Notes: As requested, here is the sequel to 'Anticlimax' - make sure you read that one first! Rated R for sexual content.
She appears like a vision in a gothic novel - the woman in the white nightgown flitting across the room towards him. It's not all that difficult to imagine the treehouse haunted. Dark secrets and a corpse under the stairs.
"It's late Roxton," she greets him.
Two candles shed meagre light over the room, and her. His eyes follow her, this vision in white, flowing dark hair like a mourning veil.
She goes to the kitchen and drinks water thirstily.
Then approaches him, licking excess moisture from her lips. "What are you doing up here all by yourself? You woke me up, stomping around."
"Sorry," he apologises mindlessly, staring at her.
The light from the candles behind her penetrates the thin material and outlines her body, and tracing the lines and curves with his eyes in inevitable.
Yes, he's drinking. Rather maudlin this, sitting here alone in the near-dark, drinking. Alone with his thoughts until this vision appeared to distract him. It isn't the first vision he's had tonight.
"Just a nightcap," he tells her, though it's possible he's drunk.
She sits and rests her chin on her hand, her eyes fixed on him. He can't take his eyes off her, and can't decide whether this is really happening or not - more likely not, since it's exactly what he would want to happen. He was thinking of her before she appeared.
Now he flounders for some sensible topic of conversation - just in case.
"You... look flushed - are you feeling all right?"
"It's hot," she tells him flatly, and seems to be amused, even as she presses one hand to her throat self-consciously. She looks away.
His eyes follow her hand at her throat down her wrist, and just below a white lacy neckline reveals the soft swell of her breasts. Her chest is rising and falling more rapidly than usual and his is a match, his pulse throbbing in his ears from the heat, the alcohol, and her.
He thinks about touching her, about having her, how it would be to insert his tongue into that well of flesh between her breasts. It's hot tonight, she'd taste of sweat, salty and tangy and sweet. Warm and damp. He'd pull her nightdress down and bury his face against her chest, run his hands up her thighs, find her eager and open to him. Would she reach for him, pull him closer, say his name with a sigh or a plea?
He knows what it would be like - he doesn't have to wonder, his imagination isn't taxed. He's touched her before...
Suddenly she's speaking to him, holding out an empty cup and asking to join him, and he rises to pour her a drink.
"It might help me sleep," she says.
"Restless?" He stands over her stupidly, bottle mid air, awkward and unable to move away as she looks up at him.
"I kept waking up. I was dreaming..."
She smiles, alluring - which she only ever does on purpose, and is therefore unexpected even now. He can't tell what she wants until she touches his wrist.
"You," she adds, touching his face, her fingers feathery light along his jaw.
Her eyes search his - what is she looking for? He'll give her anything...
He drags her with him to the floor. Her dress around her waist, he suckles at her breast, then at her throat, and her lips.
She holds him, urging him on with her soft sighs and body rising up to meet his every touch. He touches her, everywhere, with all of him - mouth to mouth, skin to skin. Pauses then, lifts his face from hers, looks at her, strokes her face, her lips - parted in readiness for his next kiss.
"Is this what you want?"
"Yes John, please..."
She says his name and he's lost - lost in her, inside her, driving into her, seeking more of that soft heat. Feeling the powerful surge inside him, and her response.
He revels in it, that he's the one making her writhe and bite her lip, and pull him harder against her, he's pushing her till she can't keep quiet anymore, calling out his name, "John!"
He blinks at her as she demands his attention.
"You haven't been listening to a word I've said, have you?"
He blinks at her again, not entirely sure what she's talking about.
"Are you drunk?" She's more amused than annoyed.
He passes a hand over his face. "No, I was just... thinking..."
"You looked as if you were a million miles away."
He shifts again in his chair, uncomfortable, seeing her sitting calmly there and at the same time crying out beneath him. He clears his throat.
"Not quite that far," he replies - at least it's the truth.
She gives him a measuring look, and then a slow smile. "Well, wherever you were... maybe you could take me with you next time you go."
At first it doesn't seem likely that she really meant that, that this isn't just another fanciful vision. Then she smiles, alluring...
And when she pushes him back into his chair and lowers herself onto his lap, that's when he knows.