Walking on Eggshells
By Keleka
Email: keleka@keleka.net
Distribution: Gossamer, Spookys, Xemplary, etc.
Rating: NC-17
Spoiler Warning: Post ep for "Teso Dos Bichos." 
The second part of my "Crossing the Rubicon" 4 part
series.  The first and third parts have already been
posted.  The fourth will be along shortly. 
Classification: SR
Keywords: Skinner/Scully angst, Skinner/Scully
romance, Skinner POV
Summary: Skinner and Scully get away for the
weekend, and trouble follows.

Archive: Sure! Please tell me where so I can
visit.
Disclaimer: Get real!  If I owned this cash
cow, do you really think I'd be living in Mississippi? 
Feedback:  It's welcome in my house!
Author's Note: Profound thanks to a great pair
of betas, Fabulous Monster and Shoshana, who
set aside their MSR convictions and help me
dabble in SSR from time to time.
Please see additional notes at end of story.
All my fanfic (X-Files, Hawaii Five-0, and Star
Trek) can be found at
http://www.keleka.net/keleka/


Walking on Eggshells
by Keleka


For most of the last month, I've spent my evenings
with Dana Scully. It's amazing how fast an evening
flies by in her company. Naturally, we're afraid to be
seen together in public, so she's been coming to my
apartment. A typical night consists of dinner,
followed by an evening of talking, television, and
some gentle kissing and touching on my sofa, as we
take tentative, exploratory steps towards a more
intimate relationship. 

I'm certain we'd have launched into a full-blown
sexual relationship by now if not for my reluctance.
Strike that. I'm not reluctant. I'd like nothing better
than to make love to Dana. What I am is scared
shitless. Partly, I'm afraid on a professional level.
Becoming involved with one of the Special Agents
under my supervision would be the death of my
career if we were discovered. Even our current level
of 'engagement' is probably enough for the OPC to
can my ass. An old friend of mine--who recently
retired after thirty years with the Office of Naval
Intelligence and started a security business--comes
by every week to sweep my apartment for
surveillance equipment, but that doesn't do much to
assuage my fear.

Even if there were no professional risks, I would still
be scared. Dana Scully is one formidable woman.
I've seen her demure, feminine side now and it thrills
me. However, she's also a supremely intelligent,
self-confident woman with a low tolerance level for
machismo and chivalry--the main weapons in my
romantic arsenal. A mature relationship with her
requires lots of energy, both physical and emotional,
and I don't know whether I have the stamina.

Yet, the last two nights have been almost
unbearable. Scully and Mulder left for Boston
yesterday morning to investigate the disappearance
of an archeologist from the Boston Museum of
Natural History. I'd almost forgotten what it was
like to spend an evening at home alone. Last night
was interminable. I forced myself to stay up until
11:00. Tonight, I don't think I'll make it that late. I'll
probably die of boredom by 9:00.

I try to make the most of my solitude. Cooking is
uninspiring without Dana beside me at the counter,
telling me about her day or listening to me talk about
mine. I settle for microwaving some leftover chili
and eating it on the sofa while watching QVC on
television. Tonight is 'GemFest' and I'm thinking of
buying Dana a present. A bracelet, perhaps, or
earrings. I know she'll never take off her cross
pendant, so a necklace is out, and it's way too early
for a ring. By the end of the show, I've managed to
zap several hundred dollars on my credit card for a
bracelet and earrings. When they start hawking
Marie Osmond Collector's Dolls, I flip off the TV
and pick up a book.

At 10:00, just as I'm about to call it a night, the
phone rings. It's Agent Mulder. "Sir, I wanted to let
you know we've had a little trouble."

Oh crap. 'Little trouble' is Mulderspeak for 'all hell
has broken loose.' "What's wrong?" I ask, though
what I really want to ask is 'Is Agent Scully okay?'

He stammers a bit which is unusual for Mulder. He's
usually quite glib with me. "We found the killer, sir,"
he says finally. "Actually, I should say 'killers.'"

"Killers? Get to the point, Agent Mulder."

"It's cats, sir. Hundreds of them."

"Cats?" I wait for an explanation, which is not
forthcoming. "Lions? Tigers?" 

"No, sir. Pussy cats." I'm not sure there isn't some
humor in his voice but he sounds serious.

"Agent Mulder...you're telling me that domestic cats
are responsible for the deaths you mentioned in your
email this morning?"

