WAKING TO THE LIGHT

"Waking To The Light"
By Debbie Nockels

DISCLAIMER: The characters do not belong to me. They were the creation of the wonderfully talented Ron Koslow, but who else holds copyrights at this date I'm not sure. This is a work of love, and no copyright infringement is intended.
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�� Vincent slowly straightened, thus easing his own hold as well as that of the soft arms encircling his neck. "It's very late, Catherine" he murmured with regret. Through their bond he felt disappointment flare, followed by resignation.

�� "Damn," Catherine sighed, not moving. "I was having such a good time too." One hand slid down and caught at the golden hair fallen forward like a curtain around his face, pushing the long strands back over his shoulder. She tilted her head backward to look at him; her eyes were heavy-lidded, and a dreamy smile just touched her lips. Her fingertips trailed delicate fire across his neck, and the hair on his nape rose in response.

�� Vincent suppressed an involuntary shiver, hoping Catherine hadn't noticed it. He closed his eyes, savoring the delicious sensation for one stolen moment longer, then his heart began a now-familiar quickened rhythm and he felt the first ominous heat stirring deep within him. Instantly he took a half step backward. Though he tried to make the movement seem casual the flash of hurt in her eyes was unmistakable, even had their connection not revealed the same message. A tight knot of guilt clenched in his throat, and this too had the familiarity of long acquaintance.

�� "You said you had an early meeting in the morning," he gently reminded her. Miraculously, none of the thickness in his throat translated to his voice; it sounded quite normal, at least to his own ears.

�� Very slowly, Catherine nodded. "Yes," she said, and sighed again in glum resignation. With visible reluctance she stepped away, sliding her hands over his shoulders and down his arms until they reached his hands, which she grasped firmly.

�� "I'll see you tomorrow evening then, at six. Will you meet me at the threshold?" she asked.

�� "Catherine, are you sure you wouldn't rather wait until Saturday morning so that you can get some rest before we start?"

�� "Vincent, we've been all over that," she chided him good-naturedly. "By leaving tomorrow we'll get a head start and have more time to enjoy the cave. I've been looking forward to this for a long time; I don't want to rush it any more than we have to."

�� Impossible to dim the bright expectancy in her eyes by insisting. Defeated, Vincent could only nod his aquiescence. "Until tomorrow then," he said as calmly as he could.

�� "At the threshold?"

�� He had to smile at her persistence. "At the threshold," he agreed.

�� Catherine smiled back at him. "Goodnight, Vincent."

�� She moved forward and rose up on tiptoe to give him her usual goodnight kiss. Her lips touched his, clinging for a few seconds before she pulled away. Vincent forced himself to show no reaction other than his normal brief return of the pressure, but the blood leaped in his veins and his throat tightened even more.

�� "Sleep tight," she murmured. "I love you."

�� "Goodnight, Catherine," was all Vincent trusted himself to say. "Sleep well." He turned then, with difficulty breaking away from the intoxication of her gaze and left her standing in the open french doors, framed by the gauzy draperies floating in the warm night breeze.

�� Back in his chamber Vincent prolonged his nighttime routine, delaying the inevitable, steeling himself for the coming hours. Asleep, he would dream of Catherine. This, of course, was nothing new, but rather an almost nightly event which in the past had been something to look forward to with eager anticipation, the memory to be savored throughout the ensuing day until the next evening, when a new dream might present itself.

�� But now this was no longer true. Dreaming had now become something to be dreaded. For in the last few weeks, ever since Lisa Campbell had re-entered the Tunnel world - and his life - only to disappear once again leaving chaos in her wake - since the night when he had confessed the terrible sin of his adolescence to Catherine and they had wept together on her balcony - his dreams had, insensibly, changed.

�� Why? Vincent groaned to himself for the hundredth time, pulling the nightshirt over his head. He couldn't understand why this alteration had occurred now, when he had at last revealed to Catherine the final, shameful difference that set him irrevocably apart from humankind. He only knew that his hitherto tender, chaste dreams had suddenly become imbued with such forbidden passion, such unthinkable sensuality, that he would awaken from them drenched in sweat, his body on fire from the vivid images that insisted on replaying themselves in his mind even after he woke until forcibly banished by a supreme act of willpower.

�� Every remedy he could think of had been tried, to no avail. Working himself to physical exhaustion during the day had only made it easier for him to sink into slumber at night, and neither that nor forcing himself to stay awake until he could no longer keep his eyes open served in any way to stop or even soften the dreams. Night after night they came, relentless, terrifying . . . and compelling.

�� That was the most terrifying aspect of the dreams: the all but irresistible longing that they filled him with in his waking hours, to go to Catherine, to make his dreams real - an impossible longing which required his sternest resolve to control.

