As I pull the rental into a not-quite parking space in an alley off Queen Street, I glance over at the passenger side. My consort, shrouded in a plain but functional black wrap, rests uneasily, stiff and upright against only slightly yielding leather. I berate myself for not letting her repose in greater comfort in the back seat, especially as she's just arrived in town after a long trip.

Easing her out of the car, I briefly debate undressing her out here so I can introduce her to Cosima in her gloriously unclothed form, but a few fat raindrops splattering cold and heavy on my face decide me. Tucking her against my side in the instinctive embrace born of years of intimacy, I guide her up the narrow grungy stairway, through the dark graffiti'd corridor with its sickly greenish buzzing fluorescent lights and to the now familiar entrance to Felix's loft. Once again I try to suppress my irritation at the misspelling of "Galerie"; once again I am unsuccessful. I bang my fist on the huge door. After a moment, I hear the rattle of the latch, and then the rumble as the massive metal panel slides open.

Cosima has been expecting me, but not that I would not be arriving alone. Her eyebrows arch above her glasses. "Don't tell me you decided to bring along your own entertainment because you thought you'd be bored," she says languidly.

I escort my companion to the sofa, then swiftly move to gather Cosima into my arms. "Never," I murmur. Always small and slender, she feels thinner, frailer than she did since I last saw her in her nascent lab just a few days ago. Anxiously I scan her face for any signs of change. She looks a little pale; I make a mental note to pull for a CBC before I leave.

"Hey," she says softly but sternly, her voice raspy. "Stop being my doctor for a second and say hello properly."

My mouth delights in the welcome of hers, our lips tongues and teeth gently tangling. The coppery tang of blood is more pronounced today, even through the unmistakeable aftertaste of the stronger indica hybrids and concentrates that she has been smoking lately to help counteract pain and inflammation. I want to think that the faint scent of decay is all in my imagination. "Hello."

"Hello yourself." Deftly she removes my coat and tosses it over a nearby bar stool. "So are you, like, gonna introduce your friend to me or what?"

I move toward the sofa where my companion has been mutely, patiently waiting. Unfastening zippers and snaps, I let her coverings fall away, baring her for Cosima's appreciation. "Cosima, permets-moi de te presenter Jacqueline."

"Very nice." Cosima reaches out a hand. "May I?" At my nod she caresses the satiny column of Jacqueline's neck, running her fingers along narrow shoulders and past the deeply indented waist to the outrageously feminine curve below. "Delphine, she's absolutely gorgeous."

Carefully she plucks a string with one finger. The resounding note seems to hang in the air. "Whoa, cool. I'm assuming she's named after du Pré?"

I smile as I remove my bow and a small disc of rosin from their various pockets on the soft case. "Yes. I was obsessed with her when I was younger and much more serious about playing." Tensioning the hairs, I check them over for any visible flaws; there's no sign of bow bugs, thanks to the lavender and rosemary sachet I keep in the storage compartment, but they're starting to look and feel a little too smooth — I'll need to send the bow to my luthier to be rehaired soon.

Looking around the loft, I find a sturdy wooden chair with a level seat at about the right height and set it in the center of the huge space, facing Cosima, who clicks a remote to turn off the stereo and curls up expectantly in a corner of the sofa. Perched on the front edge of the chair, I settle Jacqueline between my legs, aware as never before of the sexual connotation of this act: holding this most human of instruments is very much like embracing a lover, the comparison all the more blatant with my inamorata close by and focused on my every move. The Stahlhammer endpin I switched to several years ago allows Jacqueline to lie nearly horizontally against me, the upper part of her back resting against my sternum, her body cradled in my arms.

Quickly I tune her to herself, first to the harmonics, then to open fifths, trusting to my ear and not bothering with the digital tuner still in the case. Inhaling deeply, I hold my breath for a few beats, then release it along with any tension in my body. Letting the weight of my arm draw the bow, I feel the hairs bite into the strings for the split second before they overcome the pressure and resistance to sound the massive double stops of the opening recitative of the Elgar.

