Time and Again

to get home. He knew the odds and the risks. Now, watching her, he knew the sacrifice.
    He'd only known her briefly. It was necessary, very necessary, to remind himself of that. His life wasn't here, with her. He had a home, an identity. He had a family, he realized now, that he loved more than he had once comprehended.
    But he stood and watched her as the minutes ticked away, absorbing every breath, every careless gesture. The way her hair swept over her neck, the way her stockinged foot tapped impatiently when her fingers paused. Now and then she would drag a hand through her hair or cup her chin in her palms and stare owlishly at the screen. He found every movement endearing. When he finally said her name, his voice was strained.
    "Libby."
    She jolted and spun in her chair to stare at him. The hallway was dark behind him. He was just a silhouette, propped casually against the doorframe. Love nearly smothered her.
    "Oh. I didn't hear you come in."
    "You were pretty deep in your work."
    "I guess." When he stepped into the room, the intensity in his eyes had her drawing her brows together.
    "What about yours? Did it go well?"
    "Yes."
    "You look upset. Is something wrong?"
    "No." He reached down to touch her face, and his eyes softened. "No."
    "Your calculations?"
    "Coming along." Her skin felt like silk, he thought, and it warmed under his touch. "In fact, I made more progress than I'd expected."
    "Oh." He thought he saw a shadow flicker in her eyes, but her voice was bright and encouraging. "That's good. Did you ride the cycle back?"
    "Yeah. I left it behind the shed."
    It had been a stupid question, she thought. He would hardly have hiked all the way. She wanted to ask him to take her up again, now, while the moon was rising. The wind was already picking up, warning of rain. It would be wonderful. But he looked tired, and troubled.
    "Well, after all that you must be hungry." She glanced around as if noticing the dark for the first time. "I hadn't realized it was so late. Why don't I go down and toss something together?"
    "It can wait." Taking her hand, he drew her to her feet. The machine continued to hum, forgotten by both of them. "We can go down later and both throw something together. I like the way you look in glasses."
    With a quick laugh, she reached for them. He caught her hand so that both of hers were trapped in his.
    "No, don't take them off." He tilted his head to kiss her, as if experimenting. Her taste was the same.
    Thank God. Most of the tension dissolved. "They make you look- smart and serious."
    Though her heart was already thumping, she smiled. "I am smart and serious."
    "Yes, I suppose you are." He ran his thumbs over the inside of her wrists and felt her pulse scramble.
    "The way you look right now makes me want to see just how unintellectual I can make you." With their hands still joined, he bent to kiss her, holding himself back, teasing and nibbling her lips until her breath was a shudder.
    "Libby?"
    "Yes."
    "What can you tell me about the mudmen of New Guinea?"
    "Nothing." She strained against him, moaning a bit when his lips continued to brush, featherlight, over hers. "Nothing at all. Kiss me, Caleb."
    "I am." His lips cruised over her face, skimming here, lingering there. She was like a volcano, awakened after eons of sleep, ready to burst free, hot and molten.
    "Touch me."
    "I will."
    It was never what she expected. He had her teetering on the edge with only a stroke of his hands. Then, as she trembled back to earth, he began to undress her, peeling off her flannel shirt, tugging off her jeans, while they stood beside the bed. She wore a narrow white undershirt in plain cotton. It seemed to fascinate him as he toyed with the straps, skimmed his finger along the low scooped neck, before he slipped it up and over her head. His lips were never still, nor were his hands, which roamed to exploit all the secrets he'd already discovered.
    Delighted, delirious, she yanked his sweater over his head. It amazed her that the need could have sharpened and grown, outracing what she had felt for him the first time. Now she knew where he would take her and had already traveled some of the routes he navigated so expertly.
    His skin was soft, smooth. It pleased her to run her hands up and over his back to feel it and the hard muscle beneath. The contrast, the peculiarly masculine contrast, made her knees weak. She heard his breath quicken as she stroked her hands from shoulder to waist.
    To be wanted