Catherine's eyes widened in shock, and suddenly she saw red, a bloody haze sweeping over her vision in an instant as Vincent let out a roar and slammed the bars with all his might. He was cast instantly into the dark side of his psyche by that implied threat, but without a complete transition, the rational side still present, as evidenced by the hoarse name cried out in rage in the midst of that roar, "Paracelsus!" Catherine heard it with her ears and felt it with the bond, the physical and emotional ties so closely interlinked now they were almost indistinguishable. She might have been the one who cried out in anguish, sharing his emotions completely.
"Yes, I see that you are," Paracelsus chuckled. "Tamara will be your witness," he said, gesturing her towards a chair near the entryway, hidden in shadows. He ignored Vincent's continued snarls and the loud banging of the bars as he mindlessly tried to rend them from their moorings, instead moving toward the back of the shelf and toward a hand-carved ledge. It was almost impossible to see, cast into its own shadows by the positioning of the torch, resting outwards a way, further along the wall.
In a moment a smaller light flared, illuminating a niche of the ledge and the candle sitting upon it. It was large, and appeared to have markings on it. Catherine gasped, recognizing it as one of Rebecca's creations, the twenty-four-hour candle which marked time in many of the chambers, eliminating the need for a mechanical device for such a chore. Batteries and electricity were not things taken for granted below.
"Yes, we do sometimes... liberate... what we need from the community above us. Again, a matter of resources," Paracelsus replied to her unspoken thoughts.
Vincent heard and understood as well, his rage suddenly increased at the thought of Paracelsus or Erlich or any of the others' stealthy presence among them, of the danger they had been in, the danger the children had been in, all unknowing. His roar now was both of fury and distress, and all the more powerful for that emotional combination.
Paracelsus pinned his gaze on him with sardonic pleasure, nodding as he spoke, "Exactly. But enough of these pleasantries. I have work to do, and you two have much to talk about." He glanced at the newly lit candle, drawing the others' attention there as well. "You have twenty-four hours." He directed his comments to Vincent now. "If you do as I command, Catherine will have her blankets. If you do not, Erlich will replace you, it's as simple as that." Ignoring Vincent's howl of rage, Paracelsus disappeared into the darkness of the tunnels beyond, his chuckle echoing eerily behind him.
Tamara sat quietly, barely visible in the shadows, knitting. Catherine stared, aghast, a fleeting similarity to Mary seen in that calm activity, though she was sure that whatever this one made, it was for an evil intent. Vincent was enraged by that sight as well, snarling toward her and slamming his fists against the bars. Catherine moved toward him and slipped beneath his upraisedhands, wrapping her arms around him to press her body close.
"Stop, Vincent, stop!" she implored.
At the touch of her body against his own, he paused, staring down at her until their eyes locked. His were stormy and fierce in their wrath, hers intense and determined as she sought to reach him through those dark emotions. He drew in a shuddering breath, his whole body trembling, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer yet with a low growl of anguish. He turned so that the sight of her was blocked from Tamara's view by his own broad back, moving them both toward the shadowed area to the back of their enclosure. He deposited her on the mattress, then dragged both her and it to the far corner, against one set of bars, until they were hidden in shadows as much as possible. He sank to the ground beside it then, his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them tight, and pressed his face down to them and his back to the cold rock wall at the back of their prison.
She stayed still, knowing he was trying to exert the rational side of himself, to banish the primal one, seeing it in his intense concentration as he rocked back and forth in place, feeling it through the chaotic maelstrom of their bond. It took a while, perhaps thirty minutes, and all that time she waited silently, sending him calming, soothing waves of comfort through the bond, extremely grateful it was open enough to allow her that luxury now, when they needed it most. During that time she couldn't help but watch him, finally letting her eyes fill with the sight of him, naked before her. She had seen him clearly, of course, in the hour past, but they were under such extreme emotional distress then that neither had the time or ability to focus on that aspect, and she'd been grateful for that, knowing how self-conscious and appalled he must feel over this enforced exposure of his physical self. She felt it herself, and knew his anguish had to be tenfold over her own, considering the intense sensitivity he had in this particular area. Still, now that Paracelsus was gone, and despite Tamara's continued presence, she had to look at him, had to take in the awe-inspiring sight of him. Even hunched over as he was, his physical presence was overwhelming. And the images from before, not consciously noted at the time, flooded her now. Images of him stalking about their cage, his muscles tense and flexing with violent energy, his chest rising and falling with the accelerated heartbeat caused by rushing adrenaline. She tried not to think of the rest, tried not to think of that part of him which she'd wondered about for so long, of how she'd envisioned him in her dreams by night and day, of how he looked and how he was in her fantasies of them together, but it was impossible. He was so beautiful, so primal and sensual, his body an amber gold beacon, pulsing with naked power. He was magnificent, and he drew her to him like a moth to a flame, impossible to resist.
