Elizabeth Stewart - Stray Thoughts (Ellora's Cave)

by Nicole

  “Sorry, Nick,” she yawned, moving to the bed and sitting down beside him. “Must have got carried away. You’re a good sport to let me work. Better than my ex. He hated for me to work when he was home.”

  Those brilliant sapphire eyes watched her, seemingly intent on her words.

  “You know, considering what happens when I wish for things in your presence, I probably shouldn’t say this, but do you know what I’d really, really like? More than anything else in the world? I’d like to be a writer. A real, honest-to-God, published-and-somebody’s-actually-read-it writer. Being rich wouldn’t be bad either.” She scratched his ears and planted a quick peck on his nose. “You think you can handle that?” she giggled.

  Nick reached up and lightly patted her cheek.

  “Thank you, Nick. I’m gonna hold you to that. Now, how ‘bout we hit the sack? I don’t know about you, but I’m bushed.”

  *

  “Sheridan.”

  The voice was a whisper; so soft in her ear it might have been in her mind.

  “Sheridan.”

  “Who’s there?” she mumbled groggily, turning automatically to the sound.

  “It’s just me,” the voice replied, a tender kiss fluttering on her cheek. “I know it’s late, but I need you.”

  “Need me?” she repeated, trying to clear the last of the sleep out of her brain. “For what?” She saw now that it was the man from her erotic dream and that curiously, she was neither surprised nor alarmed to see him poised at the edge of her bed.

  “Let me show you.”

  In a twinkling, both the bedclothes and her nightgown were gone. There was the feel of air moving against her bare skin, but no coldness. In fact, she had a distinct feeling of warmth.

  Leaning over, the dream lover slid his arms under her and in one fluid motion, swept her into his arms as lightly as if she were a child. Immediately, she felt his naked skin against her own. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, he leaned down and kissed her, long and passionately.

  When she opened her eyes again, they were in her living room, a fire blazing cheerfully in the fireplace, candles in ornate silver holders dotting the rug and the furniture, a fat, down-filled quilt before the fire. Gently, he laid her on her back, sinking into the warm comforter as he slid a thick pillow under her head.

  “I…” she started but he put a finger to her lips.

  “Shhh,” he told her with a beautiful smile. “You don’t need to know anything. Just enjoy.”

  Reaching behind him, he took two tall, thin, crystal flutes and balanced them between the fingers of his left hand. With his right, he took a champagne bottle from an exquisite silver bucket on the floor and poured the pale, bubbling liquor into the glasses. Finishing, he replaced the bottle and held out a glass for her.

  “To my eternal Sheridan,” he toasted lovingly. “Then. Now. Always.”

  They clinked glasses lightly and drank. She remembered thinking that this dream was so real she could even feel the bubbles tickling her nose as she sipped.

  When the glasses were drained, he took them, set them back by the bucket and then stretched out on his side next to her, propping himself with one elbow and running a fingertip of his other hand along her cheek.

  “You are so beautiful,” he told her quietly. “In the morning, rumpled and yawning in that dreadful, baggy nightgown of yours. Eating cereal in one of your ugly, ridiculous suits with your silly briefcase. Sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Nibbling popcorn and sniffling at some old movie. Talking back to the stupid people on television. Making those funny little faces you make when you’re pounding away at your keyboard. But mostly, when you lie here beside me and let me feast on your nakedness like ambrosia.”

  As he found her mouth again, he took her nipple between his fingers and began lightly playing with it, feeling it grow hard and responsive under his touch.

  “I try to be patient,” he explained breathlessly between kisses, “but I’ve waited so long and I want you so much that just being with you isn’t enough. I have to have all of you, even if it’s only stolen moments in your dreams.”

  “Who are you?” she whispered hoarsely. “Why…why do you bring me these dreams?”

  “Not now. In time, you’ll know and understand everything. All you need right now is to just let yourself go. Believe in the dream and let me give you love.”