"Yes, sir. My report will explain it all. Right now, I
just wanted to let you know that Agent Scully has
been hurt. Some of the cats attacked her."

Dammit! I feel my heartbeat quicken. "How badly is
she hurt?" I ask as calmly as possible. "I can be there
in a few hours."

"I don't think that'll be necessary, sir. She has
lacerations on her face. They're near her eyes and
mouth, so to be safe, they've begun her on a
post-exposure rabies regimen. They're giving her a
shot of immune globulin now and she'll have to have
five shots of rabies vaccine over the next month."

"My God," I murmur. Rabies. What is it with these
two? My other agents get shot. These two contract
alien viruses, get abducted by necrophiliacs, nearly
die of old age on a boat in the Norwegian Sea, and
now, become infected with rabies. 

"She insists on coming home tonight, sir, so I'm
booking us a late flight home."

"Take care of her, Agent Mulder. And be in my
office in the morning with your report." After I hang
up, I head for my bedroom, knowing I probably
won't be able to sleep now for worrying about Dana.
I decide to take one of the sleeping pills she
prescribed to help me with my nightmares. I just
want this night to get over with as fast as possible. I
strip down to my briefs and wait for the pill to work
its magic. 

Sometime later, I am startled out of my drugged
sleep by movement in my bedroom. I reach for my
weapon on the night stand and all my senses go on
hyper-alert.

"It's okay, Walter. It's me."

"Dana?" I switch on the lamp in time to catch a
glimpse of red hair disappearing into the bathroom. I
pull myself out of bed and to my feet, shaking my
head to try to clear my mind. I follow her into the
bathroom. She is standing in front of the sink in her
panties and bra, brushing her teeth. When she looks,
up I see her face in the mirror.

"My God," I whisper. "Dana."

There are several bandages on her face. Blood has
seeped through them and I can visualize the
lacerations they cover. I step close behind her,
waiting for her to finish. When she does, she turns to
face me, sliding her arms around my waist and
resting her head on my chest. 

"I hope you don't mind, Walter. I didn't want to be
alone tonight."

I kiss the top of her head and trace intricate patterns
on her back with my fingers. This is more of her
body than I've seen so far during our month-long
courtship and I can barely restrain myself from
trying to touch her everywhere.

"Of course I don't mind. You can have the bed. I'll
sleep on the sofa."

"No," she says quickly, stepping back and taking my
hand. "I can sleep alone at home. I want...." Her
voice trails off. There's nothing sexual about her
needs tonight. She just wants the nearness of
another person. She pulls a tee shirt out of her
overnight bag and slips it over her head. Then,
somehow, she manages to remove her bra under the
tee shirt. I've never been able to figure out how
women do that. She smiles in amusement at the look
on my face then takes my hand again and leads me
back into the bedroom. We slip quietly beneath the
covers and I spoon up behind her. She's asleep
within minutes and I quickly follow her.


               * * *

My internal alarm clock goes off at 6:00 AM.
Normally, I run for half an hour before jumping in
the shower and getting ready for work. This
morning, however, when I awake to find myself
curled around a diminutive redhead, I decide I'd
rather stay where I am for another half-hour than go
for a run.

I listen to her breathing. She's sleeping deeply. Her
right leg is trembling slightly and occasionally she
mumbles an unintelligible word or two. She's
dreaming. A sweet dream, I hope. Not a dream of
aliens or mutants or killer cats. A dreams of me,
perhaps. I wish there were a way I could peer in her
dream.

At 6:30, I move away from her as gently as I can
and begin my morning ritual. I'm amazed that the
noise of me showering and dressing doesn't wake
her. She probably took some pain killers last night
and they knocked her out. Before I leave, I write a
note and leave it perched on top of her weapon on
the night stand: 'Dana, Take the day off. I'll tell
Mulder you called in. Call me when you're awake.
Walter.'

The morning passes quickly. Mulder's report about
killer pussycats at the Boston Museum of Natural
History is about what I'd expect from him. I wonder
how different his partner's report will be when she
submits it. Rarely do they sign off on the same
report. 

Mulder also fills me in on Scully's injuries. The
lacerations aren't serious, but the threat of rabies is
sufficient enough that she has agreed to submit to
the vaccination regime. Mulder assures me--as
Scully assured him yesterday--that current rabies
vaccines are relatively painless and given in the arm
like a flu or tetanus vaccine.

