When he was undressed and in the narrow bed himself, he hoisted Famke up
andher arms braced against the sloped ceiling for balanceslid her down
onto him. She wobbled, unsure just
what to do now; and he kept his hands on her hips.
He held her still while he began to move.
Famke looked down into Alberts face; and then he looked up into hers,
the planes of it in twilight shadows. Famke
removed one hand from the ceiling and pulled her wild hair to the side so that,
behind her, he might look on the face and form of his Nimue, his masterwork, his
"Ah . . . . "Very
quickly, he gasped and began to shudder.
As she rode that wave, Famke knew that he was seeing her as his heroic
nymph, and she did not mind one bit. She
had a lovely warm, shimmering feeling, a feeling thatlike the new fever, but
differentmade her want something . . . As Albert quieted beneath her, she felt the
shimmering rise and then fall away, leaving in its wake a vague sense of longing
and that familiar tickle in her lungs.
Famke coughed. The
contractions pushed Albert out of her, and he slid back, to where the bed met
"Really, darling," he said as she got up and, for want of a
handkerchief, coughed further into the paint-stained camisole, "you should
take something for that dreadful hack. "He
swabbed at himself with the bedsheet. "Ill
get you an elixir the next time Im out. "
Famke shook her head, yes, no, feeling herself cold and wet and somehow
bereft, but still with that shimmering sensation of wanting inside. She lowered the camisole and smiled at Albert, and he said again,
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...