  Sheridan felt the hardness of his erection rubbing against her thigh and the feeling seemed to intensify her own building passion. Whoever…whatever this dream lover was, he was right about one thing. All she cared about at this moment was joining with him.

  Slowly, gently, he turned her away from him, dropping kisses across her neck, shoulders and back like garlands of tiny flowers. Curling up against him like spoons in a drawer, she felt both safe and wild. He made her feel as she’d never felt before, even in her marriage bed.

  “I love the feel of you,” he mumbled into her hair.

  With one hand busying itself on her breasts, she felt the other slide her stomach, over her ridge and down between her legs. Without coaching, she moved her leg upwards and balanced on his thigh. His fingers immediately found their goal, skimming over her wet clitoris and down inside her. As he worked, she felt him hard and tight, moving ever so slowly against her back.

  Waves of heated passion rolled over her with every move. It was so foreign and yet so thrilling. So unknown and yet so right.

  His fingers moved gently out of her as he readjusted his position so that his shaft came up from behind and slid inside. The feel of him as he glided in and out inflamed her already swollen, sensitive area. It was a sensation like nothing she’d ever known and she was caught between never wanting the exquisite suspense to end and reaching the climax she knew would be like an explosion of body and soul.

  The rhythm of their movements was becoming swifter, more urgent.

  “Come for me, Sheridan,” he growled behind her. “Come for me.”

  “Oh!” she cried, now almost unable to catch her breath. “Oh…ohhhhh…”

  “Dear God,” he moaned as she felt the quivering inside, unsure if it was her or this wonderful creature.

  They rocked together for a few more moments and then she erupted, no longer conscious of or caring about anything, even her partner, as she shattered into a million slivers of pleasure, each one glistening for its own brief moment, creating a cascade of fire through every molecule of her being.

  The embers of their passion died away, but they made no move to untangle, choosing instead to float back to earth in their comfortable position. Through her sated exhaustion, Sheridan felt sleep slowing closing around her, wrapping her in blissful contentment, just as the arms of her dream lover were wrapped around her now.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  “My pleasure,” he replied with a peck to her cheek. “My pleasure.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sheridan gladly turned loose of her silly suspicions and fears about Nick and gave herself over to the pleasure of his company. He, in turn, seemed to enjoy the lessening of stress and overtime of her job, joyfully greeting her at the end of her days, and quietly spending their evenings together.

  Jim Eldridge was like a breeze of cool, fresh air through the stale, fetid prison of her job. Quickly, calmly, efficiently, he began making some long overdue changes.

  His first priority was doing away with what he called “needless” meetings, memos and written daily updates.

  “If you need to tell me something, call, come by my office or e-mail me. Enough already with the paper!”

  Next was forcing Rick Yung into seminars on time management, organization and business writing.

  “Look,” he’d told him, “you can’t find your desk for the paper, your office looks like someone launched a Polaris missile from a flea market and you are not being paid by the word.”

  In fact, he made them part of the next year’s goals in Rick’s written evaluation. And set up what he called, “measura
ble standards.”

  Time management. Rick was to attend, in no more than ninety days from the date of the evaluation, a seminar, approved by his supervisor (Jim). In no more than ninety days from the end of the seminar, Rick was to demonstrate to his supervisor’s satisfaction a reduction in amount of time to return phone calls (no more than twenty-four hours), reduction in time to answer correspondence (no more than five working days) and an adherence to deadlines (work would be turned in on time).

  “It’s very simple,” he’d explained to his dumbfounded subordinate. “You’ve been getting away with this so long, you probably think it’s an acceptable way to conduct business. You’re about to discover that’s not the case, at least with me. You will either meet what I consider to be reasonable standards of professional business conduct and receive your yearly raises in a timely fashion or you’ll continue your current practices somewhere else. The decision is totally up to you.”

  He was, in short, understanding, professional and a thorough pleasure to work for. Well, at least for Sheridan he was.

