by Joan Hohl
There was no doubt, no question in Andrea’s mind. She knew the magic words; she didn’t hesitate to use them or to add two alluring words of her own.
“Love me, my love.”
There were no awkward moments, no embarrassed fumbling with undressing. Since her dream world was not governed by the constricting laws of physical reality, the material of convention disappeared from their bodies. Within an instant of dream time, Andrea found herself lying beside him in the grassy bower, thrilling to the exciting new sensation of feeling his naked skin glide sensuously over hers.
There was a subtle difference in his caress; the difference made Andrea’s senses take fire. His hands stroked her quivering body with a gentleness bordering on reverence. Each touch, each stroke, each caress, fed the flames leaping along her quivering nerve endings. The ethereal lightness of his touch teased her senses to an unbearable height.
In contrast, his mouth and tongue plundered the sweetness of hers with bold audacity. His lips were cool and firm, his kiss was hot and wet, enveloping her, taking, giving. Raking, plunging, caressing, the evocative play of his thrusting tongue drove her over the edge of compliance and into the role of aggressor.
The clawing demand for unity in the deepest part of her femininity sent her hands to his hips to guide his body into the embrace of her thighs.
Mirroring her motion, he glided his long hands from her aching breasts to her arching hips. His bottomless blue eyes held her gaze captive as he slid his hands beneath her, lifting her up into the forward thrust of his body.
Andrea cried out her pleasure at the instant of his exquisite entrance into her body.
Penetration. Possession. Union.
Her shudder was reflected in and absorbed by his own.
They were one: she a part of him; he a part of her.
He paused, allowing them both sweet seconds to savor the oneness of their separate beings. Then, slowly, he began to move. Moaning and trembling from the magnitude of sensations swirling through her, Andrea clung to his taut flanks, her fingers flexing, her nails driving him deeper and ever deeper into the very heart of her passion.
Tension.
Andrea had never before experienced the power of the tension winding tightly inside her body. It expanded, blossomed, devoured her muscles, her nerves, her mind. Andrea pleaded for it to end . . . and begged for it to go on forever.
When the tension snapped, the whiplash launched her into a universe of exploding feelings and sensations and brilliant, blinding colors.
Paradise.
The exultant sound of his beloved voice calling her name was the last sound she heard.
Andrea lost all form of consciousness.
She woke again to the dream. Her love was with her, inside her, part of her. The gentle breeze caressed their joined bodies; the distant sea sang a lovers’ serenade.
“I love you.” Andrea stroked his silky, sweat-dampened hair with trembling fingers.
“I know.” He raised his head from her breast to smile into her passion-shaded eyes. “As I know that only together was the attainment of perfection possible.”
“Yes.” In that instant, Andrea realized that only with him could she glimpse paradise.
“Yes.” His eyes were soft with understanding, as if he’d heard her thoughts.
“Please.” Her whisper revealed the ache in her soul. “Love me back.”
“I do.” His smile held infinite tenderness. “I always have.”
“Always?” Her smile was uncertain.
“Always.” His smile grew serious. “From the moment of your creation.”
Her creation? Andrea frowned. Surely he meant from the moment she had created him in her mind? “But...” His patient, understanding expression stole the words from her throat and brought a question to her lips. “My love?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Always your love.”
Andrea didn’t understand; but then, it really didn’t matter. She sighed with contentment. Her sigh changed to a murmured protest when he withdrew from her.
“I am here,” he said, drawing her into the haven of his arms. “You are safe.”
Until morning. The thought opened up a fissure of unease in Andrea; the rift separated her from her unconscious self. Morning meant waking, and waking meant facing ... Andrea shuddered as memory flooded her consciousness.
“Andrea?”
Andrea heard his voice with her conscious and unconscious selves. And his voice was the same as that of the man she had seen in the flesh at the coffee shop. Deep inside, Andrea knew that her wish for his possession had been the reason for her flight from his physical duplicate earlier that day.
