A Fine Cast of Characters - J. Dane Tyler [53]
She was never there when I came home. The silent, dark house almost mourned her absence. I would search every room, just to be sure, but they were always empty.
Every night I went down the hill along winding streets and through the narrow band of trees to the cove, and the lighthouse. I waited on the sand for her, and gave up my ritualistic scan of the tree line or the breakers for her swimming form. I never saw her bathing. The moon progressed across the sky through its phases and narrowed as it went, casting less and less light over the playful waters. If I could not see her in the full moon’s glow, I wouldn’t as it weakened, either.
But if I sat on the sand and waited, watched the water, I would see it. That black little mound rising, slowly emerging from the waters just beyond the breakers, and she’d stride to the sand, hips swaying seductively, waves cascading over her as if she weren’t there, never disturbing her path or balance, never weighing on her. Like one of them—her or the water—didn’t exist.
And she would stand in front of me, smiling and silent, and dance. Every night, dance to the sea’s music, the ocean’s symphony. She moved and swayed and undulated and pulsed and writhed. Erotic doesn’t begin to describe it. And every night, with reckless abandon of decency, we ravaged each other in the dunes while the surf harmonized to our ecstatic cries and convulsions.
Afterward, we walked back to the bungalow. She would pick at something to eat, but her glowing eyes burned into my soul, a wordless demand for my attention, sexual servitude. We took each other on the kitchen table; the living room couch; the foyer floor; the hallway outside the bedroom; in the bathroom with her bent over the sink, in the tub, or against the wall; in bed—everywhere, anywhere, every chance we could. An urgency grew in her every time we mounted each other, something clinging and desperate and frightened, and it made the sensations more erotic and sensual. I couldn’t contain myself, stall the climax, could never tease and play. She pushed me, urgent, needy, and I gave willingly and repeatedly.
And every night I awoke and found her sitting up in bed staring out the window at the changing moon phases. It moved from three-quarters to half, and toward one-quarter.
“The moon is fading,” she said, every night.
“Yes. Why do you fear that?”
She looked at me with her glowing feline eyes. “Why do you question everything I say?”
“I don’t. I just want to know you. I don’t even know your name, for God’s sake.”
“Of course you do,” she said, and returned her gaze to the moon.
“No, I don’t. You won’t tell me.”
“You’ve known it all along. I don’t need to tell you, any more than you need to tell me yours. You already know me. I am yours, and you are mine. We belong to one another. Why don’t you know these things?”
Her voice rose in pitch, like a flute playing a concerto. I knew she was irritated. She’d become more irritable, more agitated, each night. But her voice stayed so beautiful, elegant and musical.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“I don’t need to, I said!” Her brows lowered, teeth bared like an animal, cheeks flushed with anger. “Damn you, why don’t you listen to me? Why don’t you understand? You know me already, you’ve always known me! Why don’t you see?!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” An instant guilty pang hit me. She was troubled, and I wasn’t patient or understanding. But something flared hot and burned in me. “You won’t tell me your name, you won’t leave the house with me, every night you’re at the cove swimming in the dark, you don’t tell me how you spend your days or where you go or what the hell your name is! I don’t know you at all!”
“You bastard! How dare you say such things!”
She snarled, flung herself at me, and clawed at my chest and face. I seized her wrists and toppled back, but she pulled hard against me and her muscular legs straddled my chest. Growling, head