Her thoughts were interrupted as she felt his control reassert itself, felt it flow through him in a shuddering, engulfing wave. She recognized the difference immediately, turning away from those other distracting thoughts to focus on the immediate situation at hand.
"Vincent?" she whispered.
His face was still pressed tight to his knees, hair falling to either side to block her view, but slowly he turned his head until she could see his eyes glittering darkly in the shadows. With a heavy sigh he responded, confirming what she had felt a moment since.
"Water," he said hoarsely, his voice weak and raspy.
She started in surprise, then moved immediately from the mattress to fetch the pail. She knelt before him and held the ladle by both its handle and bowl while he drank greedily, refilling it for him many times over until he pushed it away, his thirst quenched. She waited beside him until he gestured toward the mattress once more.
"You'll catch cold, Catherine," he rasped.
"So will you," she whispered in reply. But he shook his head, not meeting her eyes, and she sighed with resignation, moving back to where she had been before. They were silent for a few minutes, but finally Catherine spoke; "We need to talk about this, Vincent."
"I know," he murmured, his voice almost inaudible to her ears.
He went no further, however, and finally she went on. "How did you find me? Do the others know where we are?"
He sighed before answering, and there was a sense of relief there that the other conversation, the one both dreaded, was delayed for yet a bit.
"You struggled, and then lost consciousness. I felt it, the slow, dizzy sensation in-between. I was below the lower levels, scouting some new passageways, and hurried toward the home tunnels. When I reached the first pipe access, I sent a warning to the sentries. Extras were sent out to the more remote, less-used sites instantly. It was at one of these that you were spotted. When I got to that spot, you were already gone, but I was able to follow."
"How?" she interrupted, curious as to the methods used to track someone through such a rocky terrain.
He paused for a moment, as if loath to answer, but finally did, his eyes dropping away from hers as he spoke; "Your scent, and his. His was vaguely familiar, yours... I would know it anywhere," he reluctantly admitted, as if unable to stop himself.
She nodded, understanding completely. She already knew how sensitive his sense of smell was, and she knew, too, how he loved to nuzzle her hair, searching out her scent when they sat together, reading or talking. He thought she didn't know, but she always had. She loved that he allowed himself to indulge in such a thing, bordering as it did on the edges of sensuality.
"What about the others?" she asked, repeating the second part to her earlier question.
"They know where you were, Catherine, but not where we are now. I wouldn't let the sentries come with, I couldn't, not after Winslow." He covered his eyes as he spoke, and Catherine could hear both sorrow and fear there, sorrow for what had come before, and fear that he might have made the wrong choice in this instance, right though it had seemed at the time.
"Shh, it's all right. You did exactly what I would have done," she whispered soothingly. "If something were to happen to anyone else..." She paused, swallowing hard, remembering their friend, and the ultimate sacrifice he'd made in their name. "I couldn't live with it, Vincent, and neither could you. I know we're going to get out of here. I know we'll find a way. It's only a matter of time."
She meant to reassure him, but her last words held a second, darker meaning, reverberating between them both as he repeated that final word softly, almost as if to himself.
"Time..."
"Yes," she whispered in response, knowing that this was their most pressing concern at the moment, knowing they needed to address it, and soon. She glanced across the pit. Tamara still sat there, almost unmoving, absorbed in her work. The candle appeared much the same as before, the time passed so far too short to be visible in its changing length. It would happen soon enough, though, and the consequences waiting once that occurred were too awful to contemplate. Finally Catherine knew they could delay their talk no longer.
"Vincent, you know there is no doubt in my mind, don't you? I chose you long ago, long before this. That choice has never wavered, it never will," she insisted.
He whimpered in response, burying his face against his knees once more.
"Catherine," he whispered, his voice muffled beneath long locks of tangled hair, "I need to tell you something, something I couldn't tell you before. I had a dream, a nightmare..."
She paused, surprised by his unexpected words. "When?"
"Six weeks ago, when I was ill."