The intrusion of earthly concerns into the mind of her sleeping self made Andrea uneasy. She transmitted her discomfort to him by moving against him restlessly.
‘Tell me.”
He didn’t have to elaborate; she understood. He had conveyed a depth of meaning and compassion with those two softly spoken words.
“I saw your physical image today.” As she answered, Andrea twisted around in his embrace to catch whatever expression he might reveal.
His smile was tender and enigmatic. “And the sight upset you?” He trailed his fingers from her wrist to her shoulder in a feather-light caress.
Andrea gasped, amazed at the intensity of the thrill that tingled through her. “I... I was shocked,” she admitted on an indrawn breath. “I never expected to actually see your mirror image! And then to learn that that person is the professor of one of the classes I’d planned to attend this fall!”
“Planned to attend?” He didn’t raise his voice or lose his smile. “You’ve now changed your mind about attending the classes?”
Until that instant, Andrea hadn’t been aware of having changed her mind, but in the murky depths of her gray matter, she had decided to withdraw from the course.
“It’s unnecessary, you know.” His bottomless blue eyes held the gleam of secret amusement.
Andrea blinked in astonishment; he had reassured her before she had told him of her decision! Could he read her unconscious mind? “It’s . . . it’s not?” she responded in a dry croak.
His eyes and smile were tender. “No, Andrea. You have nothing to fear from Paul Hellka.”
He knew the professor’s name! How? Suddenly frightened, Andrea scrambled up and began running along the path, back to reality and the safety of her conscious self. She felt a pang in her chest when he called her name.
“Andrea!”
Andrea jolted upright on the bed. Her eyes were wide and moist with tears.
“Andrea, wake up!” Celia called.
Andrea blinked. Her aunt was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking Andrea’s arm, the same arm he had stroked. “Wh ... what’s wrong?” Andrea’s throat felt stuffed with cotton. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” Celia said soothingly. “You’re all right, sugar. It was only a dream.”
Only a dream! A tremor ripped through Andrea; her fingers flexed and curled into her palm. Only a dream. Her love. Their lovemaking... Only a dream? Fighting an urge to laugh and cry hysterically at the same time, she stared into Celia’s concern-darkened eyes.
“What time is it?” Andrea was amazed that she sounded so normal; she felt anything but normal.
“It’s not quite six,” Celia answered, narrowing her eyes as she examined Andrea’s face. “You’re not as pale as you were. Are you feeling better?”
The question startled Andrea, until she remembered the reason she had been sleeping in the middle of the day. Not quite six! She had returned to the house around one! Still slightly disoriented by the sudden transition from the dream world to reality, Andrea had to concentrate to determine exactly how she did feel.
Her smile was faint. “I think so, but I’m not sure yet.” She shrugged. “I’m not fully awake.”
“Are you hungry?”
Was she? Andrea frowned as she contemplated the question. A hollow sensation in her mids
ection provided the answer. “Yes, I am!” she exclaimed in surprise.
Celia heaved an audible sigh of relief. “Good.” She patted Andrea’s hand as she stood up. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” She paused in the doorway to smile back at Andrea. “You have time for a shower . . . if you want one.”
“I do.” From somewhere, Andrea produced a real smile. “Thanks, Aunt Celia.”
The older woman laughed. “For what?”
Andrea’s eyes misted over. “Just for being my aunt Celia,” she answered in a husky voice.
Celia’s expressive eyes, which were so very similar to Andrea’s, revealed the pleasure she was feeling. “There are times when I feel more like your mother than your aunt,” she said in an emotion-clogged voice. “And many more times, that I wish I were.” She sniffed, then laughed as she shook her head with impatience. “Now, you have your shower, while I put the finishing touches on dinner.” She turned away, but called back over her shoulder, “If you hurry, you can toss the salad.”
Burying the clinging remnants of the exciting yet disturbing dream in a secret corner of her mind, Andrea got up, then smoothed the revealingly rumpled bed before heading for the bathroom.
