Why don’t you divorce him?”
“And lose all this? His money? He’s going to die. I could kill him myself, I think. Merely by—His heart is weak. He—”
I tore her hand off me, started up in the bed, grabbed the sheet, began to sweat. “Get out, Petra!”
“Listen! You’ve got to listen. He wouldn’t let me divorce him anyway. He wants me here, he wants to torture me.” Her voice was a shrill whisper now, her hands against my chest. She leaned closer. I felt her thick hair brush my shoulder as her face neared mine. “I watched him fade away. Bad business lately has helped. He’s losing weight steadily. I love you, Alex! Don’t you see? Are you blind? I’ve loved you for months.”
“You’ve never—We never saw each other till yesterday, Petra.”
“We didn’t have to. My letters told you.”
My hand brushed her thigh. I jerked it away and it struck her breasts. She grabbed it and held it there in the soft dark valley between her breasts. I could feel her breath, taste the odor of her perfume, hear the sound of our bodies touching.
“You wrote me regularly,” she whispered. “You must have known. Don’t pretend you didn’t know. Don’t pretend anything. I can’t bear it, Alex. We’ve got to face this thing. We can’t escape.”
“Good Lord, Petra!”
“Yes.”
She came down against me then and my arms circled her, pulling her to me. Her lips brushed mine, then she tugged savagely away, her knee on the bed, pushing.
“Petra!”
“Not now. We can’t. That old hag!”
My fingers clutched at her nightgown. She slapped my hand away. I had to have her now.
“We must wait for that!”
She was up, standing beside the bed, her breasts rising and falling in the moonlight.
“Petra. Is this true?”
“Yes. You saw my husband. He’s a dead man already.”
I stared at her, wanting her, frightened, wanting her, wanting to run, escape.
She bent over the bed, over me, and her hair fell across my face as her mouth met mine. She fell away from the bed, started for the door. “There,” she said. “You may leave now, if you wish. If you can.” She stood by the door. “But don’t forget what I said about Verne. There have been no other men, though I tried once. I was desperate. Nothing happened, but Verne caught me. Now, leave, if you can.”
She was gone. The door was closed. The air was full of her presence. The sheets were damp and cold.
An instant later I heard her talking loudly in the hall. I went to the door. “Get to bed, Mother!” she shouted. “What are you doing?”
“Harlot! Harlot!” the old woman shrieked.
I opened the door a crack.
“I shan’t tell him. Not yet,” the old woman said.
Petra was walking swiftly toward her room. Her door slammed. The old woman stood in a flannel nightgown in the hallway, her thin gray
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