�� And now that control would be tested to its limits, for tomorrow he and Catherine would be together for an entire night, alone. This excursion to the Crystal Cavern had long been planned between them and finally they had set a date. Ironically, it was Lisa's unexpected return which had caused the cancellation of that trip.

�� Vincent was uneasily aware that it would be far wiser to again postpone it, but his gentle hints had fallen on deaf ears. Catherine was eager, even anxious, to see the place he had told her so much about, the cave of sparkling stone that had furnished the anniversary crystal she always wore. Short of an outright lie or just digging his heels in and refusing to go, without explanation, he could see no way out. Normally the most honest and open of beings, the very thought of admitting the truth to her . . . telling her about his dreams . . .

�� An involuntary groan burst from his lips. "No . . ."

�� He fell into his chair and cradled his head in shaking hands. Never. She must never be told, must never know how far below her ideals he had fallen. The tender purity of their love must be maintained, however difficult the effort. Nor must he even hint of the struggle this had become for him, for now that she finally knew exactly what he was capable of - now that she had been told about Lisa - the fear he would then see in her face, feel through their bond, would cause more pain than any merely physical blow possibly could.

�� After a long time Vincent raised his head. Heavily he stood up and, going over to his bed, removed his boots and put on the worn sweatpants he always wore at night. Blowing out the last remaining candle, he slid between the sheets of his bed where he lay awake for a long time before finally falling asleep, lulled by the gentle drowsiness rippling through the bond - the sensations of Catherine sleeping.

�� (Warmth . . . moisture . . . the softness of her mouth open to his . . . a silkiness such as he had never imagined beneath his palms . . . her kisses raining down his neck, gentle fingers playing in the dense fur on his chest . . .)

�� Vincent jerked awake. Panting, his heart pounding, he turned over on his back, feeling the sweat trickle from his forehead and under his arms. In fact, his nightclothes clung to him in great damp patches. Instinctively seeking relief for his overheated body, Vincent kicked off the covers then sat up and sent the clammy shirt sailing to the floor in one swift motion. Lying down again he sought to control his breathing, strove to expunge the seductive images from his mind . . . but as if to deride all such efforts there arose again the memory of Catherine's lips on his, soft and full, accepting his kiss - no, more than acceptance, meeting it with a hunger that rivalled his own.

�� Vincent squeezed his eyes shut; his hands clenched at his sides til the sharp claws pierced the skin - but it was no use. He could still feel her kisses, warm and electrifying, on his neck and chest, sending shock waves wherever they touched; his palms tingled yet with the tactile memory of her soft skin. Waves of heat rolled through him, converging in a fiery knot of pressure in his groin. He groaned aloud, fighting with all his strength to resist urges that shocked him with their power. But his body's need could no longer be gainsaid.

�� Slowly, seemingly of their own volition, his hands inched up to his stomach then down over the waistband of the sweatpants, until they nudged against the rigidity tenting the worn fleece. He pressed down on the resistant bulge and gasped aloud, unprepared for the sudden rush of sensation that rewarded this action. Reflexively his hips flexed upward to meet the delicious pressure as heavy, liquid fire shot through his loins. He repeated the action . . . again . . . and again . . . and then once again, each repetition adding another spark to the passion smoldering inside him . . . passion which demanded more. Pure instinct now held him in its thrall. In one motion, Vincent freed his aching flesh from its confinement.

�� Hands trembling, Vincent touched that part of his body, finding it at once familiar and strange. It was hardly foreign to him, seeing it and handling it as he did, daily, in his shower and when urinating. Yet how strangely alien it now seemed, brought to life by terrifying new sensations, the smooth skin stretched taut over demanding tumescence, turgid veins pulsing the rhythm of his pounding heart.

�� He swept the swollen organ with a light, reluctant glide of his fingertips. This merely caused his penis to throb and quiver, and did nothing to relieve the driving urgency. Uttering a strangled sound he admitted defeat and curled one hand around the thick shaft. Awkwardly, with unpracticed motions, he began stroking himself, almost weeping from the mixture of pleasure and frustration and a pervading sense of utter humiliation. He quickly discovered his most sensitive area and concentrated on that, shortening his strokes accordingly. Each movement of his hand heightened the almost unbearable pressure building inside, at the same time drawing him one step closer to release. His breathing grew hoarse and an incredible tension tightened his entire body.

�� A sudden image of Catherine flashed before his eyes, her head thrown back, calling his name in breathless tones while a heavy flush spread over her neck, mounting to her cheeks.