I'm going to regret choosing to play it for her, I realize almost immediately. I haven't played in a while, much less warmed up properly. Jacqueline is always recalcitrant when I've neglected her; now she makes me work even harder than usual to fight the tightening of my hands, arms and shoulders at the demands of the piece, especially going into it cold. Only a few dozen bars in and my fingertips are already stingingly raw, feeling every winding of each string. I'll be lucky if they're not bleeding soon.

But none of that matters. Not when Cosima is watching me so intently, her dark eyes wide, her beautiful face rapt.

The acoustics in the loft are superb: the high ceiling, hard surfaces and art materials tucked into every conceivable space collude to make my playing sound far better than it actually deserves. The threadbare rug does little to absorb the vibrations that pass in a continual cycle through Jacqueline's body into my own and down to the battered floorboards beneath my feet. Relying on the muscle memory hammered into me by the hundreds of hours I put in when I was studying the concerto, even though I knew by then that there was little chance I would ever actually perform it, allows me to immerse myself in the music while never losing sight of Cosima's response.

Being so acutely attuned to her distills into shattering clarity the atmosphere of disillusionment that pervades the piece, of pain so great that it cries out in its suffering, which make the moments of idyllic tenderness all the more heartrending. Too late, it occurs to me that it may have been a far more apt choice than I had intended. By the time I've played through the first movement, ending on the softly reverberating pizzicato low E, I am weeping silently.

I let my bow hand drop away. Cosima unfolds herself and stalks toward me in her bare feet. Brushing and kissing away the tears, she bends to claim my mouth. "That was fucking beautiful," she says against my lips, "and you are so fucking hot."

It's not exactly the kind of musical critique I'm accustomed to, but I'll gladly take it.

I break our kiss for a moment to lay Jacqueline on her side on the floor, resting the bow on top of her. Taking Cosima by the hand, I lead her back to the sofa, toe off my shoes and stretch out at full length with a voluptuous groan, encouraging her to drape herself over me. Carefully removing her glasses and setting them on the coffee table, I recapture her mouth, seeking entrance. Her lips part, welcoming me.

She pulls free the tails of my shirt and rucks it up, drawing complicated patterns with her fingers over my belly. I slip one hand under her sweater to stroke the planes of her back; the other slides beneath the waistband of her yoga pants to gently caress the firm smooth rounds of her buttocks. Tongues slow-dancing, deeply, lazily exploring and teasing, lips never ceasing their quest for solace, we lose long moments indulging in the pleasure of wallowing in the simple contact.

The sofa — Felix has a good eye; even with the ruined upholstery it's a nice Pearsall copy — is remarkably comfortable and Cosima fits so perfectly in my arms. Unable to stop myself, my jaw nearly cracks as I try to stifle a yawn. Mortified, I kiss her softly. "I'm so sorry. It's not the company, I promise."

"You've been working way too hard," she murmurs, kissing a path along my jawline. "You must be exhausted."

Leaning my head back to give her better access, I sigh as her lips seek out the sensitive spots at my neck. "I want your lab to be ready as soon as possible." And I want to make it perfect for you. "They've already installed the mainframes and the CO2 and LN2 lines; you have dedicated backup generators and your own bottle farm in the storage room next door. And yes, the extractor hood has been repaired. I ordered both the Affymetrix targeted genotyping system and the two-channel microarray, which should be installed by the middle of next week. Top of the line digital LCD microscopes, phase-contrast microscopy, RT-PCR, flow cytometry, 3D ultrasound, cryogenic freezers — "

Cosima cuts me off with a kiss. "You are so adorable when you geek out," she says huskily, nibbling at my lower lip, then moving lower to explore my rapidly expanding pulse. "But there's nothing more you can do about it until next week, yeah?" I nod. "So you've more than earned the right to just hang out with me and chill." Nuzzling into the angle of my neck and shoulder, she shifts her weight to lie on her side against me, catching hold of my left hand. Softly, softly, she kisses each of my abraded fingertips, then the angry red welt at the side of my thumb. "All better?"

I smile. "All better. My hands are not exactly in top playing shape right now."