She considered his words. As far as both Father and Peter could tell, he'd suffered some sort of emotional breakdown. For days he'd hidden it, not revealing the terrible hallucinations he'd had until well after the fact, when he was well on the road to recovery. He'd thought he'd killed Paracelsus, that vision made all the worse by the disguise he'd worn as Father. Only when he could no longer distinguish between fantasy and reality had he finally slipped away to hide far below, in the catacombs. His final anguish had taken place there, and the whole community had finally been made aware of the desperate danger he'd been in. She had gone to him then, and found him in his rage. He hadn't hurt her, of course not, she'd known he never could, but his fear at such a possibility had overwhelmed him entirely and he'd collapsed at her feet, consciousness retreating completely. Father and the others came quickly after that, and in no time he was bundled to his chamber, a careful watch set over him by the whole community, each one doing their part to ensure his safe recovery. Many came and went, taking their turns with little tasks and chores, needing to see for themselves that he was all right, but Catherine remained as a constant, sharing his chamber and caring for him night and day over the week that followed. Father and Mary, too, were never far and with them often. He'd tossed and turned in his delirium, consumed with terrible nightmares made obvious by the anguish and grief in his face, and the moaning cries of his voice. Afterwards, he refused to speak of it, saying only that it was over, done. He'd recovered quickly, so she had not pressed him, knowing how the mere mention of it distressed him. Now he wanted to tell her, and somehow it had to do with the events unfolding, of that she was certain. She waited silently, her breath painful and sharp, heart pounding. He felt it, she knew, when he lifted his head and their eyes met, his commiserating with hers, telling her he felt her fear, but making no move to mitigate it, as though preparing her for more.
"Tell me," she said simply, using the words she'd heard so often from both the father and son.
He hesitated a moment, then finally began to speak. "I dreamed that something happened... between us... in the catacombs."
"Something happened?" she asked, her brow furrowed.
He nodded, but added nothing more, waiting.
"You couldn't have dreamed you hurt me, Vincent?" Her voice, though still pitched low, now held an element of outraged disbelief. He shook his head in response, but amazingly enough she noted a sense of heat over the bond, and knew he was disturbed by that reference in some way.
"Something happened between us," she reiterated, almost to herself, "and you didn't hurt me..." She stopped abruptly, noting the heat increase over their bond as he buried his face in his knees once more. "Vincent, did we make love?" she asked quietly. He didn't respond for a moment, and when he finally did it was with a barely perceptible nod of his head, still resting upon upraised knees.
"We made love," she breathed.
He nodded again, but this time he raised his head and allowed his anguished eyes to meet her own. Her heart ached at the sight she saw there, a vast sorrow that swept through him and filled their bond, devastating in its impact.
"Please, Vincent, don't tell me it wasn't beautiful," she implored, letting him feel how impossible such a thing was for her to believe.
"I don't know, Catherine," he said, a fresh wave of sorrow and grief filling him, "that part is lost to me. In the dream I only know of it because you tell me, long after," he whispered, his voice hoarse with the memories of that vision. "I don't think I hurt you, but how could it have been beautiful and I not remember it?" he asked, incredulously. He shook his head before continuing on, "Whatever it was, what happened afterwards was terrifying," he said, his agitation growing.
"Tell me," she insisted, more urgently now.
"You were taken from me, Catherine, by an evil man, not Paracelsus, someone none of us knew, someone from above. He wanted something from you, something to do with your job. The bond was lost to me, muted almost to non-existence. Once I almost found you, but he managed to keep you from me. He knew of my existence then, and once he made that connection he was determined to keep you for a new purpose."
Now she was confused. "Connection? What do you mean? Do you mean that he knew about our bond? That he wanted you?"
"I don't think he knew about our bond, but he wanted me, yes. More than me, though, he wanted you, wanted what you carried..." His words trailed off reluctantly at the end, his voice low and hoarse, and filled with pain.
"What I carried," she repeated, a sense of shocked stillness filling her. "Vincent," she asked, amazement in her voice, "was I pregnant?"
He nodded again, and she could feel deep shame now joining those other chaotic sensations in their bond.
"He kept me because he knew you were the father," she said, comprehension sweeping over her. "He wanted the baby because he was yours!"
"Yes," he moaned lowly, unable to withhold the stream of emotions now tumbling through them both, "just as Paracelsus now desires such a child."
"What happened, Vincent, tell me!" she cried, needing to know that all had ended well, that their child had survived.
"He kept you for months on end, and when you delivered our son, he took him from you. I found you then, after the birth, but he was already gone, our child with him."
She gasped in dismay, and he hurried on to assure her of their son's ultimate rescue.
"I found him, Catherine, shortly after that, and brought him below," he replied soothingly, finding nothing irrational in her fear over something which had never occurred. It had been all too real to him at the time to take lightly, even now... Especially now.
She sighed in relief, amazed at how her emotions were so caught up in this fictional account. "Then we were together, safe," she whispered, overwhelmed by the sensations his story inspired. He was silent then, and she felt that darker turmoil at the forefront once more. Over and above the churning mix, she felt a despair and grief so deep she almost wept with their painful intensity. "Vincent?"
