This takes place directly after Night In Question

        Echoes After Night

                        by AC Chapin

Sixteen hours on call and finally, bedtime.  She
shucked off the bleach-spattered sweats she had worn
home and almost fell into bed.  Wiggling under the
covers she rolled to her belly and fumbled, her
surgeon's hands gone stupid, on the catch of the bra.
Finally it came free and she dropped it over the side
of the bed.
        She wass almost too tired to roll to her back
again, but sex was calling to her, a deep ache mixed
with slow sleepiness.  Syrupy.
        Dr. Amanda Turner floped to her back, stretched
her sore neck from side to side and kissed her
fingers.

Synchronicity.

"I've hurt a lot of people."
        "Yes, Nickolas."
        "Have I hurt you?"
        "Many times."
        What kind of response can you make to that?
        "Do you remember how to dance, Nickolas?"

She liked the feeling of fingers against her lips
much better than the feeling of wet lips on her
fingers.  She'd never liked the finger-sucking thing
so many guys were into.  It just felt... wet.
        But fingers on her lips, that was good,
kissing, kissing.
        An image of beautifully formed lips flashed
into her mind, full sensuous curvings.  Her fingers
pressed hard against her mouth and she imagined those
lips there.  Who in god's name had lips like that?
Who?
        She let her other hand play over her side,
her belly, fingertips tickling over nerves, waking
them.
        Her legs shifted restlessly against each other.

"Here, Nickolas, I will lead.  No, not at your feet,
Nickolas, at me, at my face."
        "I'll step on your feet."
        "You will not."
        Not something to be argued with.
        "Good.  What the mind has forgotten the body
remembers."
        One two three four.  One two three four.
        Something in him remembered this, here was a
turn.  He steps in, and LaCroix also steps in,
yes.  From there the rest of the movement was
natural, perfect, turning in place with more grace
than he would have believed possible.
        Thighs, chests pressed tight.  And a sudden
warm awareness.

Her hand wandered down to her right breast and
stroked the nipple, feeling it harden and relax and
harden again under her fingers.  She traced a
tightening spiral around the other breast that never
quite reached the nipple.
        Then down to hips and thighs, tickling,
reminding herself of her body, her whole body, not
lost now under shapeless graybluegreen.
        She cupped her breasts, liking the feel of
them in her hands as much as she liked the feel of
her hands on them.  Warm, soft.
        Her head turned back and forth on the pillow.
        She dropped her palm onto her left breast and
dragged the fingers together, meeting at the point,
pulling the nipple just slightly between five
fingertips.  Again.  Again.
        That mouth again, open just a little as
though to speak.  And then closing on her nipple,
suckling there.  Those lips tenderly closing on her
nipple.  Those lips.
        She made a sound at the back of her throat as
an almost painful chord was struck in some deep place
inside her belly.  Her breathing quickened, first in
anticipation, pleasure, and then in frustration.
        Those lips weren't there.  God only knew
whose they were anyway.  And not having them was
crazy-making.  Her hips bucked a milimeter and her
back arched, straining her breasts towards those
lips, the warm clamp of that mouth on her.

Quickstep and waltz finally gave way to the sort of
rhythmic swaying one sees at teenage parties.
        "You..."
        "Shh, Nicola... beau... petite."  LaCroix
shifted back slightly and looked into Nick's eyes.
        French, yes.  He had thought French so beautiful
when he was learning it as a boy... but the memory of
French lessons fell away, leaving only frustration
and the meaningless, useless information that his
first language was no longer spoken by anyone,
only echoes of it remained.
        He watched LaCroix watch a tear slide down
his face.
        "Why tears, Nickolas?"  How LaCroix loved
naming him; that was a memory that didn't slip
through his fingers.  LaCroix had always loved to say
his name.
        "Je ne sais..."  but he was lost, and even
French and English were falling away from him.
        LaCroix pressed his lips against Nick's cheek
in a delicate, tender gesture, then took his hand.
        He let himself be led.

Her hand dropped finally between her legs, stroked
slick hot skin, finding dampness.  Her fingers slipped
that much more easily against her swelling flesh.
        She ground her hips in a little circle,
content in the satisfaction to come.  Yes, this was
good, this was going to be good.
        She moved her fingers, rubbing hard at first,
pushing herself up, towards it, reaching, reaching.
        A low voice whispered breathily to her,
suggesting, telling.  She couldn't make out the words.
        A spark twitched through her and she flashed
on a face, a glowing white face in the dark, smiling.
The shape of that smile...
        Her breasts ached for him.
        She backed off a little, lightly rubbing her
thumb over wet, swollen flesh.
        Then she pushed again.  Her fingers ground
into her skin and she began to move her hips in deep
rhythms.

"Here, Nickolas."
        Natalie must have lied to him.  How could he
ever have fought against this?  No one had that
strength.
        "Now, Nickolas."
        Slivers of forgotten faces cut at him, left
him all the more lost, all the more needing.
LaCroix's hands guided him.
        "Yes, Nickolas.  Yes."

Almost, almost.  But it faded.  What a time to hit
ebb tide.  She fingered herself roughly, frustrated,
angry.  Why not?  Why not?
        Finally, with a grunt, she let her hands fall
to her sides.
        A soon as she closed her eyes she saw that
ghost face again, heard the echoes of the nothings he
said to her.  She bucked on the bed in sheer response
and her hands reached frantically between her thighs.
        Now.  Now.
        But she lingered on the edge, frustrated
tears squeezing out  of her eyes.  What was it going
to take?
        She rubbed harder than she would usually have
dared at delicate flesh.  Closer, closer.  Yes.
        Her left hand came up suddenly and squeezed
her throat, blocking air, hurting windpipe.
        The cry that tried to choke out as she came
would have been the first she ever made during orgasm.
        When the shuddering stopped she registered
numb fingers,  pins and needles in her toes, and the
most delicious feeling of total pleasure.
        What was happening to her.  This was sick,
sick.
        Oh god.
        She touched her throat and felt a cool little
thrill shock through her belly.  And she knew that if
she pressed down hard the feeling would intensify,
her hips would begin to move again, her breath would
try to quicken.
        Disgust and embarassment and shame clenched
in her belly, and she whimpered, knowing that she
could drive them all away only by pushing down,
squeezing.
        When she closed her eyes and curled on her
side, hoping to sleep this all away, she saw those
lips smiling at her again.
        Her breasts hurt for want of that mouth, and
her throat felt wrong without that tightness around
it.

At home in his own bed, Nick remembered, and watched
his hands tremble.


AC Chapin     sdragon@Glue.umd.edu      http://www.glue.umd.edu/~sdragon
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