"Mmm." She presses a kiss to my palm, lingering so I can feel the outline of her mouth. "I beg to differ." Her teeth worry gently at the fleshy mound at the base of my thumb. "I gather from Jacqueline's presence that you had your stuff shipped here from Minneapolis, Dr. Cormier?" she continues, kissing her way from my wrist up my forearm to the inside of my elbow.

Wincing internally at her deliberate little jab, swift and precise as a swipe from a cat's claws, I swallow my flash of hurt. There is no point in protesting, which would only come across as whining. It's the first time she's mentioned Minneapolis since we reconnected here in Toronto. After everything went wrong, is the unspoken implication. After you fucked it all up.

"Yes," I say as matter-of-factly as possible. "I requested that a courier deliver Jacqueline to me in person; the rest is all in boxes at my new place." This one at least has a nice view of a downtown park and a huge terrace with built-in heaters that allow it to be used year round, but otherwise it is just as rigidly corporate and antiseptic as my last place.

"Straight out of Cold Bitch Digest?" she says, as if reading my thoughts.

"I'm sorry?"

"That's how Sarah described Rachel's hotel residence. Wouldn't surprise me if all Dyad's properties ran along the same lines." Loosely lacing her fingers with mine, Cosima kisses me softly again.

This newfound prickliness, this uneasy emotional tug of war is the hardest thing for me to adjust to as we try to find our way again on the shifting grounds of our relationship. Sometimes it seems that it would be easier to handle if she were openly hostile to me, like she was with Aldous the other day, each of them snarling at the other behind tightly polite smiles as they negotiated the terms of her contract.

What makes it worse is that nothing has changed to abate my attraction to her, my abject need for her presence, her touch. And from the flush of her face, the almost feral set of her mouth, the involuntary grinding of her hips against mine, the quickening of her breath and pulse, I know that she must feel the same.

Slow, take it slow, I tell myself. I reach to cup her cheek. She leans into my palm, nipping my thumb as I play it lightly over her lips.

"Did you get the approval from the University for your formal leave of absence?"

"Yeah. Dr. Hammill helped expedite things. Coughing up blood in front of your advisor kinda tends to make an impression."

I slide my hand to the nape of her neck, massaging taut tendons beneath silky skin and downy hairs so fine they seem to elude my touch. With a kitteny sigh, she leans her head into my shoulder, her face nestled into the curve of my throat.

"God, that feels so good. You feel so good." Her lips ghost butterfly kisses along my neck, making me shiver. "They're letting me finish my coursework remotely, so with the credits transferred from Berkeley I'll still be ABD by the end of this semester. I just owe them the balance of my tuition, and I can continue my research and work on my diss here. Haven't decided yet what I'm going to do with all the junk in my apartment, so for now I guess I'll keep paying the lease on it."

At least she has no financial worries. Aldous' offer, including a five-figure relocation stipend, was extremely generous.

Pressing my lips to her temple, I breathe in the scent of her hair, her skin, the faint trace of weed. I want so much to say, Who cares about your doctorate? That's just a distraction! You need to focus all your energy, all that formidable intellect on getting well. But I know better than to try to dissuade her once she has made up her mind on a course of action. Instead I change the subject. "Where is Felix? I was surprised when you said you would have the place to yourself for a while."

I can feel her evasion in the slightly-too-long silence, in the way her eyes slide to the side before locking on me. "He left yesterday morning. Said he had to go out of town for a few days." She closes her teeth on a tendon at the side of my neck, hard enough to mark me but not break the skin, then eases the sting with the tip of her tongue. "At least we won't have to put up with snide comments about 'lesbians shagging nonstop like randy minks and snail-trailing your minges over all my furniture.'"

The exact meaning of a couple of the words eludes me but the context is clear. I've met Felix only once but still I can vividly picture his withering disdain. Laughter bubbles up. "That is the worst attempt at a British accent I've ever heard."

Cosima rolls her eyes. "I know, I know. I'm terrible at imitations. Not like Sarah, she's the real chameleon of the family."

"Yes. She certainly fooled me at the Dyad event. For a few moments, at least."

"What gave her away?" she asks curiously, searching my face.