"He was with me, Catherine, but you were not. I couldn't save you, I couldn't..." He stopped then, tears streaming down his cheeks until he was engulfed in silent sobs.
She caught her breath as the implications of what he said came home. This explained what she'd felt from him over their bond as he slept in his chamber, immersed in that dark dream, it explained the grief-etched lines in his face, the anguish of his cries.
With a low moan she slipped from the mattress to kneel beside him on the cold stone, wrapping her arms around him and pulling
him toward her. He didn't resist. He turned and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her closer, his hold so tight it was almost painful. His face came to rest between the hollow of her breasts. Her heartbeat tripped out a faster than normal pulse, but it was there, telling him she was alive, with him and safe, at least for now, and instead of drawing away, as every rational instinct clamored for him to do, he pressed closer yet, nuzzling his cheek more firmly against her to absorb that comforting rhythm into himself. She felt the crystal between her breasts slip between them. She hadn't given it up, just as he'd left the leather thong and pouch in place about his own neck, her ivory rose safely tucked within. She wondered if Paracelsus had noticed and let it go, or simply thought it irrelevant? Either way, the knowledge that both remained renewed hope within her now.
"Shh, shh, it's all right, I'm here, I'm here," she whispered soothingly, rocking him against her in a fiercely protective hold.
"It was awful, Catherine, there was no consolation for me, none, not even the child. I wanted to be strong for him, I knew that's what you would want, but it was impossible, no matter how hard I tried. Without you there is nothing, nothing!"
He whispered urgently, but the words were even softer than usual, muffled as they were against her chest. She heard them clearly, though, felt them vibrate upon her flesh as though to nestle within her heart, and the faster cadence there increased even more in response. Tears spilled down her own cheeks at the thought of the pain he'd endured, no matter how short that time had been, and she held him closer yet.
"The dream was my worst fears come to life," he finished, sobs still shaking his frame.
"Mine too," she murmured, filled with a sorrow that made her heart ache.
He pulled back at her words, looking up at her, confused. "Yours...?" he asked, hesitantly, his eyes red-rimmed and wet with tears.
Further questions went unspoken, but she could read them easily. Had she, too, been afraid that dire consequences awaited them should they ignore the barriers he'd so carefully constructed around themselves and their relationship? She'd always denied such a thing in the past, and try as he might to convince her to accept that heartfelt fear, he found himself disconcerted now to think that her own feelings on this issue had perhaps not been so very far from his own. He was further disconcerted, though, when her reply brought forth a very different rationale.
"That you would be alone again." She stroked his hair and pulled him back against her bosom with a fierce, maternal hold, and in his shocked confusion he let her. "When I think about that, it's too much to bear," she whispered, her voice heartbreaking in its sorrow. "I couldn't live without you, Vincent, not anymore, and I know you feel the same way about me. We have to accept that and move forward. You said so yourself, we either move towards love or away. Your nightmare was just that, your subconscious mind bringing out your worst fears, making you face them. That's what dreams are for, Vincent, to purge those fears."
He shook against her, a louder sob escaping. "What if it's not, Catherine, what if it's a warning? I've had prophetic dreams before, and the similarities to now..." He couldn't finish, shuddering against her and holding her tighter yet, as if he were afraid she were about to be torn from him.
"Shh, shh..." she murmured. The shivers that engulfed her now were due to more than just the emotions of the moment. The stone was cold beneath her and at her back, seeping through to the marrow of her bones. "Please, Vincent, it's cold here, move over with me."
She scooted backward, tugging him toward her, and after a moment's hesitation, he moved with her, needing to keep her close. Once upon the mattress he turned her until they lay on their sides, facing each other, some distance from the rock wall behind them, but far enough back to be immersed in as much of the shadowy area residing there as possible. She felt the conflict in him, the need to keep her warm while yet preserving what little modesty he had left, in the way his knees curved upward, keeping her from the fullness of that intimate contact while yet allowing them to touch at various points, his body heat flowing slowing to hers through them. He had maneuvered them so that his broad back blocked Tamara's view from her and one arm now rested loosely across her waist, his hand stroking along her back to dispel the chill there. They rested silently for a few moments, each thinking about what he'd last said, about the potential for his dream to have prophetic impact.