Assisted by Celia’s animated chatter, Andrea managed to keep the memory and portent of her dream at bay through dinner. But her memory was jogged in a different direction while they were clearing away the last of the dishes.
“Aunt Celia!” Andrea exclaimed in chagrin. “Didn’t you plan to have dinner with Blaine this evening?”
“Yes,” Celia replied in an unruffled tone, not glancing up as she carefully stacked dishes into the dishwasher. “But I didn’t want to leave you here alone, so I called him and begged off.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Andrea murmured contritely.
Straightening, Celia gave her niece a wry look. “It’s not the end of the world, you know.” Her lips curved into a droll smile. “As a matter of fact, Blaine was delighted, though he did attempt to hide it.”
Andrea found her aunt’s remark hard to believe; it had been blatantly obvious from the day she met him that Blaine Parker was besotted by Celia Trask. “Indeed?” she said, giving her aunt a skeptical smile.
“Yes, indeed. So you can stop feeling guilty.” Celia smiled serenely. “You see, my call to Blaine came at a propitious moment for him.” Her smile indulgent, Celia walked to a corner cabinet and took out an emerald-green bottle. “Put this in the fridge to chill, please,” she said, handing the bottle to Andrea.
“I don’t understand.” Andrea absently stashed the wine in the refrigerator. “And I can’t imagine Blaine being delighted about having you break a date.” Frowning, she shifted her perplexed eyes from the fridge to her aunt. “And why are you chilling wine after dinner?”
Celia’s musical laughter danced on the soft evening air. “Let me clear this up for you,” she said, crossing the room to Andrea. “Blaine was delighted when I broke our date because a friend of his returned to town unexpectedly today, and Blaine wanted to have dinner with him.” Slipping an arm around Andrea’s waist, Celia led her from the kitchen to the patio. “And I’m chilling the wine because Blaine said he’d bring his friend here to meet you after dinner.” She gave Andrea a brief hug before releasing her and sinking onto a deck chair. “Any other questions?”
“One,” Andrea said, frowning as she glanced down at herself. Never even thinking of the prospect of company that evening, she had dressed in sandals, a handkerchief-soft paisley skirt, and a hot-pink T-shirt. “Am I presentable?”
Celia looked startled for an instant, then nearly choked on a burst of laughter. “Presentable! Sugar, with your looks and figure, you’d appear presentable decked out in a gunnysack!” She waved her hand in a gesture inclusive of Andrea’s face and form. “All I can say is, I’m glad Blaine seems immune to your appeal.... even though he obviously appreciates it. As for his friend”—she shrugged and grinned—”he’ll have to fend for himself.”
Andrea felt a warm tide of pleasure spread over her cheeks. In all honesty, and without conceit, she gratefully acknowledged the feminine appeal of her good looks and slender form. Her attributes were inherited, of course, primarily from the women gazing at her from eyes bright with pride and love.
“I don’t know about the other man,” Andrea said, “but I believe that Blaine’s immunity to the attractions of other females stems from his deep feelings for you.” Her soft laughter floated on the sea-scented breeze. “I mean, even a thoroughly insensitive person couldn’t help noticing that Blaine is very much in love with you.”
“Hmm, yes, he doesn’t even make a show of hiding the way he feels about me.” Celia’s voice was low and held a faraway, dreamy note. “But then, I’m rather mad about him, too.” Settling into the padded lounge, she smiled and closed her eyes, lost for the moment in a reverie of the man she loved.
Walking to the end of the patio, Andrea trailed her hand along the smooth wooden rail and stared out over the moon-gilded Pacific. She paused at the top of the three shallow steps that led down to a small enclosed garden, a soft smile curving her mouth as she glanced back at her aunt.
Convinced by Celia’s dreamy expression that she wouldn’t be missed for a few minutes, and feeling the need for some exercise after spending the entire afternoon in bed, Andrea descended the steps.
The small garden was anything but formal. Reflecting Celia’s personality, the enclosure was neat without being fussy, well planned without being rigid, and a tribute to the abundance of nature without being unbridled.
