Shelter (1994) by Jayne Anne Philips

she felt herself hurtling toward him. She held him in her gaze and stood. The air was vast as outer space, and warm. She couldn't read his eyes, his expression, he was only a form, standing, beginning to move. The water, a silver mass, held more light than the night could hold, and she moved toward it. She couldn't feel the ground. Her feet, her legs, were pleasantly numb, tingling, but her hands stung with heat and she opened them. She waded into the water to be held up, but the water, to her waist, to her breasts, was not heavy enough to help. She saw him slip into the pond in his baggy pants, moving toward her, and she only wanted him to hurry. The water broke around him and the sound of its crack and gentle roll seemed delayed, like thunder after mile-high lightning. She had to open her mouth to breathe.
    Now he was close, his face, his eyes. He didn't recognize her, he had never seen her before and perhaps didn't see her now; she wassafe and she opened her arms to him. He didn't seem like Frank, the boy they'd watched. So near, he was almost a man; his hands were broad and flat, his shoulders squared at her forehead. She stroked him and felt his muscles tense as though her touch was electric. He was ready and he was afraid. His open palms on her nipples were a soft pressure meant to confirm her nakedness but she moved forward and up and made him support her weight. She couldn't stand; she wanted to close her eyes and hold on. Her head was above him now, her face in his hair. He was unbearably fragrant, like flowers and dust, and his thick dry hair was warm. He nuzzled inside, between her breasts, like a vicious baby, pushing, using his mouth. He moved his hands, lifting her against him, sucked at her skin, her throat, tasting until he found her lips. She had never really kissed anyone but her parents and girlfriends; it wasn't what she had thought. It was more like eating, eating something swollen and sweet that you could taste but never swallow, never have. She was feeding him, filling him up, but he couldn't pull her close enough. He pushed deeper with his tongue, slower, pulling her tighter the length of their bodies. His hands grew frantic, moving haphazardly over her; their panic began to pull everything into focus. Lenny felt a core of blurry fear almost coalesce but then Cap was in the water near them, touching them both, circling round them, her mouth on his neck, his ears, as though she were whispering. He was breathing quickly, trying to move them toward the bank, but Cap held Lenny against him, touching the backs of Lenny's thighs, urging her closer so that Lenny opened her legs and clasped his waist. His hands found her hips and she touched the hard buckle of his belt, pressed her hand close under it, inside. When she touched him he froze and made a sound that started a throbbing pain in her. She nearly moved to touch herself but felt a hand hard against her. She felt it probe inside and let her weight rest there, then she clasped him tighter and stopped thinking. His mouth was on hers but she pulled away, gasping; she had to cry out, then she couldn't stop her voice. Shattering, she heard a coarse, continuous moaning as she turned, over and over, tumbling through some pierced and narrow space. She felt a hot rush and knew she was urinating, emptying into the hand that held her. She let that warmth happen and the turning eased. Tears of relief filled her eyes even as he stiffened against her, voicing his own smothered sounds. She wanted to hold him but Cap was between them, urging her back. Lenny remembered the water again as an element separate from herself; she could taste it, smell it. She wanted to sleep in it, let herself sink. Her feet touched the mud bottom and Cap was pulling her away. They moved together, escaping before anything was said, before he heard their voices or truly saw them. They ran, throwing water off their long bodies, forgetting Lenny's shoes in the tall reeds, stumbling until they