Catherine reviewed the similarities between the nightmare then, as he'd disclosed it to her, and what was happening now, reluctantly admitting to herself that it was an amazing coincidence at the very least. She had been taken by a dangerous enemy, and he declared he wanted a child by her, one fathered by Vincent, for his own evil ends. He had manipulated them both into a situation where it was at least possible, whether feasible or not. The thought that such a thing could be done through force was almost too ludicrous for words, though. Even were there not the whole issue of conception to deal with, of whether it was possible between them, the logistics of it boggled the mind. Did Paracelsus really think that he could hold her below, without a struggle from herself, Vincent and the sister community just above them, throughout a full pregnancy? He was mad, there was no other rational answer for his behavior. And yet he could still do significant damage in his madness, that much was clear, had already done so in the events contrived and carried out thus far. At the thought of that, of what Vincent had already been put through, of the terror and rage and humiliation, she groaned softly, shaking in her distress. She tugged on his upper arm, silently begging him to hold her tighter. He was unable to resist her need, his arm closing about her to draw her nearer. That proximity, the feel of his naked body, the tingling, luxurious sensation of soft downy hair rubbing against her skin, brought her back to the practical matter of their dilemma.
"We need to figure out how to get out of here, Vincent, preferably before the others come for us."
"Yes," he whispered in agreement, glad to be focusing on that aspect of their situation.
She leaned forward until her forehead touched his and whispered softly, to ensure that the sound would not carry across the hollowed chamber. Rocks bounced echoes well, as the whispering gallery had proved to everyone below.
"Somehow we need to be in the outer cage area when the metal door is open."
"Yes," he conceded, again. "They'll bring in food and water, and other things, eventually, probably daily, and remove things the same way. They'll have to enter through one of the outer doors, probably that one," he said, shifting his head slightly to one side to indicate the door where Tamara had stood a short while ago. They'll close the inner bars first, then open the far ones, set the food in that space and then leave, before they open the inner bars again."
The scenario he sketched out was sound, and Catherine was in complete agreement that it would happen that way. It was what she would do, though she found it impossible to imagine herself in such a position as Paracelsus and Tamara now occupied. Still, knowing how it would be, and using that insight to develop an escape plan were two very different things.
"One or both of us has to be in that outer cage before that happens, or during it, to get out and trigger the other levers."
"Me, Catherine," he said resolutely. He didn't need to explain why such a choice was necessary, and she nodded silently.
"How?" she asked softly.
He was silent, and that told her much. After a minute, she spoke again, this time with considerable hesitancy, aware of how what she had to say would affect him.
"If we pass Paracelsus' deadline, we may have a window of opportunity. You'll be in the outer cage, and there might..."
"No!"
His reply was so fierce and instantaneous she jumped, startled. Despite that, she realized that his intensity was as much that of the bond as his voice, and that the sound he'd made was still in a whisper, probably - hopefully - unheard by Tamara.
"Vincent, it might be the only way," she began, only to be cut off once more.
"No!" Although his tone was softer this time, it held no less urgency than before. "You saw him, Catherine! He would hurt you..."
His voice trailed away, and she felt shame engulfing him, felt it clearly through their bond. He couldn't help but think that he posed no less a danger to her than did that monster. He thought himself the same!
"Vincent, no! You're not the same, you're not!"
He stopped her once more, this time with a finger to her lips. She felt his sorrow pushed aside and heard resignation in his voice when next he spoke. He ignored her words, moving past them to the outcome he saw, and its futility.
"If that were to happen, if I were there," he nodded outward to that spot once more, "and you were here, with him," the word was almost a snarl, "I could not think of getting out, only of getting back in, to you."
She stroked his arm in understanding. "Then how?" she asked, resignation in her own voice as well.
He shrugged again, but finally replied, "We'll find a way."
"If we don't choose that scenario, then at least we're not under the gun for time," she finally noted, accepting his decision, a part of her extremely grateful that such a sacrifice would not be needed.
"What do you mean?" he whispered.
"If we were to try and use that option, we would have to be ready to act in just under twenty-four hours. There would be no room for error. This way we'll have more time to plan, to get whatever we might need, if at all possible, perhaps even to recruit an ally among those here."
He nodded, though she read his dubious thoughts on that last statement, but she could tell he still hadn't seen the logical conclusion of such a choice, of the only alternative which remained to them in rejecting that option. Or maybe he had, and was simply too overwhelmed with those implications to admit to them yet. But they were running out of time, and that had to be addressed, no matter how horrendous such a discussion would be.
"We don't have much choice left to us, Vincent..."
He was looking downward, avoiding her gaze, when she finally finished her thought.
"We have to do what he asks... or at least make her think we have."
She felt a shiver of hope quiver through their bond an instant before he glanced up, pinning her gaze with his own, his eyes dark and intense.
"Is that possible?" he asked, his voice as intense as his gaze.
"Maybe," she whispered, thinking it through. "She's way over there, and there are shadows here," she speculated, almost as if to herself. "But it won't be easy," she added warily. "Tell me how," he said fiercely, the opportunity to avoid the awful alternative overwhelming his habitual shyness for once. The thought of what remained, the physical consummation of their love when he had not yet come to the conclusion that it was possible at all between them, was too difficult to contemplate under normal conditions, much less under this forced and public confinement.
