The witching hour

Twenty-one

HE WAS KISSING her as his fingers stroked her breasts. The pleasure was so keen. Paralyzing. She tried to lift her head. But she couldn’t move. The constant roar of the jet engines lulled her. Yes, this is a dream. Yet it seemed so real, and she was slipping back into it. Only forty-five minutes until they landed at New Orleans International. She ought to try to wake up. But then he kissed her again, forcing his tongue very gently between her lips, so gently yet forcefully, and his fingers touched her nipples, pinching them as if she were naked under the small woolen blanket. Oh, he knew how to do it, pinch them slowly but hard. She turned more fully towards the window, sighing, drawing up her knees against the side of the cabin. No one noticing her. First class half empty. Almost there.

Again, he pinched her nipples, just a little more cruelly, ah, so delicious. You cannot be too rough, really. Press your lips harder against mine. Fill me with your tongue. She opened her mouth against his, and then his fingers touched her hair, sending another, unexpected sensation through her, a light tingling. That was the miracle of it, that it was such a blending of sensations, like soft and bright colors mingling, the chills moving down her naked back and arms, and yet the heat pounding between her legs. Come inside me! I want to be filled up, yes, with your tongue, and with you, come in harder. It was enormous, yet smooth, bathed as it was in her fluids.

She came silently, shuddering beneath the blanket, her hair fallen down over her face, only dimly aware that she wasn’t naked, that no one could be touching her, no one could be creating this pleasure. Yet it went on and on, her heart stopping, the blood pounding in her face, the shocks moving down through her thighs and her calves.

You are going to die if it doesn’t stop, Rowan. His hand brushed her cheek. He kissed her eyelids. Love you …

Suddenly, she opened her eyes. For a moment nothing registered. Then she saw the cabin. The little blind was drawn, and everything about her seemed a pale luminous gray, drenched in the sound of the engines. The shocks were still passing through her. She lay back in the large soft airline seat and yielded to them, rather like dim, beautifully modulated jolts of electricity, her eyes drifting sluggishly over the ceiling as she struggled to keep them open, to wake up.

God, how did she look after this little orgy? Her face must be flushed.

Very slowly, she sat up, smoothing back her hair with both hands. She tried to reinvoke the dream, not for the sensuality but for information, tried to travel back to the center of it, to know who he had been. Not Michael. No. That was the bad part.

Christ, she thought. I’ve been unfaithful to him with nobody. How strange. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Very warm. She was still feeling the low, vibrant, debilitating pleasure even now.

“How long before we land in New Orleans?” she asked the stewardess who was passing.

“Thirty minutes. Seat belt buckled?”

She sat back, feeling for the buckled seat belt, and then letting herself go deliciously limp. But how could a dream do that, she thought. How could a dream carry it so far?

When she was thirteen, she used to have those dreams, before she knew they were natural or what to do about them. But she’d always wake before the finish. She couldn’t help it. This time, it had just taken its own course. And the odd thing was, she felt violated, as if the dream lover had assaulted her. Now, that was really absurd. But it wasn’t a good feeling, and it was extremely strong.

Violated.…

She raised her hands to her breasts under the blanket, covering them protectively. But that was nonsense, wasn’t it? Besides, it wasn’t rape at all.

“You want a drink before we land?”

“No. Coffee.” She closed her eyes. Who had he been, her dream lover? No face, no name. Only the sense of someone more delicate than Michael, someone almost ethereal, or at least that was the word that came to her mind. The man had spoken to her, however, she was sure of it, but everything except the memory of the pleasure was gone.

Only as she sat up to drink the coffee did she realize there was a faint soreness between her legs. Possibly an aftereffect of the powerful muscular contractions. Thank God there was no one else near at hand, no one beside her or across the aisle from her. But then she never would have let it go so far if she hadn’t been concealed, under the blanket. That is, if she could have forced herself awake. If she had had a choice.

She felt so sleepy!

Slowly she took a sip of the coffee and raised the white plastic shade.

Green swampland down there in the deepening afternoon sun. And the dark brown serpentine river curving around the distant city. She felt a sudden elation. Almost there. The sound of the engines grew harsher, louder with the plane’s descent.

She didn’t want to think about the dream anymore. She honestly wished it hadn’t happened. In fact, it was dreadfully distasteful to her suddenly, and she felt soiled and tired and angry. Even a little revolted. She wanted to think about her mother, and about seeing Michael.

She had called Jerry Lonigan from Dallas. The parlor was open. And the cousins were already arriving. They had been calling all morning. The Mass was set for three P.M. and she wasn’t to worry. She should just come on over from the Pontchartrain as soon as she arrived.

“Where are you, Michael?” she whispered, as she sat back again, and closed her eyes.