Beowulf's Children

Because his masculinity was so painfully self-evident that it could have withstood anything short of a hurricane without withering noticeably; and because Trish was saying, "You're going to get everything that you want-and more." Her hand slid between his legs. She started a silky stroking movement.

He whined. He hated to hear the sound of it coming from his own throat, but undeniably, there it was. Oh, God-he hoped he didn't start to whimper and beg.

"Please..." he whimpered. Maybe strong women liked whimpering. He was in a state to try anything. Dammit, she wouldn't let him any closer.

If she kept stroking like that, in another moment it wasn't going to make any differ-

She stopped, fingertips still touching. He felt like a violin string in the last moments of a Vivaldi concerto. A weird notion danced through his head: that Trish in his room was some last legacy from what he could not cease to remember as a neat array of clean bones... from the woman who would have been his father's wife. For just this once, for Linda, he would believe in life after death.

"First," she said softly. "First I need to know what kind of man you are."

"Whatever kind you want," he said, and believed he meant it.

"I want to know," she said, and her eyes bored into him. "I want to know if you're the kind who believes in revenge."

He withered. She couldn't know why; and he was thinking again. Not Linda. Aaron must have sent her; nothing else could have. And Edgar Sikes did believe in revenge.

Oh God. Her hand felt so good. She smelled so good. It had been so long. He pulled back a little to see her face.

"Yes," he said. On Aaron Tragon!

"Good," she said, and began to unbutton her blouse. "There's something that Aaron wants you to do."

"Aaron... ?" he asked inanely. But then she had bent him back flat on the bed, and her hands were unbuckling his belt with practiced precision, and her left nipple was in his mouth. And all he could think of was: I'll believe in the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bu

She knew it. Ruth could see that. Aaron was reining Zodiac back, letting her win. Chamels weren't quite as fast as horses, and Aaron was a fine horseman, but by the time they were halfway across the plowed field, she knew that she was going to win.

She knew it. Knew it! Well, whatever his little joke was, she was going to get full measure of satisfaction from her victory. She'd make him take her to one of the notorious Surf's Up bashes, that's what she'd do.

She would arrive with him, on his arm-

"Hiyahhh!" She looked around, and saw that Aaron had suddenly stopped playing, he was letting Zodiac have her way, and the mare was charging powerfully, head down, feet digging into the soil and ripping up great clots of earth, Aaron bent into the saddle, urging the quarterhorse on and on.

Ruth heard a little yip of fright escape her throat. For a time Tarzan kept his lead, and then Aaron slipped past her just as they entered the shadow of the grove, and she had lost.

She reared Tarzan around, and brought him to a halt. One thing at least-chamels could change direction or stop faster than horses. She slipped down his back and patted his muzzle, calming him, stroked the great, trembling hind legs. Tarzan stretched and folded down into a sitting position. Where shadows dappled his back, his color had begun to change.

Aaron returned on foot, leading Zodiac by the reins.

"You know," he said, "I think that chamels will actually be better for hunting than horses. They're more flexible in the brush."

"And almost as fast on the straight," she said.

He was very close to her. God, her whole body was shaking. She wasn't certain that they had ever been this close together. Not alone, anyway. He was breathing very hard, and sweating. His sweat smelled very... male.

"So," she said, a little frightened by her own daring. "Exactly what reward do you claim?"

He leaned nearer until she thought that he was going to kiss her. She moistened her lips, and tilted her face up, and when his face was only an inch away, he said: "I want you to serve the food."

She felt her face drop, her entire body freeze with disappointment.

Then he added: "First."

They spread the picnic blanket. Aaron handed her his backpack.

Her hands were shaking. She was trying so hard to do everything perfectly, to bring a dancer's grace to every tiny motion. But every part of her was too aware that he was watching, every inch of her skin was too sensitive, felt his touch even though they were separated by feet. She kept speeding up, and he, with infinite patience, kept reminding her to slow down.

"We have all the time in the world," he said.

She set out the carefully packed plates, and the carefully wrapped food, and the carefully wrapped utensils. "Slowly," he said. "You have to make sure that everything is in its place. Everything is exactly where it needs to be."

She nodded, feeling feverishly hot.

They ate. There was no moment when his eyes met hers, and she wanted to scream, wanted to throw the food down and throw herself into his arms, wanted to feel his lips and hands and tongue all over her body, just like she'd read in the books, seen in the holos. She longed to do the same for him. Please God, please, let this be the time, now, here...

But her silent pleas went unheard. He continued to concentrate on his food, eating as slowly and carefully as if it were a tea party.

She watched his hands. So large and strong. They moved with such certainty. Such strength. Hands like that could do anything, could take anything that they wanted.

She thought she was going to die. Please...

"Excuse me." He broke the silence for the first time in five agonizing minutes.

touch...

"Would you hand me the butter?"

me. I love you so...

She nodded silently, and grasped the small platter, extending it to him. His hand reached out, and their fingers met.

And their eyes. And she was falling forward.

And then their lips.

And then it was everything, every moment she had hoped for, so exhilarating that even the brief, sharp pain as he eased into her only increased the impact as dream crossed over into reality. A fierce, tender, laughing, tearful, all consuming experience.

His lips and tongue. And God, his hands. So gentle. So strong.

Hands like his could do anything. Take anything they wanted.

She thought she was going to die.

Trish Chance was bored. Aaron had a plan, sure he did, but right now his plan was to do nothing... and meanwhile they were trapped on the island, unable to go to the mainland, under suspicion but forced to be polite to the First.

Trish left the comm shack wearing a wide grin. Smile and smile and be a villain, she thought. She didn't have to spend all her hours sulking. Edgar was an eager student-and so grateful, too. And everyone was so surprised! The comm shack was centrally located, which meant it was near everyone's place, and if Trish kept visiting Edgar everyone on the island was going to know it.

Her grin faded when she saw Carolyn McAndrews approaching with a purposeful look. Carolyn had tried to adopt Trish in the early days, when no one was quite sure how to raise the Bottle Babies. Trish had been ten years old, and eager to have a permanent home rather than the communal nursery. But not that eager, not in that home.

Now Carolyn was coming at her. "Trish!" she called.

Trish slowed, hoisted a smile into place. "Hi, Carolyn."

"Have you got a minute to talk?"

"Sure. What's up?"

Carolyn quieted as Julia Hortha and Ma