"We can use the shadows and our bodies to hide certain things," she said, blushing hotly and averting her gaze, "but she'll be watching for that, and we'll have to distract her with other things."
"What?" he whispered, his voice low and raspy once more.
She felt heat sweeping over their bond and knew how difficult it was for him to discuss this with her. Trying to keep her voice neutral and calm, she replied, "Our emotional responses, the... sounds... we make, all the other audible and visual cues we can use to keep her from guessing," she said, the words drawn reluctantly from her. Pretending to make love to him was something she had never, ever considered in any of her numerous fantasies or daydreams of him, but under the circumstances, it was a far more acceptable option than the alternative they were now presented with. Though both had been avoiding the other's eyes during this intensely painful discussion, she sought his out now, holding his gaze with her own for her next words. "You'll have to kiss me, Vincent, at the very least. She'll know in an instant if you don't."
He stared at her, his eyes wide with chaotic emotions, but after a momentary hesitation he nodded, telling her silently that he would do whatever it took. To prove that unspoken affirmation, he leaned forward slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, and touched his lips to hers softly, initiating a gentle kiss between them, the tender caress both soothing and comforting. When he drew back he found her own eyes hazy with surprised delight, and that surprised him as well. He stared into the green depths and found renewed courage there, leaning in to kiss her again. His lips pressed more firmly to hers this time, and the contact lasted a bit longer than before. When he moved back again he knew that the emotions in his eyes now mirrored her own.
"When?" she murmured, her gaze searching out the answer in his face.
His eyes dropped down to her lips, to the fullness waiting there, the moisture-tinged flesh which he had finally tasted. "Now," he whispered.
Their eyes met once more and she read his resolution, her lips parting with a gasping mewl. Now...
He leaned in toward her again, then stopped, his lips an inch from her own, to whisper against them, the sound buzzing in her head with delicious vibrations, "You'll have to show me, Catherine. Lead and I will follow." His lips closed over hers then, and the kiss was as before, sweet and tender.
She felt a growing urgency in their bond, though, a sense of desperation. She couldn't tell whether it came from him or her. It was irrelevant, really, for they both felt it, felt driven to push back the horrible reality surrounding them. His lips felt so good against hers, the bottom one soft and silky, the top one altogether different, yet no less so, in its own unique way. She moaned softly and turned, angling her lips to his. He started in surprise, and she took advantage of that startled state, licking her tongue lightly along the parted opening. He gasped, stunned into a frozen stillness. She traced his lips tenderly with her own, but when she flicked the tip of her tongue into the hidden cleft of his upper lip he groaned and collapsed against her, wrapping his arms more tightly about her shivering body. He turned his head, seeking an even better angle, and then pulled her closer, pressing his lips more tightly to her own. They groaned again, louder, together, and she cried out when his knee nudged her thighs. She didn't know if it was done intentionally or by accident, and didn't wait to find out, sliding her leg overtop of his and hooking a heel behind his knee, pressing inward. He groaned, and after a momentary hesitation pulled her closer yet, until his thigh lay between her own. He pressed upward, moaning softly, and she knew it was from the sensation of creamy warmth he found there, at the apex of her thighs.
She rested against him intimately now, and felt his erection surge against her belly in response, tight and hard and full. He was very big, but despite the similarities, her response to him was the exact opposite of what it had been to Erlich. Her body suddenly ached to have him in her, hot and hard and demanding, possessing her completely. And yet despite that craving, she was not unaware of how this had to be affecting him. Part of her was full of sympathy for him, for having what should have been beautiful forced upon them in such an awful way, but another part was grateful - there would be very little to pretend to now. She only hoped she could keep her head, and manage that as planned. At this exact moment, she was both embarrassed and ashamed to admit to herself that she could easily, if given the chance, ignore Tamara's presence altogether and throw herself wholeheartedly into the lovemaking she had craved for so long. The feel of his naked body against hers, their intimate touches and kisses, completely lacking until this day, overwhelmed her every sense. How she wanted him!
Her feelings were far too strong to be hidden now, and the bond revealed them to him in an instant. He groaned loudly, as if awaking from some dream, the physical and emotional sensations of her rushing over him and flinging him back to the realm he had occupied before, solitary and alone. Pulling away from her abruptly, he scooted back to sit beside the bars of their cage, some feet from her, then shifted until he faced the bars, his back to Tamara at that angle. His knees were drawn up tight to his body, as they had been before, when he sat on the cold stone floor, and just as they had then, his arms were wrapped around them, as though to protect himself from her sight. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath panting harshly.
