again, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her down on top of him, the upper half of her body against his chest, her hips on the bed beside him, her head against his shoulder. Her face was turned to the side, her ear pressed against his chest, and she could hear his heart beating, pounding away at a terribly fast pace, his arms tight around her, clamping her to him.
“I love you, little sister,” he whispered brokenly, and moved his head to kiss her throat and the line of her jaw, to nibble at her ear. His hands caressed her back, the one hand moving around to stroke her side, the palm stroking over the first curving of her breast. He turned slightly, one leg thrown over hers, and kissed her on the mouth.
She tried to pull away but she couldn’t get her arms or her body to do what she wanted.
He kissed her, his lips demanding, his tongue forcing its way deep into her mouth, his hands caressing her, touching and fondling her whole body. She trembled with terror and desire, wanting him, knowing it was the most evil thing she could ever do, but unable to help herself.
And then he relaxed and lay back, his arms still around her. She found herself trembling, waiting for reason to take over or for him to make another move. His breathing grew slow and regular. She realized at last that he had fallen asleep. The drink had been too much for him.
Sud denly it was funny--funny and wonderful. She snuggled close to him, laughing to herself, glad to be with him, the fear and the desire abating. She kicked off her shoes and snuggled against him once more. After a while she, too, fell asleep.
EIGHT
There was sunlight. Hisback was stiff from lying crookedly on the bed all night. There was a constriction at his waist because histrousers were still on and still belted. In his head were all the s ymptoms of the classic hangover--fuzzy mind, muddy tongu e and eyeballs made of cotton, with boll weevils on the inside.
There was a warm, heavy pressure against his side and chest.
He had his arms around something, above him .
Around someone.
He opened hiseyes, squinting immediately against the glare of sunlight coming through the window. It was ten o’clock in the morning, hot and clear, without mugginess.
He was lying on his bed, on top of the sheets, still wearing all his clothes except for hisshoes and socks. His shirt was half unbuttoned. And, without moving his head, he could just see blond hair out of the corner of hiseyes. He was lying in bed with a girl, the girl sleeping cuddled against him, her head pillowed on his chest. She, too, was fully dressed, and her body within the clothing was warm and soft against him.
And she was his sister, Angie.
He remembered, dimly. Last night, on the train, he had gotten himself drunk as a skunk. He’d almost missed the station, almost rode on and on, right past the city and Thornbridge. He’d realized the train had been standing at his stop for some time and he barreled out of the car, weaving and sliding around, bouncing off porters and posts. Eventually he poured himself into a cab and, on the third try, got his address out intelligibly enough for the cabbie to understand. Then he had ridden in the back seat, his head out the side window for air, all the way home.
He had been less drunk when he arrived home. That is, he could stand with practically no difficulty at all. But he was still drunk as a skunk.
He remembered, dimly.
Angie had been up, waiting for him to come home. And she had talked gently to him. She had helped him up the sta irs and to the bed. And then he--
He had pulled her down on top of him. He had necked with her. He had kissed her and fondled her and done his absolute damnedest to make love to her. And if he hadn’t been drunk, he probably would have made love to her.
What in the name of God was the matter with him?
How rotten could a guy get? How filthy and rotten could he be, to
“I love you, little sister,” he whispered brokenly, and moved his head to kiss her throat and the line of her jaw, to nibble at her ear. His hands caressed her back, the one hand moving around to stroke her side, the palm stroking over the first curving of her breast. He turned slightly, one leg thrown over hers, and kissed her on the mouth.
She tried to pull away but she couldn’t get her arms or her body to do what she wanted.
He kissed her, his lips demanding, his tongue forcing its way deep into her mouth, his hands caressing her, touching and fondling her whole body. She trembled with terror and desire, wanting him, knowing it was the most evil thing she could ever do, but unable to help herself.
And then he relaxed and lay back, his arms still around her. She found herself trembling, waiting for reason to take over or for him to make another move. His breathing grew slow and regular. She realized at last that he had fallen asleep. The drink had been too much for him.
Sud denly it was funny--funny and wonderful. She snuggled close to him, laughing to herself, glad to be with him, the fear and the desire abating. She kicked off her shoes and snuggled against him once more. After a while she, too, fell asleep.
EIGHT
There was sunlight. Hisback was stiff from lying crookedly on the bed all night. There was a constriction at his waist because histrousers were still on and still belted. In his head were all the s ymptoms of the classic hangover--fuzzy mind, muddy tongu e and eyeballs made of cotton, with boll weevils on the inside.
There was a warm, heavy pressure against his side and chest.
He had his arms around something, above him .
Around someone.
He opened hiseyes, squinting immediately against the glare of sunlight coming through the window. It was ten o’clock in the morning, hot and clear, without mugginess.
He was lying on his bed, on top of the sheets, still wearing all his clothes except for hisshoes and socks. His shirt was half unbuttoned. And, without moving his head, he could just see blond hair out of the corner of hiseyes. He was lying in bed with a girl, the girl sleeping cuddled against him, her head pillowed on his chest. She, too, was fully dressed, and her body within the clothing was warm and soft against him.
And she was his sister, Angie.
He remembered, dimly. Last night, on the train, he had gotten himself drunk as a skunk. He’d almost missed the station, almost rode on and on, right past the city and Thornbridge. He’d realized the train had been standing at his stop for some time and he barreled out of the car, weaving and sliding around, bouncing off porters and posts. Eventually he poured himself into a cab and, on the third try, got his address out intelligibly enough for the cabbie to understand. Then he had ridden in the back seat, his head out the side window for air, all the way home.
He had been less drunk when he arrived home. That is, he could stand with practically no difficulty at all. But he was still drunk as a skunk.
He remembered, dimly.
Angie had been up, waiting for him to come home. And she had talked gently to him. She had helped him up the sta irs and to the bed. And then he--
He had pulled her down on top of him. He had necked with her. He had kissed her and fondled her and done his absolute damnedest to make love to her. And if he hadn’t been drunk, he probably would have made love to her.
What in the name of God was the matter with him?
How rotten could a guy get? How filthy and rotten could he be, to
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