�� "Catherine!" Vincent all but sobbed the beloved name as one last stroke brought him to the crisis. In an instant all the countless streamers of fire surged together into one dense knot of molten sensation. There was a microsecond when the world stood still and his heart seemed to stop, and then -

�� A minor explosion occurred somewhere within him; his body convulsed as a tidal wave of heat burst out in all directions from his groin. The rigid flesh in his grasp grew iron-hard then gave a violent throb, and Vincent felt liquid warmth spurt over his hand, again and again. His senses reeled; a pulsing mist clouded his vision. After what seemed an eternity he brought his eyes into focus once more, only then realizing that the sounds he had been hearing were his own gasping cries. As his faculties of observation slowly returned he saw that he now lay on his right side in a near-fetal position, that his hand still cupped his subsiding organ, and that copious amounts of a wet, thick substance spattered his hand and groin as well as the sheets and his sweatpants.

�� Averting his eyes in shamed revulsion, Vincent wiped his hand on a dry section of sheet, then got out of the bed. He pulled off his pants and used them to wipe at the sticky mess that matted his fur, but quickly realized that something more than just a makeshift towel was needed. Crossing over to the washbasin, he wet a washcloth and cleaned himself off as best he could, gritting his teeth against the chill of the unheated water. He donned his remaining pair of clean sweatpants then turned his attention to the bed. Within minutes fresh sheets were in place, the soiled ones had been wiped free of the viscous residue and, along with his pants, placed in a bundle near the chamber's entrance, ready to be carried to the laundry at first light.

�� With a heavy heart Vincent returned to his bed, expecting to stare sleepless at the ceiling until morning came. Much to his surprise, however, an instant languor seized him the moment he lay down, dragging him into sleep. His last conscious thought was a fleeting recollection of Catherine's face, luminous with joy - as he had seen it in his imagination that night.

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�� Vincent watched the slender figure descend the metal rungs, bathed in misty blue radiance. As always the sight of her lifted his heart so that he forgot the dreams and his fears and only waited impatiently for the moment when he would hold her in his arms. Catherine stepped off the ladder and turned around.

�� "Hi!" Depositing two large bags on the ground, she rushed over and flung her arms around Vincent, giving him an enthusiastic hug. Somewhat taken aback by her exuberance, Vincent hesitated a second before more cautiously returning the embrace. Long minutes passed but Catherine showed no signs of intending to move from that spot.

�� "Catherine?" he finally murmured in her ear. She raised her head from his chest, showing him a flushed face and eyes that sparkled.

�� "Hmmm?"

�� "Shouldn't we be going?" He was ironically amused that after all her insistence on leaving that night, it was now she who was delaying their departure.

�� "Mmmm...I suppose so," she sighed, then looked up at him demurely. "Of course, it's pretty nice right here."

�� Vincent glanced around at the hard, dusty floor and bare concrete walls, and said drily. "Catherine, this is hardly my idea of nice."

�� "I wasn't referring to the surroundings, Vincent." Catherine batted her lashes at him outrageously, then grinned and pulled away. "Okay, slave driver, you win. Let's go."

�� Since he had no ready response to the first part of her remark, Vincent wisely ignored it. Leaning down, he picked up his sleeping pack and put his arms through the straps, settling the compact bundle on his back. Then he walked over to where Catherine was struggling with her bag, which though it appeared to be every bit as tightly rolled as his own, made a much larger pack.

�� "Let me carry that for you," he offered, helping her adjust one strap. He eyed the second bag at her feet, a blue nylon tote, and wondered just how much she had packed for a one-night trip.

�� Catherine flashed him a smile. "That's okay, Vincent. It's really not as heavy as it looks." She shifted the load around a bit. "Just bulky, that's all." She reached for the totebag but Vincent beat her to it.

�� "Wait a minute, Catherine." Shrugging off his pack he undid the elastic cords holding it together and passed them through the straps of the totebag, adding it to his own load.

�� "Bungee cords." Catherine was somewhat surprised. "I didn't realize you had those down here."

�� Vincent rose to his feet. "Mouse 'found' some," he told her wryly. "He thought they would be useful for our trip."

�� Catherine shook her head with a rueful smile. "How did Father react to that?"

�� "Father doesn't know - at least, I don't think he does." Vincent tested the fastenings.

�� "Are you sure that's not too heavy?" Catherine asked, eyeing the now-lopsided pack with a concerned frown.

�� Vincent hoisted the bundle to his back once more and smiled at her. "I can't even tell it's there," he told her, not altogether truthfully. He picked up the large, high-powered flashlight in his right hand and reached out to her with his left. Catherine thanked him with another smile, took the proffered hand in hers, and together they set off.

�� Vincent set a moderate but steady pace that proved more strenuous than it first appeared. After two hours Catherine called for a rest stop. Dropping her backpack to the ground she sat down with a loud sigh and rueful grimace.