Just before lunch, Scully calls to tell me she's going
to see her doctor and then going home.

"Will I see you tonight?" I ask, hoping I don't sound
too desperate. After a night spooned up behind her,
I wonder how I'll ever get to sleep without her next
to me.

"Of course," she says softly. "I just spent two days
eating at the worst dives Mulder could find in
Boston. I need some home cooking." I can't help but
laugh. If I didn't know better, I'd think her interest in
me is only for my culinary skills. After we hang up, I
spend a solid hour planning my menu and making up
a shopping list before I have to waste the rest of my
afternoon in an ungodly boring meeting. Quarterly
crime statistics become bearable as I think about last
night and look forward to tonight.

               * * *

I'm running a little late, so Dana is waiting for me at
my apartment when I arrive.  She's curled on the
sofa reading a magazine.

"I never thought of you as a 'Cosmo Girl,' Dana," I
say, poking a little fun at her choice of reading
material.  An attractive shade of pink rushes to her
cheeks and she grins at me sheepishly.

"Ordinarily I'm not, but it's a special issue on 'Office
Romances' and I couldn't resist."  She tosses the
magazine aside and stands, coming quickly to me to
take one of the grocery bags I'm carrying.  After we
deposit the bags on the kitchen counter, we embrace
and kiss.  I'm half afraid to touch her face; the
lacerations are red and ugly and no longer covered
by bandages.

"What did your doctor say?" I ask, gently touching
her cheek beneath the butterfly strips holding
together the worst laceration.

"Stay away from pussy cats, mostly.  She agreed
with my decision to undergo the post-exposure
rabies regime.  I have to go back for the second shot
the day after tomorrow."

After we finish dinner, we retire to the sofa to watch
TV and talk.  By 10:00, our conversation has come
to a comfortable end. Dana is reclined on the sofa,
resting her head against my shoulder and we quietly
watch television. I don't even know what's on. My
mind is on last night. I want to kiss her. I want to
touch her. But after last night, it would not be
enough. I'm afraid of what I want; I'm afraid of what
she wants.

When the show we're watching ends, she shifts and
looks at me. Her eyes tell me she has come to some
sort of decision. "There's something I want you to
do for me, Walter."

"Anything."

She smiles at my answer. She knows I don't mean
that literally. She knows there are many things I
simply can't do for her; but she also knows that
anything I can do, I will do.

"I'm tired of staying cooped up in your apartment all
the time."

"Dana, you know...." She holds up a finger to shush
me.

"Let me finish. I know we have to be discreet. I
want us to go away weekend after next. Somewhere
no one knows us. Someplace we can be...normal...if
only for a couple days."

It's such a simple request. I want so much to grant it.
But these people--the Consortium--they have eyes
and ears everywhere. They may already know about
us. They may already be plotting how to use this
knowledge to our detriment. I'm reminded again
why I should never have crossed the Bureau's line
against fraternization with subordinates, especially
THIS subordinate.

I see her read my hesitation. I'm sure she knows
every thought that is passing through my mind so I
don't even bother to voice my concerns. She's
weighed the risks and she's willing to take them. If
she has the courage, then I must surely find it in
myself. "Where do you want to go?" I ask.

She smiles and untangles herself from me. She rises,
finds her coat, and prepares to leave. Finally, she
turns back to answer my question. "That's up to you.
I'm leaving everything up to you, Walter. Surprise
me. There's just one restriction."

"What?"

"One room. One bed." 

She leaves before I can gather my wits. I'm
disappointed that we won't be sleeping together
again tonight, but my mind is buzzing with
excitement over her words. She has tired of waiting
for me to make up my mind and she's going to make
it up for me. I'm not certain whether I should be
thrilled or terrified.

               * * *

I decide to be thrilled. I don't get much work done
for the next two days as I spend half my time surfing
the Internet, looking for the perfect getaway.
Finally, I make my decision, book our trip, and try
to forget about it.

The anticipation of our upcoming weekend together
makes our ongoing professional masquerade all the
more challenging. I find that I'm having difficulty
separating my personal wishes--Dana's company in
the evenings--from my professional responsibilities,
such as giving Mulder the latitude he needs in
choosing his cases. Ultimately, I decide to approve
his most recent request--which sounds suspiciously
like a search for 'BigFoot'--even though it will take
Scully away from me for at least three days. When I
give Mulder the signed 302, however, I get in a dig
about expecting him to return with more than a few
fuzzy photographs as evidence.