  That’s not to say that they didn’t have their disagreements or that one or the other of them didn’t make mistakes. But there was no sarcasm, no superiority and no snobbery. He treated Sheridan with respect, both as a human being and a professional capable of doing her job. They were not exactly friends but not enemies, either.

  And he formed a kind of buffer between King John and Princess Di and Sheridan. From the beginning, he made it clear that while he had no problem with her “helping out,” requests would go through him. And he always seemed to have enough work for her to do that his standard reply became, “I really can’t spare her right now.”

  Winter’s grip remained firm although the snow had stopped and the daytime temperatures had begun to crawl back into the middle thirties.

  Sheridan got a postcard from Brian, who had taken a temporary job at a ski resort, telling her that he liked the snowboarding and the snow bunnies and not having to listen to his father bitch about college.

  There was quiet scuttlebutt along the office grapevine that the Prince of Darkness’ recovery wasn’t going as well as expected and that six months might very well be an optimistic estimate of his return.

  With her latest story finished and polished, Sheridan sent it off to an editor, promising herself she wouldn’t worry about it.

  Even the Fairview Heights Rapist seemed to have taken a holiday.

  It was the best her life had been in a long time. She should have known it was too good to last.

  *

  It was a Saturday. Nick and Sheridan had had their breakfast and he’d gone out. Since she was planning a quiet day at the computer, after her shower she’d slipped into an old, comfortable pair of faded red sweats and started her weekend housekeeping ritual.

  Having cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, she was vacuuming. Being inherently lazy, she had one of those big uprights with the super long cord. That way, she could plug in the cord in the living room and vacuum from the bedroom out to the living room and end up in the foyer closet where she stored the beast.

  With the noise of the vacuum and her concentration on the rug, she didn’t even know he was there.

  The blow landed at the base of her skull, one sharp, well-aimed “whack” that sent blinding pain shooting through her whole body. She didn’t remember making any noise except a sort of “whoosh” as the air escaped her lungs. Strong arms grabbed her under the armpits and locked around her chest as her body sagged toward the floor. Black arms and hands wobbled in her blurry vision and she had a sensation of moving backwards.

  Stunned, she tried to swim back to alert consciousness up through the gray fog swirling around her brain. But there were only those black limbs and the feeling of being dragged. Finally, she felt herself being thrown onto the sofa, landing with a dull thud that reactivated the pain and sent the world spinning again.

  She felt pressure on her chest and stomach as a large black figure loomed over her, jiggling and dancing as she tried to focus. Sheridan struggled to move the weight, opening her mouth to get much needed air into her lungs. A black ball raised up and hurtled toward her face, her dizzy brain registering it as a fist only as it struck her mouth. Something thick and warm trickled down her cheek toward her neck. This new pain raised the level to agony and she felt herself slipping sideways toward the welcome darkness hovering at the edge of her vision.

  The dark hand appeared again, slapping her mouth again but this time with something sticky and wide. Suddenly, her air was reduced to the little that seemed to be dribbling down her nose, not nearly enough to keep her alive. Inside, she could feel her frightened heart racing, lungs screaming.

  A force, rough and strong, grabbed her arms and pulled them up above her head and she felt something being wrapped tightly around her wrists, pulling her arms down toward the floor. She was too weak and dizzy to try and move them back.

  Two black fists appeared in her runny vision. One reached up and buried itself in her short hair, yanking it so hard her half-open eyes flew wide, almost by themselves so that she could see the small silver blade in the other hand.

  All the other sensations…pain, surprise, dizziness…disappeared at that moment, washed away by the tidal wave of terror that engulfed her as the full horror of her situation crystallized. In that split second, she understood that it was, indeed, possible for one’s blood to run cold.

  A black face, featureless except for the eyes, leaned down, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. Looking into those cold, clear blue eyes, she could almost see the smile she knew was there. The anticipation. The excitement at her helplessness. She wanted to scream…tried to…but her mouth refused to work, as if soldered shut by her own fear.