Lulled by the rhythmic swish of the calm sea, Andrea strolled the narrow pebbled path and contemplated the charming woman who had welcomed her into her home and life with open, loving arms.
In Andrea’s opinion, her beloved aunt was one of a kind.
Celia Trask had never married, but she had known love. Soon after moving from Pennsylvania to California to further her career in the then relatively new field of computers, Celia had fallen in love with a married man. The man was handsome, moody, and brilliant. But though he returned Celia’s love, he felt morally as well as legally bound to the mother of his two young children.
Since her own upbringing had instilled in her a deep loyalty to moral principles, Celia understood and respected the man’s position. Even so, her love had remained unshakable. For twenty-two years Celia had worked with him, laughed with him, loved him. Their love was never consummated ... it simply existed.
Celia’s faith in the man was so strong that, early in their association, she had invested every dollar she possessed and was able to borrow on his breakthrough invention of a small, affordable personal computer. The heavy investment of faith had eventually made her an independently wealthy woman.
But Celia had continued to work as his assistant in the small company that almost overnight became a very large company, until his death four years ago. Then, with her friend, mentor, and spiritual mate gone, Celia had left Silicon Valley and retired to her hideaway house nestled in the craggy hills above the shoreline south of Carmel.
Celia’s hideaway hadn’t been successful in hiding her from the advances of Blaine Parker.
Andrea laughed aloud at the thought. She had liked the tall, urbane man the moment Celia introduced her to him on the evening Andrea arrived on the West Coast.
Rugged, rangy, and laconic, Blaine did not fit the accepted definition of handsome, nor did he look like anyone’s idea of an academician. And yet, as the president of the small but prestigious Parker College—the institution that bore his grandfather’s name, as well as his own—that was precisely what Blaine was.
From reading between the lines of the sketchy account her aunt had related to her, Andrea had deduced that Blaine was an academician with the tenacity of a bulldog.
Andrea had further surmised that, after noticing Celia in a restaurant in Carmel the previous fall, Blaine had asked a mutual friend to introduce him to the serenely beautiful Celia and before the introductions were conclude
d, she had caught his fancy as well as his intent.
Blaine had told Andrea that, for him at least, it was love at first meeting. That meeting obviously didn’t have quite the same impact on Celia.
Still true to the memory of the one and only man she had ever loved, Celia had dismissed all thought of Blaine the instant he was out of sight. But Blaine proved difficult to dismiss.
Celia had laughingly told her niece how she had attempted to dodge Blaine’s dogged pursuit of her. Then, after weeks of calling her, writing to her, and actually trailing after her like a lovesick puppy, Blaine had finally succeeded in capturing Celia’s attention and, eventually, her affection.
A shiver rippled the length of Andrea’s spine as she recalled the note of wonder in her aunt’s voice when Celia confessed that she had never really believed in the power of physical love until Blaine had demonstrated it to her. The shiver intensified as the echo of Celia’s voice rang inside Andrea’s head.
“It was like dying and being born anew, at one and the same time.”
At the time, Andrea had silently rejected her aunt’s description. She had lived with a man, yet not once had she been inspired with feelings other than embarrassment, shame, and disappointment in connection with the physical act supposedly expressing love.
Now, since her dream experience of that afternoon, Andrea had a mind-altering frame of reference and a deep, spiritual understanding of Celia’s assertion. Or did she? she wondered. Her experience had been, after all, only a dream.
Only a dream.
The sound of the murmuring sea filling her mind, Andrea yearned for slumber, and her love.
Only a dream?
A chill shivered along Andrea’s spine. Wrapping her arms around her body to contain the shiver, she turned back along the path. But if it was only a dream, she reminded herself, she had only to go to sleep to repeat it. Her spirits brightened; the shiver intensified, but for a different reason.
He had said, “Always.” Her love had said . . . Andrea’s thoughts were scattered by the night-slicing beams of light from the car that drove into the driveway.