She moved to kneel beside him, reaching out to stroke tentatively against his heaving back.
"I'm sorry, Catherine," he whispered.
She could tell how appalled he was by his behavior, considering how much was at stake.
"I don't know what I was thinking of," he said, his voice breaking.
"Shh, shh, it's all right, it will be all right," she murmured soothingly.
Using her peripheral vision, she glanced toward Tamara, and noted that though her fingers still worked the needles without pause, her eyes were now directed toward them. Her mind flew, and finally she came to the conclusion that his response perhaps played well to the other woman's expectations. It was apparent that both she and Paracelsus knew of his fears in this regard, just as they knew that the two of them had never before made love, though she had no idea how they knew. She tried not to think about that, images once more brought to mind of them and the others skulking about the home tunnels and their inhabitants. At any rate, it seemed very likely that Tamara would have expected something like this, especially under these conditions. And besides, he was in the perfect position now to carry out their plan with the least chance of exposure. She leaned in closer, resting her head on his shoulder as she continued to stroke his back. Her face was hidden by the fall of his hair, and she used that blind to hide her whispered words to him, telling him what she herself had just realized. "It's all right, Vincent, stay where you are, it's perfect."
He tried not to respond, but through their bond she felt his growing anxiety mixing with the desire that had almost overwhelmed him a moment ago.
"Kiss me again," she murmured softly, nuzzling his ear as she spoke.
He shuddered in her arms, but turned his head, his mouth tentatively meeting hers. The kiss started out as the first one had, sweet and innocent, but blossomed quickly to where they had just ended, their passion impossible to contain once their lips were allowed access to each other. He groaned, and released the tight hold on his knees, one arm sweeping around her waist to pull her closer. She nestled against his side, her breasts melting against his muscled ribs, her arms circling his chest, back and shoulders until her hands clutched convulsively at him. No acting was required here. Finally she released him with one hand and slipped it down until it rested on his upraised knees, stroking lightly, telling him silently what she needed him to do. She felt his physical resistance and a flare of heat over their bond, but the first disappeared after a moment, and despite the continued presence of the second, his legs slipped down slowly until they were crossed before him, no room between himself and the bars to unfold their long length. Amidst the passion and need, anxiety and fear still resided, and she felt them rise up at this move, to the point where she thought he might panic and break away from her yet again. She moved quickly then, slipping one leg over his thighs to settle herself upon his lap, kneeling astride him. She pulled herself against him, until his throbbing erection was pressed tight between their bellies, then kissed him again, swallowing his gasp of dismay into her own hungry mouth. This kiss was still relatively innocent, and yet she had never been so aroused in her life. When it ended, they both gasped, this time for air, and she used that moment to bury her face in the long fall of his hair once more.
"It's all right, Vincent," she whispered soothingly, "It's all right."
"Oh, Catherine," he groaned. This time she thought Tamara might have heard, but that was all right, too, all things considered.
Slowly she began to undulate her loins against his, hips rising and falling in an erotic, rhythmic pattern. Within three strokes she felt her flesh parted by his hot length, felt the rigid staff nestled tightly between, its silky skin powered by a steely hard core that massaged her aching center. Liquid honey drizzled over him and he groaned again, unable to contain that sound, his head thrown back in ecstasy. She rose up on her knees, and his eyes opened, staring up at her with adoration and awe and fear, all of them mixed to the point where she wasn't sure he could tell them apart any more. Her hands slid up until they cupped his jaw, thumbs stroking gently along his bristled chin. She held him like that, their gazes locked, then slowly lowered her mouth to his. Just before their lips met, his eyes drifted closed, and she felt a soft growl of passion rumbling from his mouth to hers before she was lost once more in his sensual kiss. His hands opened and closed frantically on her back, but then abruptly left her to grasp the bars just behind her.
He was still afraid he'd hurt her, and though she recognized it for what it was, for the moment she let it go, knowing they had to focus on this moment, that the outcome was too important for them to risk. This next part, she knew, would be the most difficult one to pull off. She drew back from their kiss, but held his gaze tight with her own, one hand sliding away from his face to slip down his throat and over his chest, between their bodies. His panting breath began to increase, growing even more hoarse and uneven. His mouth dropped open and he couldn't stop a moaning cry when her fingers brushed over his abdomen and down his belly, off to one side and just inches from his surging erection, hoping that from behind it would look as though she now held him in her hand. There, that was the response she wanted Tamara to hear.
