“Quickie to start?” he asked quietly, his fingers caressing the soft flesh between her slightly parted thighs.
“Mmm… Quicker the better, lover.”
Ryan rolled on top of her, guiding himself with his right hand, starting the steady, rhythmic pressure. He supported some of his weight on his elbows, kissing her mouth, sliding a little way up the bed to make the contact deeper.
He could feel her amazing control, her body seeming to shrink about him, squeezing him tight, waves of pressure gripping him and sucking him deeper. Her body rose to meet him on every thrust, her mouth open, eyes closed.
“Not yet…” she whispered.
He held back, trying to set his mind onto something else, slowing himself to meet her readiness, aware of her muscles butterflying around him, sensing her breath coming faster.
Krysty moaned, her fingers digging into his back. “Yes, lover, yes.”
Ryan closed his eye, biting his lip so hard with the intensity of his orgasm that he was vaguely aware of a thread of hot blood trickling down his chin. Krysty’s back arched under him and she was motionless for a frozen moment, then she bucked and heaved, crying out in her passion.
For several long, soft moments, they clung to each other, letting their breath return to normal, feeling each other’s heartbeat.
“Another?” Ryan asked.
“Why not?”
JAK HAD FALLEN instantly into a deep sleep, on his back, snoring quietly. He had stripped off to a T-shirt and pants, using only a single blanket to cover his skinny body. The taped hilt of one of his throwing knives protruded from beneath the Army-issue pillow.
Dean, as well, had fallen asleep quickly, his blaster on top of the neat pile of clothing beside his cot.
Doc had peeled off his cracked knee boots and the ancient frock coat and breeches, then stretched out on a bed. His swordstick and the ponderous Le Mat blaster were on the floor at his side.
Though he felt very tired, partly due to his recent experiences in Puerto Rico, sleep refused to come gently to him from out of the good night. He found himself slipping into that uneasy land that dwelled part in light and part in dark, where gibbering specters came unbidden and restful slumber was an eternity away, where madness waited in the shadows.
Doc lay on his back, staring sightlessly up at the white ceiling, trying to steady his breathing, but he was all too conscious of the blood pounding in his ears.
He carried a silver half-hunter watch in one of the pockets of his frock coat and he finally sat up, leaned down and fumbled for it. Angling it toward the dim light, he tried to catch the reflection off the slender hands. “Five and twenty minutes past two,” he muttered.
A nagging headache pounded behind his temple, and his stomach was still churning from the predark soup, a churning that was becoming more insistent.
“It would be wise to go to the toilet,” Doc said, standing, knees creaking and cracking. He stooped to pull on his pants, then padded barefoot toward the door.
Jak stirred at the movement, blinking open a ruby eye, his hair spilling across the pillow like frozen spray. “Where goin’, Doc?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.
“I must worship at the shrine of Thomas Crapper,” Doc replied. “Back in a jiffy, or less.”
As he left the room, his head was spinning, and he began to fear that he was about to lose control of his lower bodily functions. He moved fast along the short stretch of corridor, past several other doors, until he reached the white-tiled washroom.
Doc sighed with relief as he sat on the flush. “Welcome to the cloacal throne, Theophilus,” he said quietly. “For which relief, much, much thanks.”
HE WAS RUNNING after a steaming locomotive, along a deserted platform. The train seemed to be empty, apart from the last car, where the window was down and an attractive young woman was peeking out, her arms around the shoulders of two little children. A boy and a girl.
“Run faster, my dear one,” she called. “And we can be safe together.”
“I am trying, sweet Emily. Before God, I am trying my very best!”