⦠Katrina ⦠was sleeping, too, now. As peacefully as an infant.
Mike sighed and decided on one final shot of Johnnie Walker Black. He deserved it. In fact, damn it, he would snooze with the bottle in his arms, for lack of something better.
He procured the bottle and situated himself in the booth that served as the dining table. With his back against the wall he could see the screens, snooze, and surely awake if there was sound or movement from them.
Mike took a sip of the Scotch. He capped it and set it on the varnished wood table. He leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and saw a rush of pink fog.
He opened his eyes and gazed at the screens again. All appeared well; both mother and child were sleeping.
He closed his eyes again. The pink fog encompassed him.
Sleep took him to a place that was beautiful beyond bounds. The sun glowed softly, mingling with the clouds in swirls of crimson and gold. The clouds embraced him; they touched him with a gentle magic, with a tender peace. He was wandering through the clouds, just walking, as if on air. He could see his bare feet touch the floor, never faltering, for there was nothing to injure him in the clouds. He was smiling, and he could feel his smile, just as he could feel the ethereal caress of the clouds against his flesh. He walked naked and serene, knowing that the clouds were gentle, that they were magic.
There was only one disturbance; something that nagged at him, something that tried to reach him. Some thought. Some logical thought. Yet he felt that he was above it; if he didnât allow the thought to pierce the clouds, then it could not, and he could continue to walk, feeling nothing but himself, his smile, his pride to be free and peaceful and strong and aliveâ¦.
Something touched him. Something more vibrant than the clouds. Something that warmed and thrilled him, and made his blood race like molten lava through him. And there was sound, a whisper that cajoled him, that seduced him, that reminded him just as the touch did that he was a manâ¦.
âCome to bed, my love.â
To bed.
âYes â¦â
And he was walking, but no longer alone. She was with him again; the magical pink clouds had brought her back.
âI have missed you so much.â The words tore from his throat, touched with joy, touched with agony. There had been many other women, but none who could still the longing, the pain.
She answered with a strangled little cry of her own. âOh, yes, Iâve missed you. Itâs been so long ⦠and Iâve needed you, and itâs been so, so hard to live alone.â
She was with him. Standing before him. Touching him, her small hands on his shoulders, her eyes, brimming with tears, locked to his. He grinned crookedly; her eyes were blue. The pink fog had given them a touch of sea-green.
He cupped her chin in his hands and kissed her. Tasted the salt tears on her lips. Sampled their delightful texture. Gently, gently, tenderly, with love â¦
And then it was as if a rush enveloped him, a flood tide of desire. His arms swept around her feverishly; he crushed her length to his, cradling the firm, rounded flesh of her buttocks, lifting her slightly, lifting her to rub her body against the potency of his desire. With hunger he swirled his tongue into her mouth, savoring the sweetness, alive with the tempest of need. She whimpered slightly, but welcomed him, wrapping her arms around him, her fingers playing in the hair at his nape, nails digging into his shoulder at the force of him against her.
He was vital, about to explode. Desperate to love her before she disappeared, yet determined to love her so that she could never forget.
He broke the kiss, allowing her toes to slide back to the floor. Gently he touched her cheeks, and her shoulders. And he bent his head to plant kisses there, to nip lightly at her flesh, to let her feel the graze of his teeth and the moist caress of his tongue. She