Catherine moved more purposefully now, and let her head fall backward slowly, her eyes drifting closed, her face taking on an expression of fierce concentration. She kept her hand between them, maintaining that subterfuge, and moved her hips slowly, stroking herself against him to get more of the response Tamara expected. She imagined how it would be, how he would feel entering her, so thick and hard and long. The image filled her until it was almost real, her face registering the emotions that went with such a possession. She felt so tight and hot, her body tense with need. She knew that would work against them, if they were actually to engage in intercourse at this moment, but her arousal would help compensate, of that she was certain. She had never felt this way, the core of her womanhood so slick and hot and throbbing. It ached with an emptiness that cried out to be filled. She could imagine it all too easily, the broad tumescent head pressing against her. She knew how it would feel, grimacing with an urgent need as her hips twisted against him. Yes, it would be like that. She groaned again as she envisioned that first incursion of his body into hers, sinking lower down, imagining how it would feel as he began to penetrate the hidden depths of her body, the thick, steely flesh impaling her deeper and deeper, inch by inch by inch, until he could go no further. Yes, right there. She groaned again, twisting her hips once more, feeling it all and wanting more, despite the limitations which surely must exist. In her mind she took all of him in, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. A desperate compulsion filled her for that fulfillment, a need that surpassed all others.
Vincent's mouth dropped open and panting breaths gusted hot and strong against her face. His eyes stayed pinned there as she eased downward, inch by inch, deeper into his lap. Through their bond he felt it all, felt her mind create a reality that was unbelievable to him. He felt what she did, and it was almost as if he were inside her hot depths. Her wanton expression and the motions of her body against him, combined with her escalating visions in their bond, were drawing him out of himself, his primal half surging to the forefront slowly but surely, the rational man retreating under each swamping wave of passion and need.
Suddenly his hands released the bars and grasped at her once more. One gripped her hip, his arm wrapped around her waist and slung low, while the other rested, elbow to fingers, along her spine, his hand cupping the back of her head to hold her possessively. When she gave a final writhing wriggle and settled deeply into his lap, he was overcome. His hand closed in her hair, grasping the silken strands to tug her head backward. Her eyes closed and her mouth dropped open, leaving her face intensely erotic and vulnerable as he stared down at her. He held her like that, scanning her features with awe for some minutes, then with a snarling growl dipped down to cover her mouth with his own, his tongue thrusting deep within in a desperate motion, unconsciously mimicking the primal joining so craved by them both.
Her whimpering moan was muffled by his invading kiss, but her hands grasped him by the shoulders and back, holding him closer and tighter. Suddenly she felt herself turned, a dizzying wave sweeping over her as their surroundings spun by. Before she knew it she found herself on her back, her feet almost against the rock wall at the back of the cage, with his weight heavy upon her. Oh, god, he felt so good!
But even as that thought consumed her she worried about what Tamara might see. The older woman was out of her range of vision in this position, somewhere behind them both. Her hands flew around his ribcage to rest upon his upper chest, hoping that her arms would impede any glimpse Tamara might otherwise have between their bodies. Just in time, too, for a moment later Vincent rose up to kneel on his haunches, between her thighs, opening a slight space between them which might have unmasked their deceit had she not been quicker. This was it, she realized, her mind reeling with chaotic images as she desperately tried to maintain some semblance of rational thought amidst the maelstrom their bond had become. Their behavior now would have to be extremely convincing if they were to fool the woman across the way. She drew her legs up until they crossed behind his waist, holding him tightly to her as her fingers stroked over his heaving breast. She noted his racing heartbeat as she did, her own so fierce she could almost hear it, the pulse of hot blood so strong she felt her own and his, in the artery of her neck, and against her belly, where his erection surged strongly against her. His hips moved, stroking the fullness of his manhood against her core, and she cried out, the sensation almost too much to bear in her open, vulnerable state. Suddenly one of his hands reached between them to grasp both of her own by the wrists, tugging them overhead. Desperate to cover what might now be exposed, she arched her back up with a whimper. His upper body weight was supported almost entirely now by the hand which held hers as he knelt between her legs, and his other hand moved beneath her as the space opened up at the small of her back, gripping her tight and pulling her higher, until her taut nipples tipped upward, tight and full, as if begging for his kiss. He stared down at her, a rumbling snarl building in his throat, then dipped down to catch one aching bud with his teeth, holding her tight until his lips could close upon her securely. He drew her whole areola into his mouth and sucked fiercely, and between her legs turbulent convulsions began to build. They clenched at nothing, her whole body protesting that emptiness as she moaned and writhed beneath him. Another stroke of his throbbing erection shuddered along her flesh, and suddenly she gasped as the round head was pressed no longer to her belly, but instead at the pulsing gate of her sex. She drew in a gasping breath, then released it abruptly as he drove hard against her, burying his full length within her in one fierce, uncompromising thrust.