               * * *

Four days later, Mulder returns with much more
than a few fuzzy photographs. Broken wrist.
Lacerations to his arms, legs, and head. Mild
concussion. Poison ivy. But no evidence to support
claims of a hairy hominid in the Idaho outback.
Fortunately, Dana is free of injury and spent most of
her time in Idaho first rescuing and then playing
nursemaid to her accident-prone partner. I make a
note in Mulder's personnel file that he should always
be partnered with a medical doctor.

Meanwhile, the days pass pretty much as they have
for the last month. Dana makes no mention of our
trip, and I don't volunteer any information. Our
silence only serves to increase our anticipation. The
night before we're to leave I hand her an airline
ticket.

She looks at the ticket for a moment before
commenting. "Greensboro, North Carolina?" she
asks, the corners of her mouth trying to turn up to
smile. "What's in Greensboro, North Carolina?"

"The airport," I say, not above being a little
abstruse. "Bring your hiking boots."

The smile wins out and she looks at me with
sparkling eyes. "Anything else?"

"Nothing special."

"You're being awfully mysterious, Assistant Director
Skinner," she whispers into my ear.

"That information is on a need-to-know basis, Agent
Scully."

               * * *


"Did you ever watch 'The Andy Griffith Show' as a
child?" I ask as we drive along the highway north of
Winston-Salem.

"You mean as in Sheriff Andy Taylor and Deputy
Barney Fife?"

I nod again, unable to keep from smiling now.
"We're going to Mayberry?"

"Not exactly, though we won't be far from the real
life 'Mayberry'--Mt. Airy, North Carolina. Do you
remember them mentioning 'Mount Pilot' on the
show?"

"Yes. I remember Mount Pilot. Is that where we're
going?"

I nod again. "That's what the hiking boots are for.
We're staying at a bed-and-breakfast on the eastern
slope of Pilot Mountain."

"Have you been there before?"

"No."

"Then how did you find it?"

"I ran a search for 'romantic getaways' on Yahoo."

She's amused by this and gives my hand an
affectionate squeeze. "Why did you pick this one?"

"Location, location, location," I say. "And its
renovated tobacco barn cabins with whirlpools built
for two."

"Someone's imagination has been working
overtime," she says, chuckling and smiling broadly.

After we turn off the highway at the Pilot Mountain
State Park exit and take the side lane to the Inn, I
realize that my imagination couldn't begin to
compete with the reality of this location. The narrow
lane winds up into the foothills through a thick
forest. I have to stop twice to let deer cross the road
safely. After about a mile, I pull up in front of a
rustic chinked log tobacco barn. In front is a carved
wooden sign: 'Pilot Knob Inn.' Just beyond, I can see
several similar buildings. These must be the cabins. 

"We're here," I say, turning to Dana with a hopeful
smile. Does she like it, or was she hoping for
something a little more exciting? 

"It's beautiful, Walter," she says softly as she opens
her door, pulling her jacket close to her to guard
against the brisk early December air. I take her hand
and we walk to the office.

While I'm registering, the innkeeper, Mr.
Steinbrenner, introduces us to his wife as 'Mr. and
Mrs. Skinner.' Neither of us corrects him. They tell
us that breakfast is served in the dining room from
8:30 to 10:00 in the morning, and give us a map of
the facilities and the nature trails through the fifty
acre wooded site.

Our cabin looks very much like the main
building--like something out of the last century.
Made of massive timbers and nestled among the tall
trees, it is two stories tall and there is a large stone
chimney on one side. On the porch in front there are
several wooden rocking chairs. It is at least fifty
yards to the next nearest cabin.

I can tell Dana is impressed. She leans back against
me and I slip my arms around her waist. We stand
quietly for a moment and admire our lodgings. I
can't think of any better location for us to enter into
this next phase of our relationship. We get our bags
and carry them to the front door. I unlock the door
and then, overtaken by an impulse, sweep her off her
feet and into my arms, carrying her across the
threshold.

She giggles softly at my display of chivalry but as
soon as I flip on the light switch she gasps. She is
startled by the interior of our cabin. Thoroughly
renovated and meticulously furnished, the cabin
boasts a spacious downstairs with a pine floor and
large stone fireplace. An open stairway leads up to a
loft bedroom with a queen-size pine sleigh bed.