�� "Whew!" she exclaimed, "I'm more out of shape than I thought; my legs are beginning to stiffen up." She straightened her legs out in front of her and, grabbing her toes, leaned forward, maintaining a gentle, steady stretch on the calf muscles. She held this pose for a long minute then slowly released it and straightened up. She repeated this maneuver again then began massaging the calf of one leg through her jeans.

�� After a moment two large, furry hands brushed hers aside and took over. Catherine sighed and relaxed against the wall, but then leaned forward again to roll her jeans up to the knee.

�� "Here, Vincent, this will make it easier." She rested against the wall once more, closing her eyes.

�� Vincent hesitated then slowly resumed the massage. Her muscles were indeed tight and as he worked to loosen them he was disturbingly aware of the warmth of her bare skin, smooth as silk under his fingers.

�� "Mmmm, that feels wonderful," Catherine murmured, then winced as he found an unexpectedly tender spot. Her eyes flew open. "Ouch! I take it back; that hurt!"

�� "You have a knot here," Vincent told her.

�� "So I see." Catherine gritted her teeth as Vincent continued, his strong fingers rubbing and pressing on sore muscles until the cramp was gone. He worked on her other leg until the stiffness there relaxed as well, then helped Catherine to her feet. She took a few experimental steps.

�� "Are you all right?" he asked.

�� Catherine nodded. She went over to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "Thank you." Her face tilted upward and Vincent realized she was going to kiss him. A flood of emotions rushed in - elation, anticipation and something very close to panic. He felt her breath on his face and had a split-second in which to brace himself before her lips touched his. The customary two or three seconds passed and still the kiss continued.

�� Vincent's heart began to thump. He commanded himself to stand motionless. Then Catherine's arms snaked around his neck; her slender body pressed closer, and he felt, unmistakably, her mouth soften beneath his, opening just the tiniest bit. The knowledge galvanized him. Without thought, without his even willing it, his arms enveloped her, pulling her more closely against him, and for a long, delirious moment Vincent lost himself in the blossoming heat of Catherine's kiss.

�� The light flick of her tongue against his lips brought him to his senses. With a choked cry, Vincent pulled away, heart beating wildly in his chest.

�� "Catherine, no!" He gasped for breath, keenly aware of every electric sensation racing through his veins.

�� "What is it? What's wrong?"

�� Vaguely he noticed that Catherine sounded different, her voice strangely husky. He risked a quick look and saw that she also seemed to be catching at her breath. Her eyes met his and he was instantly captured in their mysterious depths. Frantically he stammered out the first thing that came to mind.

�� "We - we should be going . . ." Her gaze continued, compelling, demanding the truth he feared to utter. Words failed him; he could only stare helplessly.

�� "You're still afraid." Her words were tender, her eyes filled with sorrow. Catherine raised her hand to his face and softly caressed his cheek. "Oh, Vincent," she sighed. "Don't you know how different this is from what happened before?"

�� "Different?" Vincent managed to whisper.

�� "Yes, different," Catherine nodded. "Vincent, please just think about this: It's been almost twenty years since that incident with Lisa. You're a man now, not a half-grown adolescent with hormones raging out of control - "

�� Vincent flinched and tried to look away, but her hand on his chin prevented that.

�� "- and I am not Lisa!"

�� Her tone, determined, even fierce, widened his eyes.

�� Catherine continued, "I'm not a teenage girl curious about those mysterious and exciting feelings that everyone talks about but warns you against. I'm not trying to sample the forbidden delights without accepting full responsibility for my actions. I know all about the joys and sorrows of a sexual relationship, Vincent. I'm a grown woman and I love you - so much."

�� Her voice was softer now; her grip on his chin became caressing. "I never knew it was possible to love like this, so completely, with all that I am - including physically."

�� Her words jolted him. He stood spellbound, scarcely able to breathe. Is this another dream? he wondered wildly. But no, even in his dreams he had never imagined hearing such things from her lips.

�� Catherine traced his mouth with one finger. "In case I haven't made it clear, I'm telling you that I want you, Vincent. I want us to make love. I want to show you how beautiful and desirable you are, and I want to prove to you once and for all that these hands - "

�� Here she took his unresisting hands in hers, raised them up and pressed soft kisses on the backs of his fingers, just as she had done that night, weeks ago, on her terrace, after hearing about Lisa -

�� " - these hands are meant to give love!" One last kiss, then Catherine released his hands and stepped back. Still keeping her eyes on his, she repeated, "Please think about what I've said," then turned and went over to her backpack, quickly hauling it into place. She walked a few yards away to where the tunnel forked, and looked back at him, obviously waiting.

On to Part Two

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