she think of Cameron and find herself empty?
Acasia turned the glass of whiskey violently in her hands and sent it spinning to the counter’s edge. It wobbled a moment and settled without falling. She felt as if she were right there with it, on the edge of an abyss. Only she was still teetering. She had a choice: hold out a hand to the future at great personal risk, or walk away from it. Either way lay danger. Either move might be wrong.
In silence she settled her hips against the counter and contemplated darkness.
* * *
In the hall, Cameron stood and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Water dripped from his hair onto his neck, puddling in the hollows of his collarbone before spilling in a V down his chest. He took a step, and his hand went out, fingertips brushing the wall, using it to guide him to Acasia.
* * *
Acasia still lounged against the counter, the fingers of one hand drumming out a contemplative rhythm while the other swirled the minuscule amount of whiskey in her glass. Her head felt thick and fuzzy from the liquor, and she knew that, if she let herself, she would be able to relax. She would need to, if she was going to see Cam. Abruptly she lifted the glass to her lips, drained it and let it drop back on the counter. Now, while her courage was up and her inhibitions were down…
Carefully she made her way across the kitchen, through the examining room to the doorway of the five–bed infirmary. Her hand clutched the frame, slid up and triggered a light switch.
"Casie."
He was in the doorway at the other end of the room, wet hair slicked back, broad chest bare and moist, water from his hair sliding down his torso, taking her eyes with it on its journey into the low–slung towel riding his hips. Her breath quickened, and she felt at once weak and strong, heavy and languorous, vitally alive.
"Cam."
Whiskey smoked her voice, accentuated the faint rasp Cameron had never forgotten. A white T–shirt clung to her, outlined her breasts and their budding crests, hugged the flat of her stomach. He brought his eyes to her face. Her lips parted slightly, curving into the same tentative, half–expectant smile she’d offered him before he’d kissed her that long ago afternoon when they’d first made love.
He’d always loved her smile.
Acasia watched him relax as though he were finally standing on familiar ground, and lean against the doorframe. His smile was full of memory and knowledge, and she half thought she heard the whispers of teenage ghosts.
She moistened her lips, responding first as a woman no longer innocent, a woman who knew what awaited if she crossed the room to him, aware of and anticipating pleasure. Then she was seventeen again, aroused, shy, passionate, anxious—her emotions in turmoil because she wanted to please and experience, to be in love. Every instinct, every reflex she possessed, told her it would be all right to love, to throw away reality for romance, for a lingering moment of nostalgia that would be over before morning, before the light ever broke and he could see her clearly, as she was now, no longer the girl she had once been.
They regarded one another, and more than desire swelled the air, spanning the distance between them. It seemed that if they stripped themselves physically they would also strip away time, returning themselves to a moment that should have happened—to London, where their lives might have joined and begun.
Acasia moved, and Cameron pushed himself away from the door. A thud sounded on the veranda, followed by a shuffle, then the sounds of someone wrestling with the kitchen door. Acasia’s eyes jerked up to meet Cameron’s. She pressed down the light switch, surrounding them once more with blackness.
"Acasia? You here, babe?" It was Fred. "They told me you were here."
"Damn." They shared the word, the frustration.
"Hey, Peaches! Where the devil are you? We’ve got to talk. Now." Fred’s voice held impatience, annoyance, an edge of fear.
Acasia
Acasia turned the glass of whiskey violently in her hands and sent it spinning to the counter’s edge. It wobbled a moment and settled without falling. She felt as if she were right there with it, on the edge of an abyss. Only she was still teetering. She had a choice: hold out a hand to the future at great personal risk, or walk away from it. Either way lay danger. Either move might be wrong.
In silence she settled her hips against the counter and contemplated darkness.
* * *
In the hall, Cameron stood and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Water dripped from his hair onto his neck, puddling in the hollows of his collarbone before spilling in a V down his chest. He took a step, and his hand went out, fingertips brushing the wall, using it to guide him to Acasia.
* * *
Acasia still lounged against the counter, the fingers of one hand drumming out a contemplative rhythm while the other swirled the minuscule amount of whiskey in her glass. Her head felt thick and fuzzy from the liquor, and she knew that, if she let herself, she would be able to relax. She would need to, if she was going to see Cam. Abruptly she lifted the glass to her lips, drained it and let it drop back on the counter. Now, while her courage was up and her inhibitions were down…
Carefully she made her way across the kitchen, through the examining room to the doorway of the five–bed infirmary. Her hand clutched the frame, slid up and triggered a light switch.
"Casie."
He was in the doorway at the other end of the room, wet hair slicked back, broad chest bare and moist, water from his hair sliding down his torso, taking her eyes with it on its journey into the low–slung towel riding his hips. Her breath quickened, and she felt at once weak and strong, heavy and languorous, vitally alive.
"Cam."
Whiskey smoked her voice, accentuated the faint rasp Cameron had never forgotten. A white T–shirt clung to her, outlined her breasts and their budding crests, hugged the flat of her stomach. He brought his eyes to her face. Her lips parted slightly, curving into the same tentative, half–expectant smile she’d offered him before he’d kissed her that long ago afternoon when they’d first made love.
He’d always loved her smile.
Acasia watched him relax as though he were finally standing on familiar ground, and lean against the doorframe. His smile was full of memory and knowledge, and she half thought she heard the whispers of teenage ghosts.
She moistened her lips, responding first as a woman no longer innocent, a woman who knew what awaited if she crossed the room to him, aware of and anticipating pleasure. Then she was seventeen again, aroused, shy, passionate, anxious—her emotions in turmoil because she wanted to please and experience, to be in love. Every instinct, every reflex she possessed, told her it would be all right to love, to throw away reality for romance, for a lingering moment of nostalgia that would be over before morning, before the light ever broke and he could see her clearly, as she was now, no longer the girl she had once been.
They regarded one another, and more than desire swelled the air, spanning the distance between them. It seemed that if they stripped themselves physically they would also strip away time, returning themselves to a moment that should have happened—to London, where their lives might have joined and begun.
Acasia moved, and Cameron pushed himself away from the door. A thud sounded on the veranda, followed by a shuffle, then the sounds of someone wrestling with the kitchen door. Acasia’s eyes jerked up to meet Cameron’s. She pressed down the light switch, surrounding them once more with blackness.
"Acasia? You here, babe?" It was Fred. "They told me you were here."
"Damn." They shared the word, the frustration.
"Hey, Peaches! Where the devil are you? We’ve got to talk. Now." Fred’s voice held impatience, annoyance, an edge of fear.
Acasia
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