  Sheridan felt the flat side of the blade, cold against her cheek as he placed it delicately, softly and began to move it slowly down, easing it along her jaw line to her chin and down to her throat. When the blade reached the hollow, she felt it stop, the tip tracing little circles, pressing a little harder with each one. A small, strangled, pleading noise escaped her unbidden, as if her body was reacting to this horror on its own.

  There was something that sounded almost like a chuckle from the black body on top of her, the hand released her hair and another fist appeared, blotted out immediately by the searing pain of her left eye and the darkness that covered that part of her sight.

  The blade continued its journey, reaching the neck of her sweatshirt. She felt, rather than heard the material tearing in a sort of jagged line down her front, revealing more and more of her skin. Her bra front opened, a black hand peeling away the cups to expose her breasts. He examined them closely, taking each one in turn, grabbing and twisting, obviously relishing her pain and squirming. And in those eyes, she saw a growing excitement.

  Next, the blade cut into her sweatpants, the elastic waist parting, the blade making its casual way over her stomach, catching the edge of her panties and splitting them as it did so. At her crotch, the blade disappeared, replaced by the black hands that tore the legs quickly down the seams, leaving her naked and helpless.

  Smooth, cold, black leather fingers ran over her body from neck to thighs, pinching, poking, and once even punching her in the stomach. Not hard enough, she could tell, to make her pass out. Just to hurt her. This was his foreplay, as important, if not more so, than the act itself. Strangely, though, all that she could really feel was the absolute and overwhelming terror inside. It was as if everything else had been gobbled up by this huge monster.

  In a reflex of self-protection, Sheridan shut her one remaining good eye. The other was swollen shut from the blow. Instantly, she felt a sharp slap and the point of the blade at her throat. Opening her eye, she could see anger in those blue eyes. He wanted her to watch.

  If she could have been sick, she would have. Even the thought that she might choke on her own vomit and die was preferable to this. But she guessed her will to live was stronger than she imagined, even under th
ese horrific circumstances.

  He lifted himself up onto his knees, and she saw him reach for the brass fastener at the top of his dark pants. A moment later, she heard the sound of a zipper slowly being lowered.

  Sheridan must have momentarily passed out, because when she realized what was happening, it seemed that many minutes had passed. With her half-opened right eye, she saw a different scene before her.

  Like a marionette suddenly jerked by its strings, the black figure above her seemed to rise up over the back of the sofa. She heard a growl and a grunt. She tried to turn her head see what was happening, but a stab of pain stopped her. There was nothing but blurred shapes moving at the far edge of her tunnel vision.

  Two black shadows intertwined and melded, heaved to and fro behind the sofa, moving back and forth, cursing and groaning. The shadows seemed to be locked together, unable to separate.

  How long they danced, she didn’t know. It seemed an eternity. Suddenly, she heard the sound of glass shattering, and cold winter air washed over her bare skin. And then the blood-curdling scream of something wounded, dying, cut short in mid cry.

  She teetered on the brink of blackness, terrified, alone, in physical and emotional pain that threatened to swamp her very being.

  “Sheridan.”

  Like a rope to a drowning man, the voice came out of the dazed, frightened night and found her.

  “Sheridan.”

  A face, indistinct and blurry, swam close to her face. Huge sapphire eyes shone out and she felt suddenly that she was all right. She wanted to speak, to reach out but couldn’t. All she could do was look into those eyes and draw their strength.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed heavily. “Dear God, but I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. That first night when he came here, I felt the evil in him like a tangible thing. He kept it in that innocent shell, but I knew. I tried to tell you but I couldn’t make you understand. I wove a spell of protection around you but I knew that the evil would feed on the terror and the pain and grow stronger and stronger so I went out to look for him. Stop him.” As he spoke, Sheridan felt gentle hands carefully cutting the bindings on her hands until she was free. She concentrated on the tender sound of his voice, reaching out like a buoy that kept her from being swept under the dark sea of pain and terror surrounding her.