"I'm sending Mulder to you for lessons on choosing
accommodations," she says just before kissing me.
She captures my lower lip between her teeth,
playfully tugging, then soothing with her tongue.
Part of me--the part governed by hormones and
male ego--wants to carry her up to the loft and
ravish her before she has time to change her mind.
But the other part--the part governed by heart and
mind--has other plans. It's only Friday afternoon and
we're not leaving until Monday morning. There's
plenty of time for ravishing.

Before I can speak my intentions, she presses her
lips against mine and I can feel her unmistakable
hunger, her blatant eagerness to move forward from
where we've idled this last month. For a moment, my
mind focuses on the moist heat of her lips and the
play of her tongue against mine. I nearly lose track
of my gameplan until a Windsor clock on the
fireplace mantel chimes, bringing me back to my
senses.

I pull away, setting her down on her feet, smiling
when her hands stay clasped on my shoulders as she
tries to pull me down to her waiting lips. I chuckle at
her eagerness but pull her arms away and lean down
to whisper in her ear. "You've waited a month,
Dana," I say. "I think you can wait just a little
longer."

"Wait?" It's almost a whine, tinged with
disappointment.

"It's 4:30." She raises a questioning eyebrow at me.
"I want to watch the sunset with you," I say gently.
"I want us to watch the final sunset of our old lives."

               * * *

After we watch the sunset, we dress for dinner and
drive to Winston-Salem where I had already made
reservations at a romantic restaurant with the
improbable name, 'Ryan's Restaurant.' Our cozy
table by a window offers us a panoramic view of
large oak trees and a rolling stream. 

Sitting across from Dana, I am dazzled by the
sparkling blue of her eyes. I'm proud of myself: the
London blue topaz in the petite hoop earrings I gave
her as we watched the sunset are an exact match for
her eyes. I've seldom seen her so happy, or so
relaxed.

"Are you happy?" I ask quietly after the waiter
clears away our plates and brings us coffee. "Is this
what you wanted?"

The smile she bestows upon me makes the whole
trip worth the effort, even if we were to leave
immediately for D.C. "Very happy," she says,
reaching for my hand. "And it's exactly what I
wanted." Her eyes and smile take a mischievous
turn. "So far."

She's tickled when I laugh and nearly spill my coffee.
I'm starting to worry that she may be expecting more
than I'm able to deliver. "I hope you
aren't...disappointed," I say. "I'm not a young man
anymore." That makes her roll her eyes and it's her
turn to be a klutz. Coffee splashes onto the
tablecloth as laughter makes her hand unsteady.

When the waiter returns with my credit card and
receipt, we both rise to leave. There's no need for
words. We're both on the same wavelength now,
and I have to admit that my nervousness is giving
way to eagerness. We walk through the dark parking
lot holding hands, not worried--for once--about
being seen. When we reach the car, I let go of her
hand while I unlock the passenger door.

Suddenly, there's the sound of a scuffle and I hear a
muffled cry from Dana. I look up and see her being
held around the shoulders by a tough-looking man in
dirty blue jeans and denim jacket. He's holding a
knife to her throat with his other hand. He pulls her
backwards with him, putting some space between
us.

"What do you want?" I say, looking quickly at
Scully. She's remarkably calm, one hand grasping
the arm that holds her to her captor, the other arm
dangling at her side.

"Just gimme your money," he says, "and nobody
gets hurt."

"Sure, sure," I say. "Just don't hurt her." I look at
Scully again and this time I can see a plan has
formed in her mind. Her arm swings freely at her
side and she glances at it, then back at me. I try to
tell her with my eyes to forget it. It's not worth the
risk. It's only money.

As I reach inside my jacket for my wallet, she swings
her arm up and then down hard, planting a hard fist
between her captor's legs. The man shrieks and
contorts, letting go of Scully. She scrambles away
and I reach for my weapon instead of my wallet.

"Federal Agent," I bark at the hunched-over man.
"Drop your weapon."

"Jesus," the man moans, the knife slipping out of his
fingers and clattering on the concrete. Scully quickly
kicks it away and reaches for her cell phone. "I'll call
911," she says calmly.

"Are you okay?" I ask her, keeping my weapon
trained on my prisoner. The poor guy is still
clutching at his genitals. Scully must pack a helluva
wallop. I'm almost suffering sympathy pains with the
guy.