One hand still kneading her neck, I let my free hand slide down her shoulder and arm to lightly intertwine my fingers with hers."The hair, beyond the first glance. Far too much tension in her body, how she moves and holds herself. The way she kept looking over her glasses rather than through them. But most especially it was the way she responded — or rather, didn't respond — when I kissed her. Kissed you, I mean."

Up go her eyebrows. "You kissed her? At a formal event? She never told me about that."

I tip up her chin up to steal another kiss. Instantly her lips part, greeting me with the sweet sliding tease of her tongue. I could spend hours lingering in the demand and supplication of her mouth. "I would know you anywhere. Physical appearance aside, you two are nothing alike."

She deepens our kiss, shifting her weight to her arms to lie on top of me, insinuating one thigh between my legs. Despite my fatigue, I cannot help responding to her, heat flooding through me. Every nerve ending in my body is alive, not just from her touch but at the merest hint, the potential of her touch, the thought of how and when and where she will take me next. I can feel the thrum of our pulse quickening through the swelling of her lips against mine.

I tug at her sweater, suddenly needing to feel her skin. "Too many clothes."

"I agree." Cosima kisses me again.

We manage to wriggle out of our offending garments, tossing them haphazardly on the floor, over chairs, behind the sofa, though not without a lot of giggling and the occasional elbow or knee to a tender body part. My hands roam over her back, delighting in the shift and play of the long muscles under her skin, loving the slight weight of her pressing into me. An image pops into my head, accompanied by a renewed freshet of desire. "Turn over, chérie," I whisper in her ear.

Her head tilts, then she gives me that smile. "Mmmmm, Dr. Cormier." No barbed edge to her voice now, just a growling purr. Carefully she flips onto her back atop me, her shoulder blades digging into my breasts until she finds the right balance, the rounds of her buttocks squirming delightfully against the top of my mound; her head rests against my shoulder, the mass of her dreads tickling my chin.

That her current position opens her entire body to the exploration of my hands is not lost on her. She raises an arm to wind her fingers into my hair, craning to kiss me. Something between a whimper and a sigh escapes her as I slide my hands up her ribcage and settle them beneath the small but sensitive curves of her breasts. I cup the smooth swells, making her nipples tighten instantly. Slowly, persistently, I work them with my fingers and thumbs until she is moaning and writhing under my touch.

Still teasing her breast with one hand, I slide the other down the flat expanse of her belly, enjoying the deep ripple of muscle beneath the smooth perfection of her skin. Her hips gyrate suggestively, invitingly, surging upward when I brush my fingertips through the dampened curls covering her sex.

She's not the only one who's dripping wet.

Kissing her temple, her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, I let my fingers delve deeper, circling but not touching the swelling jut of her clit, slowly dipping into the wet heat of her cunt, painting each fold and whorl with her slick heat. She braces her feet on the sofa, hips thrusting, seeking purchase or rhythm, her breath increasingly ragged against my neck. "Please," she whispers hoarsely.

Immediately I trap her straining clit between the vee of two fingers, rubbing and pinching slowly and increasingly firmly, flooded by a gush of wetness. Without warning I flick the side of my finger across the turgid little shaft, provoking a guttural cry. Not letting her settle, I do it again, just for the pleasure of feeling the jolt through her body. A wail tears from her chest as I relentlessly pump the plump little promontory, hard along the sides, softer around the very tip. Her body begins to tauten and shake, limbs and hips jerking frantically until she convulses, shuddering and gasping, her back arching into me. Her skin runnels with sweat, her come pouring thickly over my fingers. Greedily I absorb her every response, fucking her clit relentlessly. Just at that precise instant when it is all about to be too much, I move both hands to her hips, caressing the gentle swells as shudders continue to rack her body, soothing her and easing her down until she sags limply into the careful enclosure of my arms.

Heavy with release, she mewls in protest when I urge her to turn over again, but as soon as she does so her arms cling fast around me, her face burrowing into my neck. The absolute rightness of her embrace combines with my bone-deep tiredness to overcome the arousal still howling through me; I feel myself giving in to the consuming need for sleep.

At least for now, we can pretend we have all the time in the world.