By the time the local police arrive, we've attracted
quite an audience. The restaurant manager is all over
me with apologies. I don't have any cuffs with me so
I've still got my weapon trained on my prisoner.
There's some confusion at first as the police officers
see the gun and think I'm the perpetrator until Scully
flashes her badge and identifies us.

It's another half hour before the officers finish taking
our statements and we're finally on our way back to
the Pilot Knob Inn. We ride in silence but I know
we're both thinking the same thing--our names are
now on a police report together.

               * * *

An hour later, I'm sitting on the plush rug in front of
a roaring fire in our cabin. When we arrived, we
found a bottle of champagne waiting for us, chilling
in an ice bucket, with a note of gratitude from the
restaurant manager. He must have asked the police
where we were staying and called ahead.

Dana has gone upstairs to shower and 'change into
something more comfortable,' a line she says she's
always wanted to use. When she returns, I'm struck
speechless by what she's chosen for comfort: a pale
blue chemise in a dreamy mix of shiny satin with a
delicate lace bodice. I can see how she might feel
comfortable in it, but it's dramatically increasing my
level of discomfort as my dress pants suddenly begin
to feel too snug and my body temperature ratchets
up several degrees.

She laughs softly at my obvious distress and lowers
herself to sit beside me. "You like?" she asks,
lowering her eyes to her outfit and then raising them
to meet my eyes.

"Oh yeah."

"Good. I thought you might. I bought it just for this
trip." I lift my fingers to touch the twinned straps,
moving them aside and caressing her shoulder. I'm
not sure which is softer, her skin or the satin. 

"You're wearing way too many clothes," she says
with a mischievous smile. Her fingers begin
unbuttoning my dress shirt. I put both my hands
behind me on the floor and lean back, watching her
as she begins her seduction. It's so easy--and
exciting--for me to let her take the lead, and she so
obviously relishes the role. When she reaches the
last button, she pushes my shirt over my shoulders,
pulls it down my arms, and tosses it aside. "There,"
she says, triumphantly, running her fingertips over
my chest. "That's much better." 

She reaches for the champagne bottle, slipping it
quietly from its icy chamber. She fills a champagne
glass halfway and sips from it, her eyes not leaving
mine. Then she holds the glass up for me to sip
from.

"Good?" she asks.

"Very. We should get mugged more often." She
laughs and sets the glass aside, moving closer to me.
I consider lifting a hand from the floor to pull her to
me, but decide against it. I'm enjoying being the
object of her slow seduction and will just sit back
and let it happen.

She obliges me by nuzzling my chin with the bridge
of her nose. She plants small kisses along my jaw
line, her lips barely leaving my skin. Her hand slides
across my chest and she pulls her small frame against
me. Her legs rub restlessly against mine until finally I
can stay still no longer. I move my hands to her
waist and then lie down, pulling her over and down
until she lies atop me. My knee pushes between hers;
her legs open and she straddles me, the lace of her
bodice resting sensually against my bare chest.

Finally, slowly, she moves her lips to mine and I am
undone. I slide one hand into her hair, holding her to
me while I plunder the soft, warm recesses of her
mouth; my other hand slides to her derriere, gently
kneading and caressing. After a few moments, she
pulls away breathlessly.

"Make love to me, Walter," she whispers.

I untangle myself. Rising, I reach down for her and
she takes my hand. When she's on her feet, I surprise
her by sweeping her into my arms. Our eyes meet
and I can feel the barely controlled passion raging
inside both of us. Without another word, I carry her
upstairs to the loft.

               * * *

The morning light wakes me and I'm awash with a
feeling of peace. Any doubts I had about this
relationship vanished last night when I watched
Dana moving above me, her breath coming in soft
gasps, her eyes squeezed shut as she sought her
pleasure and gave me mine. How could I continue to
doubt something that seemed so right? How could I
doubt someone who makes me feel more complete
than I have in years?

I'm lying on my side, and though I haven't opened
my eyes yet, I know Dana is barely a hair's breadth
from me. I can feel her hand on my hip and her
breath on my chest. My arm is thrown lazily about
her waist and when I lift it, she pulls herself even
closer, holding firmly to me.

My eyes drift open and I see a curtain of red hair
just below my chin. She is pressed against me and I
can feel the heat of her body course down the length
of mine. I stroke her hair gently and slowly she
awakes. 

"Hi there," she says softly. Her hand glides gently
from my hip down my thigh, then brushing against
my growing erection. A smile fills her eyes and I
know what she's about to say. 

"I'm REALLY glad to see you," I say before she has
a chance to ask.

That earns me a snort of laughter and a rush of
sensation as her hand strokes me firmly. My mind is
so overwhelmed with sensations that I lose the
ability to think. My hand moves of its own accord,
finding and gently outlining the curve of her breast
and her nipple, already swollen to its fullest. She
gasps softly at my touch.

I pull back gently and lower my head, teasing her
taut nipple with my tongue and lips. When I pull it
into my mouth, the sound she makes is so erotic that
my hips involuntarily thrust against her hand. Jesus.
Why did I make us wait over a month for this?

While I suck and nip playfully at her nipple, I move
my hand downward, first caressing her thigh and
then inching between her legs. God, she's wet and
swollen and the moment my fingertips brush against
her most sensitive part, her body bucks against me
and she gasps for air. I surrender her nipple now so I
can see her face, and what I see nearly makes me
come in her hand. Her face is flush with excitement,
her teeth gently biting into her lower lip as she
whimpers her need. I press my thumb against her
and she cries out in sweet agony.

I begin to shift to move over her but she stops me,
reaching to the nightstand for a condom.  I'm glad
one of us has kept our wits about us.  When she's
ready, she throws her top leg over mine, opening
herself to me completely. As we lie side-by-side, I
think--but don't say--that she is mine, mine, mine. I
wonder how she would react to those thoughts if I
voiced them.

"Move your hand," she whispers between gasps, and
I do, returning it to her nipple, which I pinch and
tease with my fingers. Her hand guides my hardness
to her opening and slowly, ever so slowly, I push
forward, filling her. The pleasure I feel is pure and
explosive.

The rest is a blur as she begins pulling at me with her
hands, first encouraging and then begging me to
thrust...harder, deeper, faster. I watch her face as I
move against her. I know the precise moment she
spills over the edge and I memorize the look of pure
ecstasy that fills her eyes. I watch in awe as her
orgasm overtakes her. When it is over, I move my
hand to her ass and pull her hard against me. One,
two, three more thrusts and I cry out her name as
my own orgasm rockets through me.

When we recover, I roll from my side to my back,
pulling her with me and staying buried inside her as
long as I am able. She straddles me, lying flush
against my chest, her head tucked neatly under my
chin.

"And you said you weren't a young man anymore,"
she whispers.

"Well, I'm not!"

"I'm glad. No young man has ever made me feel the
way you do." She lifts her head to look at me, an
impish smile on her lips.  "I've always preferred
older men you know."

"Have you?"

"Hmmm," she purrs, laying her head back on my
chest.  "What older men might lack in
athleticism--and I stress, *might*--is more than
made up for by their patience and sense of
romance."

"I guess I never thought of it that way before," I say
softly as I run my finger through her red tresses.  I'm
still intrigued by the dichotomies she presents.  Soft
and supple, yet tough as nails.  Fiercely independent,
yet so willing to need me in her own way.  She is a
true conundrum.

"I'm not so hard to understand, Walter," she says, as
though reading my mind.  "Not once you get to
know me."  She pulls herself from me and with one
final kiss, scurries off to the bathroom to shower.

                 * * *

We spend the rest of the day hiking on Pilot
Mountain.  The Steinbrenners kindly pack us a light
lunch and we eat in a clearing near the base of Pilot
Knob, a rocky protuberance at the top of Pilot
Mountain that looks enough like the mountain in the
movie, 'Close Encounters,' that we joke about the
need to open an X-file.  Our laughter gives way to
more amorous feelings as I playfully grab her and we
tumble together on our picnic blanket under the
bright December sun.

When we return from our hike we're exhausted--but
not too exhausted to make love again--before going
to dinner.  This time, we head north to Mt. Airy and
find some local color: a little 'mom-and-pop'
restaurant.  The portions are gargantuan, the
waitresses bubble over with good cheer, and the
juke box is loaded with Frank Sinatra and Dean
Martin 45s.  We have an enjoyable dinner and don't
get mugged when we leave.  When we return to the
Inn, we discover the benefits of a whirlpool for two.

On Sunday we go horseback riding at Pilot
Mountain State Park and then soothe our aching
muscles in the sauna back at the Pilot Knob Inn.  We
stay in the bathrobes provided by the Inn for the rest
of the evening, talk, laugh, and make love.

When I awake Monday morning, my first thought is
that this is the day we return to D.C.  My mind
throws a mental temper tantrum, 'I don't wanna! I
don't wanna!' race through my thoughts petulantly. 
Dana seems equally disappointed that we must
leave, but--ever the sensible one--she doesn't sulk,
she packs.

While she's packing our things, I go to the front
office to check out.  It's another beautiful day, warm
for December, and the sun is so bright I need my
sunglasses.  I decide to walk down to the main
building, enjoying my last few minutes in the
country.

"You just missed him!" Mr. Steinbrenner says to me
when I enter the office.  He reaches into a drawer
and pulls out an envelope which he hands to me.

"Missed who?" I ask, hesitantly reaching for the
offered envelope.

"Your friend.  He left this for you."

I open the envelope and pull out its contents--a thick
stack of snapshots--and shuffle through them.  Oh
my God!  I stumble back a few steps and nearly fall
over a chair.

"What's wrong?" Steinbrenner asks, his face taking
on a look of distress.  "Are you okay?"

I nod, speechless, my eyes frozen on the
photographs in my hand.  Pictures of me and Dana. 
Pictures--obviously taken with a high-power zoom
lens--of us during our hike on Saturday.  Pictures of
us having lunch at Pilot Knob; making out on the
picnic blanket; having dinner in Mt. Airy; horseback
riding at the state park.  Picture after picture of us
together, happy, kissing, holding hands.

Finally, I am able to look at Steinbrenner.  "Who left
these?" I ask, my voice shaking.

"He didn't give a name.  Just said he was a friend of
yours and Mrs. Skinner's."

"What did he look like?"

The description he gives leaves no doubt in my
mind:  Cancer man.  He or one of his goons has been
stalking us since Saturday morning.

               * * *

Despite my efforts to hide my distress, Dana can tell
as soon as she sees me that something is wrong. 
When she asks, I tell her I'm fine.  She gives me a
look that practically screams 'Liar!' and then barely
speaks to me on the drive back to the airport.

On the plane, she attempts to reopen lines of
communication by taking my hand and giving it an
encouraging squeeze.  "Are you ready to tell me
what's wrong yet?" she asks.  

I'm quiet for a long minute as I try to decide what to
do.  She sighs and draws her hand from mine.  Her
disappointment is palpable.  I pull the envelope
containing the photographs from my jacket pocket
and hand it to her.

"This was left for me at the front desk this morning."

She looks at me, puzzled.  I watch as she shuffles
through the photos, and though she struggles to
maintain her composure, I can see that she is shaken.

"Who?" she asks breathlessly.

"From the description,....'Cancer Man.'"

Realization sets in then and she looks at me with
wide eyes.  "The police report from
Winston-Salem."

I nod.  The Consortium's computers probably run
constant searches on the national criminal justice
database.  I'll bet every alarm in the building went
off when our names popped up as victims of a
mugging in North Carolina.

"What are we going to do?" she whispers, putting
the pictures back in the envelope and handing it to
me.  I look at it for a moment.  It practically burns
my hand.  "We really have only two choices: go on
as we are or stop.  And we're in danger either way,"
she concludes softly.

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes.  I feel
my anger begin to grow against the injustices of our
world.  I clasp Dana's hand firmly in mine to get her
attention.

"To hell with it...to hell with that bastard!" I hiss. 
"If we're in danger either way, let's grab whatever
happiness we can."

"We'd be taking a big risk," she says quietly, turning
her eyes away from me to look out the window at
the passing clouds.

A sudden thought chills me to the bone.  "Maybe
you aren't ready--"

Her eyes return to mine, and the electric blue of her
eyes reaches down into my soul.  "Hey, I've been
ready for a long time."

We say nothing more.  She moves the armrest up
and rests her head on my shoulder.  The significance
of this public display of affection is not lost on me.

Despite this, I can feel the tension in her body as she
rests against me.  It is mirrored by my own.  And I
know--despite our brave words--our relationship has
already changed.


*end*
series continued in "Only the Brave Know How to
Forgive" and "When This is Over."

The Pilot Knob Inn and Ryan's Restaurant really
exist.  Look them over at
http://www.pilotknobinn.com/
and
http://www.winstonsalemrestaurant.com/about.html